But somehow I was still twelve years old -- (Author) donbiki

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: Mar 10, 2017 at 12:46 AM
Content: Hi everyone! Fair warning: this occupies a midpoint between diaper story and story story. I think you'll enjoy it, but what do I know?

There are romantic elements, but (to clarify that I've read the rules) the story is not moving in a lewd direction. Put another way, this is a story about a girl; not a story about a boy and a girl. I have a few installments done in advance, and will try to update weekly. So without further ado:

But somehow, I was still twelve years old
by donbiki

Christie had a terrible crush. That must be where the word came from, Christie thought. Crushed. Like an aluminum can, or an insect.

The terrible crush started way back in sixth grade. Sixth grade was awful for Christie for lots of reasons, none of which she wanted to think about. At the time Christie had known a girl, Shelly, and Shelly had an older brother, Rob. Shelly's brother was the only teenager Christie knew, so it was natural that, when things started happening, as things happen in sixth grade, that Christie started thinking about things, as girls tend to think about things in sixth grade.

These thoughts bubbled up warm and ticklish, but fluffy and all hypothetical. Rob was in ninth grade, and Christie was in sixth grade. They might as well be different species. Christie thought of Rob like she thought about winning a medal in Olympic pole vault, or joining the Spice Girls. It was just another milky what-if.

But one day — October 31st to pin it — Christie was in a pinch, and Rob saved her. Sixth grade was awful, and October 31st was sixth grade's most awful day. Christie changed. She learned boys her age were hopeless, immature, awful, hateful, mean, terrible, cruel, stupid, useless, childish, and a million other things. And her thoughts about Rob grew less fluffy.

Now Christie was in ninth grade. She was fifteen, and he was eighteen. Before long, Rob would be graduating high school. Christie was being crushed.

Chapter 1: Interesting tastes

"What do you like about Rob anyway?"

"Well," Christie said, thinking. "He has nice hair, and a car. He seems nice."

"Lots of guys have cars, Christie," said Becky. "Why not Bruce? He has hair. He's nice."

Christie dabbed a napkin into leftover catsup and fought a blush. Did Becky have to speak so loud?

"I dunno," Christie managed. "He's really mature...."

Becky and her were sitting alone in the cafeteria for fourth period lunch. The cafeteria was perfect for a tête-à-tête, Becky insisted, but Christie doubted it. There were dozens of kids crowded around, milling between tables while slurping milk cartons, some juniors waving to Becky. How was this private? Christie did her best to seem small.

Which was not hard.

"Look, this is all really sudden, Christie. I don't see what's so unique about Rob anyway. He's a senior too..." she paused and furrowed her brow. "If you're feeling adventurous, how about Craig? He asked you out last month, right? Or Stevie? The shy one who reads during lunch. I bet he'd be a good trial boyfriend."

"Freshmen boys are too childish."

"Hmmmm, and you're one to speak? You, Christie? Have you even kissed anyone before?"

Christie blushed angrily at the ketchup.

Why did everyone have to take it like that? All the boys her age were immature. They dressed badly, they made stupid jokes, shot elastic bands at each other during class. They were perverted. They pulled pranks. Of *course* she never wanted to go out with them. How did that make *her* immature?

"And you're not gunning for a senior just to seem more mature? More cool?"

"I'm sure!"

"Okay, okay, don't bite my head off. Geez." Becky idly flicked her makeup compact so it spun on the table. Whurr whurr whurr. "Then there's Shelly... it could get super awkward. Like, you get rejected by Rob, and then what? 'Hey, sup, wasn't that humiliating. How about some Parcheesi?'"

Christie still visited Shelly's house --- and so Rob's --- about once or twice a month. Shelly kept a grand entourage of girlfriends, to which Christie had tagged along since grade school, and membership was Christie's one major social calling card. This isn't to say that Shelly didn't like Christie. Shelly liked lots of people.

Becky opened her compact and adjusted her lashes in the mirror, probably because she didn't want to look Christie in the eyes when she said:

"Christie girl, I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but, um. You know? I'm trying to think of how how to say this... Rob might be a tough catch for you..."

Christie blushed mournfully at the catchup.

"And... your social circle is, well. You know? There are other girls there interested in Rob, and things could get messy."

Christie blushed shamefully at the catsup.

Couldn't Becky tell? Christie knew all of this. She knew Rob was popular. Christie knew she didn't have a chance. She knew that even trying could ruin her life. But pretty soon senior singles would start picking out prom dates, and then, a few months later, they would all be gone. Rob would disappear.

Becky observed Christie wavering, and then, as if to pull her back from the edge:

"Also, Christie. Robbie might not be as wonderful as you think."

"What?"

"Do you remember Cynthia?"

How could Christie forget Cynthia? She'd had to bite into her knuckles to keep from screaming when she saw Cynthia cuddling with Rob, holding hands with Rob, having Rob's fingers in her hair…

"Well, I've talked to her before. And Robbie has... interesting tastes."

"Interesting tastes?"

Becky's eyes darted around evasively. She was wearing a hesitant smile. "Um..."

"Um?"

"Well, I don't want to just out and say it..."

Becky's eyes narrowed, and she looked at Christie with intensity. "You want tips on asking Rob out? Well okay. But you can't tell anyone about this. Ever."

"…. of course."

"Swear it?"

"Swear it."

Becky kept her glare fixed on Christie. She was leaning forward into the lunch table, pressing her makeup compact down so hard Christie thought it might crack. Christie had never seen Becky like this. But after a few seconds, Becky softened, seeming satisfied.

"I'll text you it later," she said. "Good luck…"

Chapter 2: All grown up

Christie managed to press the Send button, and then it was out of her hands.

This afternoon, Shelly was inviting her friends from Honors Physics to meet at her place. They hoped to get to work gossiping about likely Prom couples, and maybe plan their third semester science project if time allowed. Christie had to come today. First, whatever project they decided would probably land on her. And secondly, Christie wanted to get Shelly’s answer in person.

Her mom dropped her off at five, and Shelly’s friends were already sitting around on the living room carpet. All had their cellphones out. Samantha was talking excitedly about the new LG flipphone her parents had bought her, and everyone was entering her number into their contacts, and sending stupid gag texts , trying to make her laugh.

The laughter paused when everyone noticed her.

“Oh, hi Christie!” Samantha said, waving. She smiled queasily, and averted her eyes. “Um, I was showing what my mom got me. Look at this! Would you like my number too?”

Everyone was smiling a very specific smile. Christie wasn’t dumb enough to miss the point.

“Hello, Samantha. Wow, cool. Boy, I wish I had a cellphone…”

Shelly, who was sitting Indian-style by the TV, looked baffled, and started checking her phone. Becky, right next to her, was blushing and staring in fascination at the ceiling.

Oh shit, Christie thought, and started backpedaling: “Well, um, I don’t *really* have a cellphone. Mine’s, like, super old. It wouldn’t compatible with one like yours…”

Christie looked pointedly at Shelly, then gestured with her neck towards the kitchen. Shelly just smiled in confusion. And so, with everyone smiling that very specific smile, Christie was forced to unload her backpack and kneel down with the group.

Christie was careful not to sit too close to anyone, but not awkwardly far away either. In these situations, it was important to maintain the fiction that she was a member of the group, but you also couldn’t act needy.

Oh god, Shelly, please. Like, go to get a drink or something, she thought. Christie’s mom was running errands in the neighborhood, and Christie wanted to get Shelly’s answer and get out quickly.

But the group kept talking. Christie tried to subtly stare at Shelly, if that was even possible. To Christie’s horror, Shelly seemed to interpret these looks as Christie wanting to join in on the conversation.

“So what are you listening to lately?” Shelly prompted. “You still into Avril Lavigne?”

In that moment, Christie wanted to send Shelly an electric shock.

“Um, I don’t really listen to music anymore,” Christie lied. “I did kinda like her back 7th grade, but it seems really lame to me now.”

Any round of that specific smile washed over Christie.

The conversation turned to teen lit. This time, it was a sophomore named Sarah who tried to needle Christie in. “You read a lot Christie, don’t you? Have you read Twilight? I was curious about it.”

Christie was not stupid enough to fall for the trap.

“Yeah, but it was pretty dumb. Just wish fulfillment really. I think most of its fans are kinda naive, greasy forever-alone types who expect a hot guy to just drop in their lap.”

Christie allowed herself to smile at the perfect answer, but Sarah was not satisfied. “You know, my cousin kinda likes Twilight. I think she’s nice.”

Oh boy. That’s the problem with teenager conversations. If you admit to liking something, it’s ammunition against you. But if you try to act cool, suddenly you’re the bad guy.

“I didn’t mean it personally,” Christie said.

“Oh, okay. Sorry.”

“No problem.”

Christie stared hopelessly at Shelly. What was the point of all this? Could she tell what was going on? Christie didn’t know what to do with her eyes, her hands. She felt like she was going to be sick. She felt like she’d entered the house slicked to the waist with mud and had, without thinking, planted her tush on the carpet.

Normally she might pull out her cellphone and pretend to receive a text from Mom. But she couldn’t do that now, thanks to Sam’s stupid cellphone.

At that moment, a car rumbled into the driveway. The engine was cut, and the parking break was cranked, some boots scuffed around in the mudroom. Christie wished she could sink into the floor.

“Rob!” Shelly called, “I thought I said I was having friends over.”

“Darn, forgot about the fire codes,” Rob said. Then, turning the tall, goofy looking senior besides him: “You’ll have to sleep in the forest tonight, bud. Rules are rules.”

“*Sleep here?*” Shelly asked incredulously.

Rob waved her off, laughing. “We’re just passing through, sis. Be out of here in no time,” he said. Then, wiping his boots, he climbed up the entranceway step and took stock of the scene. “Well hello ladies. I see science is progressing nicely.”

The group giggled. Some said hello. Rob smiled good-naturedly as he surveyed the room, and then, seeing Christie sitting stealthily in the back, he smiled more warmly.

Christie wanted to die.

Without further ado, Rob headed for the kitchen. Shelly went stalking after him. “Hey! You’re not supposed to track your boots into the house!”

While the group burst back into happy chatter, Christie squirmed on the carpet. Shelly had left for the kitchen. This would be Christie’s best opportunity to flag her down… but Christie really didn’t want to talk to Rob right now.

Christie had first come over to Shelly’s house in January of sixth grade, during the silent period. School had improved dramatically since October of that year, thanks in part to Rob. No one really talked to Christie. But she was fine with that, preferring to be alone anyway.

Then, out of nowhere, Shelly started inviting Christie to a sleepover with seven other girls. Needless to say, this was about the last thing Christie wanted to do, but Shelly pushed and pushed, and eventually Christie had succumbed.

Rob had smiled then much like he smiled today. Though he never said it explicitly, the smile was enough to tell Christie who was really behind the invitations.

Of course, Christie was not really welcome there. Even as the group changed with each school year, and most of the original members drifted off, this continued to be true. Everyone knew this.

Everyone except Rob.

And there was nothing that terrified Christie more than Rob realizing she wasn’t friends with these girls.

Christie bit her lip, clenched her fists, and got up. She muttered something about the bathroom, and was relieved to find everyone was absorbed in conversation.

She rounded around into the hallway, took the third door, and charged into the kitchen.

Unfortunately, Shelly was not there, and Rob was. He was holding open half-gallon carton of milk. Shelly was nowhere to be seen.

“Long time, no see,” said Rob.

Christie tried her best to smile. “You shouldn’t drink milk straight from the container.”

“What are you, my sister?” he said, shaking his head. He gulped down the rest of the carton in one go. “Too late now! You should come over more often. Shelly could use another pair of eyes to keep me in line…”

Christie went to the sink and poured herself a glass of water, as if that had been her purpose in coming her. “I can’t, not every weekend. I have lots of other things to do.”

Rob snorted. “A boy, isn’t it? I can tell!”

Christie turned brick red. “It is not a boy! I– I just like to hang out some friends from band sometimes!”

“Uh-huh. One of them must be a boy. I can smell it.”

“I don’t smell like a boy! I don’t smell like anything!” Christie insisted, face burning. “It’s really just friends from band!”

Rob smiled devilishly, and shook a few last drop from the carton. “If you say so…”

“It *is* so!”

Christie put her hands on her hips. Rob seemed to enjoy her blush for a good five seconds. Then he frowned, tilted his head, and eyed her over. His gaze tickled nervously along her skin. Rob grew uncharacteristically pensive.

“You really have grown up,” he said.

"What?" Her heart jumped a little.

“No, it's just… I was remembering the first time you came over here. You looked like a little mouse. Do you remember those pajamas? They must have been three sizes big."

"Is there a point to this story?" she asked, blushing.

"Not really," he said. " You had freckles then. Yes, I remember. You turned into a strawberry when you realized no one else had a camping sleeper. And before bed, when you snuck up to my room…”

“—Don’t say it! Don’t say it! I don’t want to remember! Please!” Christie covered her ears and closed her eyes.

She quivered and tried not to think about it. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder.

She peeked open her eyes, and she found herself staring up at Rob’s goofy milk moustache, curled into a warm smile. “You really have grown up. You have such a great group of friends… just tell me if that boy treats you bad, okay?”

“There isn’t boy!”

“Fine, fine,” he said. “I’m just happy things have gone better than in middle school. I worried about you, you know.”

Rob squeezed Christie’s shoulder tightly and then — for the first time in three years — he reached out and mussed Christie’s hair. For one, very long moment, Christie tried hard not to cry.

Shelly barreled into the kitchen. “What are you doing, you perv!”

"Um? Touching Christie's shoulder? Drinking milk?" Rob asked, sounding genuinely perplexed. But he did pull his hands back guiltily.

"You can't just *touch* a girl's shoulder," Shelly said firmly, "And use a glass, you vandal!"

Rob sighed. "You see, Christie? I really do need more supervision."

He winked at her as he left the room, leaving the empty milk carton on the counter. Shelly snorted and threw it in recycling. Meanwhile, Christie was squirming, a pit opening up in her stomach.

"Shelly, I—"

"Shh!" hissed Shelly, holding a finger up to her lips.

A gaggle of goodbyes murmured from the living room. Christie heard the front door thud shut, then an engine turn on in the driveway. As it started pulling away, Shelly turned to Christie conspiratorially.

"I don't get it," she said, "but why not? Sounds fun."

"Get what? What's fun?"

"You want to hook up with my brother, right?"

"I… yeah. You're not… angry?"

Shelly looked puzzled. "Why would I be angry? Did you think I was in the market for him?" she said. Then: "And don't worry. We'll keep this hush-hush from the others if it doesn't pan out. Just the two of us. Okay?"

Christie felt suddenly like someone had filled her with helium. Without thinking, She jumped at Shelly. Christie hugged her, giggling, rubbing cheeks, with butterflies dancing around in her chest.

In a few moments she would recover. In a few moments Christie would remember herself, would fall bashfully back , would knit her hands behind her back like a child hiding cookie crumbs on them. But for one moment, for the first time in a month, in years maybe, all was right in the world, and Christie thought everything would turn out well.

Christie received Becky's text an hour later, while riding in the backset of her mom's car.

Code:


okay heres the skinny. rob has a thing for girls who wet
themselves and wear diapers. its called tbdl. check out
these stories for some tips: tinyurl.com/3ag40（；¬＿¬)

wont blame you if you want to back out but
!!!!LIPS SEALED!!!!（＞＿＜ )

She had to read it over a few times.

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: Mar 11, 2017 at 11:04 PM
Content: Thanks for the feedback.

Just curious, in case anyone happens by. Do the paragraphs seem too short and choppy? Could you tell where the story was headed before the text at the end?

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: Mar 16, 2017 at 4:51 PM
Content: Chapter 3: Somehow, still

Christie spent Thursday night in shock, puttering from one distraction to another. She cleaned her room. She ironed her hangables, refolded her foldables. She wiped down her desk, dusted it, arranged her pens and notebooks. She sorted her closet, vacuumed the carpet. She turned on the TV, put on a soap, and turned it off again. After rolling around in bed, she indecisively tried again, but then Pampers Cruisers commercial came on, and Christie turned it off for good.

In then end, she opened up a Nora Roberts novel and read fifty pages without absorbing a word.

The world was ending for Christie.

Code:


rob has a thing for girls who wet themselves
and wear diapers. its called tbdl. check out these
stories for some tips: tinyurl.com/3ag40

As she flipped the pages, details from reading earlier that evening turned in her mind. Teenagers sucking their thumbs and wetting their pants. Big sisters getting jealous of younger siblings and having toilet privileges revoked. Witches casting spells and reducing arrogant girls to pooping in pampers. There were hundreds of 'TBDL' stories online, enough to make her sick. And this was what Rob liked. It made Christie feel itchy all over, like she had a rash.

Christie would usually be studying on a night like tonight, even though it was a three day weekend. She had established an image for herself as the smart girl in class — she couldn’t be the pretty girl, the funny girl, or the popular girl, so she settled for the smart girl. She had to study hard to keep up appearances. But how could Christie study tonight? She couldn’t do anything tonight. Christie’s world was ending.

By the fifty-first page, Christie finally started to sink into the novel. The heroine was a witch, living a lonely life in modern day California. She was forced to live in secret, wiping away the memories of townsfolk who discovered her. No one would accept the witch for what she was. But then the hero appeared. He was kind and brave. He discovered the heroine was witch, but accepted her like no one else would.

Christie came upon a section where the hero was dreaming of raising a family with the witch, and tears burned in her eyes. She threw the book on the floor.

As if there was anyone like that in the world.

Christie had always imagined sex in a certain way. It would be passionate, intimate, and clean. Like a ritual of fidelity. She and her lover’s souls would become one in a perfect union, making Christie complete while allowing her to maintain dignity.

Why, of all things, did it have to be diapers? Why?

She tried to sort her feeling about it, about Rob liking pants-wetting and diapers, but everything was jumbled up in her mind. She kept thinking about sixth grade again — and that no good, awful halloween. She thought of all the boys snickering. They had been twelve, but in her memories they towered over her.

She decided that she hated this diaper stuff because it made Rob a pervert. Rob was lowered by base desires, would not see her for her soul, would not let her maintain her dignity, which she had fought so desperately to preserve, despite everything. And if Rob was a pervert, who could Christie marry who wouldn’t be? There was no one.

Christie yanked the cord of her bedlamp and lay in the dark. Her mind kept spinning, spinning, spinning. And then she felt the corners of her eyes burning up again.

Christie knew she was pathetic. She’d known it since he was a little girl, but especially since sixth-grade, she knew it deep down. She had no close friends. Everyone looked down on her. She'd never had a boyfriend. She wasn’t pretty, wasn’t funny, wasn’t even smart. Everyone knew she was pathetic, even if some girls sitting on the carpet pretended not to.

Lying in the dark, Christie decided she would try to accept this pathetic side of Rob. Because he had, when she was in sixth grade, accepted everything that was pathetic about her. This time, she would be the hero, and he would be the witch.

These thoughts soothed her. She had accepted Rob, and Rob had accepted her. There was symmetry, and this small connection — known only to her — warmed Christie deep inside.

This was an opportunity, too. She hadn't bared her heart to Becky for nothing. Rob seemed to think of Christie like a kid cousin, and while it made her stomach churn, she had to do something to make him notice her. Something to set her apart. And what other choices did she had? Christie couldn't be pretty, but she could wear diapers.

She didn’t have a clear plan yet. Maybe she’d buy a pack of them and have him ‘accidentally’ see them. Maybe she’d try to recreate one of the stories she’d read online… but no, that was too horrible. Her face started burning from even considering it.

Okay, maybe not the whole thing. Definitely not. But just a little bit. And then, once Rob noticed her, he would love Christie for herself, and she could dispense with the kinky stuff.

As she fell asleep, she glumly reviewed some of the diaper stories in her mind. It was all so disturbing. They always started with a girl wetting the bed. Then, slowly, the girl started losing control. The accidents would expand to the day. She would be humiliated. She would be forced to wear pullups ‘just in case’, but the accidents would come more and more frequently. Eventually she’d poop in the pullup, and would be forced to wear baby diapers. Someone else would have to change her. And then…

Christie fell asleep.

Christie dreamed she was in homeroom. The teacher hadn’t arrived, and so everyone was forming into groups here and there, talking excitedly. There was the jock group, the gamer group. There was Shelly’s group. They had bunched up one row left of Christie, with girls sitting on desktops and dangling their legs, other standing and gesturing wildly with their hands.

This was high school, but somehow Christie was still twelve years old.

The topic of Christie popped up, and group the hushed. Christie thought she felt the prickle of eyes on the back of her neck. Then the group started gossiping in whispers. Pretending not to notice, Christie kept reviewing her homework. At first the group gossiped quietly, just barely audible. But as the conversation continued, they forgot to be subtle and started to gossip more loudly. They voices grew.

Christie was paralysed by the fear. She was not afraid of what they were saying. Christie was afraid that, if the group kept getting louder, it would become obvious that she was just pretending not to notice.

Somewhat anticlimactically, Christie did not wet the bed that night.

She woke up at three o’clock with a pounding headache and cramps all over, and very thirsty. At first she thought she might be PMSing, but no, her period was three weeks away. She padded quietly downstairs for a glass of water.

Christie felt strangely relieved. During sleep, she had threshed out a positive about Rob being a pervert who liked diapers. It was gross, but there were actually positives. Rob had always been so much more mature then Christie, so much cooler, so much open and friendly. And Christie was nothing special. She always expected that, if she became Rob’s girlfriend, she would be coming as a beggar. But with this hidden side of Rob coming to light, she felt that it somehow balanced the scales. She could be the girl who loved him even though he was a pervert.

At her desk, Christie took out her old locking diary. She had stopped making entries three years ago, but it was still useful for this type of thing. She set to work.

ROB SEDUCTION STRATEGY

[End of quote]

She smiled at her alliteration.

Preference for cute girls, girlish attire. Mature or suggestive fashions (eg pencil skirts, deep v-blouses, eyeliner, lingerie) likely counterproductive. Interest in ‘roleplay’ as father/big-brother figure. Likes childish or ‘bubbly’ speech patterns. Fascination with involuntary elimination, incompetence in basic functions like eating, dressing, and hygiene; and with childish underwear.

[End of quote]

Christie blushed as she finished the paragraph. She couldn’t bring herself to write “diapers”. When she tried real hard, she could bring herself to understand everything else, even the peeing bit. But what was so great about diapers? She bit the cap of her pen.

Schedule:

Friday: Secure necessary supplies. Meet with Shelly daily on pretense of finishing 3rd semester science project. As co-conspirator, Shelly will have Rob drive her here, lure him in. Will leave house for long stretches.

(Shelly need not know details below)

Initiate close physical contact. Smile. Spill drink on clothes, causing bra and panties to become visible. While in the kitchen, pretend to wet self. Cry if possible. Pretend to be at loss. Rob offers to help clean up. Undo skirt and go to shower before Shelly returns (<-- DO IT IN FRONT OF HIM!!!!). Hug Rob and thank him.

Saturday: Wear necessary supplies. Accidentally reveal them. Admit to being ‘anxious’ around him. Cry if possible. Lament that Rob must think it disgusting. Rob admits he finds it cute. Hug Rob and admit to liking him. Become boyfriend and girlfriend.

[End of quote]

Christie nodded at the plan. It provided enough stimulus to make Rob notice her. It didn’t require her to do anything embarrassing in public — or that Shelly would find out about. And as soon as it was over, she could probably dispense with the diapers. After all, she would no longer feel ‘anxious’ around Rob.

Now Christie had to make the plan work.

Chapter 4: Goodnites and printed skirts

Since she woke up early, Christie thought she would have plenty of time. In fact, she barely made it. For eight straight hours she prepared. She planned every detail, she researched and brainstormed. While Christie worked, her mind was abuzz, her lips would mouth cutesy lines, and her face would practice artless smiles and childish pouts. (*'Whoopsy!'*, *'Uh-oh'*, *'Please?'*)

First off, she attended to her body. Christie raided her mom's medicine cabinet for razors, creams, and waxes. She showered, moisturized, exfoliated. Then, with shaking hands, she agonizingly removed every follicle of hair below her neckline.

In diaper stories, the writer often pointed out that main characters were hairless. Maybe that added an extra level of immaturity, which Christie intuited was the point of all this. She definitely didn't feel too mature while tugging waxing cloths off her privates. After the deed was done, Christie wasted a few minutes oggling herself in the mirror, thinking she looked absolutely ridiculous.

Next she practiced all sorts of situational contingencies. She did a dry run of the spilling-water-on-clothes plan—or a wet run, Christie supposed—and learned you needed a white blouse and a thin skirt to really make underwear pop. She practiced tickling a pillow (Christie was hoping she could provoke Rob into a tickling match). She checked a mirror while on hands-and-knees to reach under her study desk, finding the perfect posture to let the crotch peak out from under her skirt without it looking intentional.

Then Christie tackled the worst job. She put on sunglasses, sweats, and a hoodie and biked sixteen blocks down to Route 149, where there was a roadside convenience store. Christie liked to buy cokes there sometimes, and would never do so again.

It was still early, so the place was empty save for an irritable-looking cashier in her late twenties, notebook out as she tended the register. The woman was frowning and tapping stale pink fingernails metronomically on the counter. She kept her eyes locked on Christie for the entire ordeal.

Christie lingered in the grocery aisle, trying to work herself up to it. She flitted glances at the diaper shelf, trying to look without seeming to look. The 70-125lb Goodnites pack was perfect, Christie thought, but she tried to convince herself that 5T Huggies Pullups might fit, if only for plausible deniability.

"We card here, you know" the cashier said curtly from behind the counter.

And then it turned on like a switch. Christie felt her chest grow hot, her stomach tighten and her hips and legs tense. She felt sick, out of place. The cashier's eyes pierced into her, painfully.

"Yes, I saw the sign," Christie snapped, "'We Card Under 30'. That's what those black shapes on the yellow placard mean, if you were ever curious. Good luck with your GREs."

The cashier's face stiffed.

"Can I use your bathroom?"

"You have to buy something," she said, with hatred in her voice.

"I'll buy something."

The cashier eyed her up and down. "Don't lose the key."

With the door safely locked behind her, Christie tugged down her sweats and inspected her underwear. They looked fine. They always looked fine. Christie lowered the sweats to her knees and sat down to pee, rubbing mournfully at her now-smooth venus mound as it streamed out. Christie stayed on the toilet much longer than necessary, wavering. She didn't want to do this. She regretted her tough-girl act bitterly. Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot. She wanted to leave right now, to go home, to run, to stick her tongue out on the way out the door.

But this was her last chance. Rob was the only boy Christie had ever loved. When she thought about it, Rob might be the only person Christie had ever loved. For Christie, the world was full of convienience store cashiers.

For three years Christie had justified keeping distance from Rob. There was still time, she reasoned. Still time for her to get braver, for her to grow up. But the years passed, and Christie hadn't gotten braver, let alone had she grown up. Time had run out.

Breathing hard, Christie exited the bathroom. She strode to the diaper shelf, grabbed the L/XL Goodnites, and carried them with the key up to the register.

The cashier scanned the pack. With a twisted smile, she said, "That'll be nineteen-ninety-five, dear."

Christie fumbled a crumple of dollars from the sidepouch of her backpack and counted them clumsily on the counter. Her heart was pounding. She was blushing up to her ears.

"I'm sure you'll grow out of it," the cashier said with a syrupy voice, "But don't take it out on others, dear."

Christie shoved the Goodnites in her bag and ran out of the store.

Rob's car rolled into the driveway around four.

Everything was ready. All the rooms were tidied, all the linens and towels washed and fluffed, all the windows cleaned and their curtains opened (except in the kitchen). The things Christie wanted hidden were hidden, and each nook and cranny smelled like Apple Spice Febreze.

"Hey girl!" Shelly greeted her at the door, waving her one free hand.

"Afternoon," said Rob, "Where do I put these?"

Rob was looking dashing as ever, wearing that fleece-trim bomber jacket he'd been wearing in autumn. Christie liked how it brought out his shoulders. Shelly was dressing down in a hoodie and uggs. They were both carrying heavy paper bags. Christie didn't know if the project needed that many supplies, but she suspected the bags were a ploy to get Rob in the house.

"By the study table in my room! Thanks sooooooo much!"

Christie bunched her hands behind her back and leaned slightly forward, which she hoped accentuated her figure and gave an impression of giddiness. Rob walked by, tilting his head to give her a cursory glance. "You're looking cute today," he noted.

With that, Christie didn't have to act giddy.

Christie was wearing a tight, cream-colored camisole that bared her shoulders, nailing a naive, defenseless appeal. Alone, the cami might have seemed forward, so she had layered over a thin wool cardigan, which could be stripped once Rob settled in. For down below, Christie had unearthed a layered print skirt from the the depths of her closet—last worn at age eleven, she was both excited and disturbed that it fit—and light gray leggings that made its shortness seem childish instead of racy.

She had applied makeup as stealthfully as she could, just primer and foundation. Little girls don't wear makeup, after all. Her skin looked natural, smooth, milky, and fresh. As for her hair, she'd trimmed in layers and tousled with a spiral curl, yielding a playful style that looked like she'd just rolled out of bed. In reality, this style had taken forever.

"Come on, it's over here!"

As Rob and Shelly entered her room, Christie was struck by the fear that she'd somehow forgotten to hide something embarrassing. But that was just paranoia. Her room was immaculate. She particularly admired the colorful pastel sheets and cheerful lion plushy she'd pulled out for the occasion.

Rob unloaded his bags on the carpet beside her bed. Then, after sniffing around curiously, he laughed. "Wow, it's like someone murdered a Keebler Elf in here. Where are you hiding the body?"

Christie giggled nervously as Shelly leaned in to whispered, "*Keep the environment neutral, so you're the flashiest thing in it.*"

"Um, I'll… open the windows," Christie stammered.

"Don't mind me. I'll be out of here soon in a minute anyway," said Rob. "So what's the project?"

"Jeez, do you ever listen to me?" Shelly said, then pulled a solderless breadboard out of her bag. "We're making a 2-bit RAM circuit to demonstrate electric flow and Who's-that-Guy's Law. We've got LED lights for display."

Great idea, Christie thought. After all…

"Ohm's law," Rob said. "Isn't that a little advanced for ninth grade?"

"You think so? We covered a circuit diagram once in class…"

Rob blinked. Then he lowered his face into his palm. "*A* circuit diagram, Shelly?"

"Sure. What's the problem?"

Rob was going to major in electrical engineering next year. He started to explain, fruitlessly, that computer memory was a great deal more complicated than lighting a bulb by hooking it to a battery. Shelly just stared blankly.

"I lost you at the part about registers," said Shelly brightly, "but you sound like you know what you're talking about! How about you give us hand?"

"How about you just make a NAND gate? I'm going home. Call Mom when you need a ride back, okay?"

As Rob turned to leave, Shelly shot a meaningful look at Christie.

Christie rushed forward and caught Rob's arm, pulling it in towards her chest. It felt firm and tight against her body. Rob looked back in surprise.

"I…" she said, trying to think of a lie. "Becky and Sam started the group poster yesterday… and everyone else is writing different sections of a 10 page report. The report is due Monday, and if we can't finish our part of the project, I'll…" Christie trailed off, trying to look forlorn.

She succeeded apparently, because Rob softened. He scratched his cheek. "I don't suppose I have anything better to do..." he said. Then, with a pained look, he asked, "You *do* know about logic gates, right?"

Christie let go of Rob's arm. Then the three of them — Christie, Rob, and Shelly — settled in around her study desk. (Shelly leaned over and complimented Christie's puppy eyes.) Christie fetched a pitcher from the kitchen and filled it with water and then, placing it down, took the opportunity to remove her cardigan and tend it over the back of her chair. She pulled in right next to Rob.

Christie felt light, like she was floating, like every inch of her skin was being tickled by feathers. Her heart was beating wildly. She gulped down a full glass of water in one go, and then she refilled it and drank more.

The plan was set. Now she just had to carry it through.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: donbiki
Timestamp: Apr 12, 2017 at 10:41 PM
Content: Oops, I forget to post here. :sweatdrop:

I'm a little further along in the story elsewhere. I'll update here as I edit chapters to their second draft.

Chapter 5: Christie's switch

"So SR latches really are clever little contraptions. Look here. In a normal circuit, you change the inputs, the output changes. But SR latches loop back in on themselves, keeping the same charge regardless. If you store zero, the SR latch will continue to output zero. Until you flip the switch, the stored value will remain the same, even as the system around it changes."

The room was hot, just like Christie had programmed the thermostat to make it. Leaning into Rob as his finger traced the diagram, Christie could smell his sweat, his clothes, the mint gum on his breath. She kept her bare shoulder lightly pressed against Rob's shoulder. But it seemed Christie was only one getting distracted.

"Does that make sense?" Rob asked.

"Um, so they're like merry-go-rounds?"

"SR latches?"

"Um, yes," said Christie dumbly, reviewing the breadboard. "What's the difference between a latch and a gate again?"

Rob leaned back, chuckling. "Maybe we should take a break. Do you have more iced tea? We emptied that last pitcher in no time..."

"I'll go get some!" enthused Christie. "Could you carry the board down to kitchen for me? It's a little hot up here."

"Sure. I was thinking of stretching my legs anyway." Rob yawned and pushed off from the desk as Christie bounced out to the stairs.

It was 4:42 now, and they were alone. Shelly had made good her escape ten minutes earlier. Her phone had vibrated — probably a timed alarm, but she acted like it was a text. She'd acted flustered, said she need to help Sam, who lived a mile or so away. Christie had lent Shelly her bike, and Rob had extracted a promise for her to return by six.

That left Christie seventy-eight minutes. Seventy-minutes to make an impact. Squeezing the folds of her skirt, she tried to slow her breathing.

At first, Christie had harbored hope that subtle signals might win the day. She had squeezed his arm to her breasts, after all. Christie blushed even remembering that. She had squeaked her chair close to him, tugged at his shirt at difficult parts, brushed her skin against his. She had even tried the trick she'd practiced, dropping a pen and crawling under the table with her back arched just so.

But Rob showed no signs of noticing. He didn't blush, stammer, or lose his place in the project. When she crawled under the table, he knelt down and searched with her. He looked confused when she was irritated by this.

Christie ground her teeth. She should have known better. She'd tried all sorts of subtle tricks in junior high, and he'd never batted an eye.

"Boy, my sister's the worst, isn't she?" Rob asked, setting down on the couch.

Carrying a tray with glasses of iced tea, Christie tilted her head and twisted her lips cutely.

"You're always doing the hard parts, aren't you? In these projects, I mean."

"Oh, I don't mind!" she said cheerfully.

Christie preferred working alone anyway. And it's not like there was anyone else to pair with.

"Yeah, but still. You're best friends, so…"

"Best friends?" Christie blurted out, and then grimaced. She'd forgotten her cutesy voice.

Rob looked confused. "You're not?"

"Oh, no no no no. Shelly's super! We're, uh, real close. It's just that, you know, I have other friends… and it's kind of disrespectful to… you know?"

"Like that boy from band?" Rob said, grinning.

"I told you, there's no boy!" Christie whined, and then remembered to try her childish pout.

"So what do you do with your band friends? Besides, you know, play in the band."

Christie panicked. This conversation was moving in a bad direction. "Oh, not much. Just hang out."

She broke up the topic by pouring iced tea. Frankly, iced tea was the last thing she wanted at the moment. She'd been drinking liquids at regular intervals for three straight hours, and her stomach was bursting.

Rob folded his arms behind his neck and contemplated the ceiling. "When I was in ninth grade, I hung out with a group that spent a lot in the woods, ATVing. And… other things on occasion." He smiled sheepishly. "My friend Joe's dad had a Yamaha and a Kawasaki. It was a lot of fun. Guess it's kind of a guy thing, though."

Christie pretended to sip iced tea in grateful silence. Until Rob continued: "So what do you tend to do? For hobbies, I mean."

"Hobbies?" she stalled, mind racing. "I don't really have any. I guess I'm a little boring…"

"There must be something."

"Not really."

Rob laughed. "Ah, come on. You're always like a little clam with this stuff. Just fess up!"

And just like that, Christie was backed into a corner. She had no idea how to answer. She could give generic answers: "books", "music", or "TV". But then there would be follow-up questions. What would she answer then? Would she answer "paranormal romance", "pop punk", and "girly cartoons"? That was an uncomfortable level of exposure. She could always lie, but what if there were *more* follow-up questions?

"Come on! I don't bite!"

Her hips and legs began to tighten. "Well…"

But then… oh yes, the Clumsy-Spill plan! This was the perfect moment! She wouldn't even have to act rattled! Christie's hand jumped out for her glass and…

… knocked it directly into Rob's lap.

"Oh cr… oh my gosh!"

The ice tea landed with a slosh, soaking into Rob's shirt and jeans. "Wait a second, I'll…"

"No, it's fine Christie, just–"

Leaping for a wad of napkins, Christie tripped on the coffee table and stumbled. Pain shot up her knee, the table rang out with a thud, and Rob's glass toppled. Ice tea raced in a film across the table, then spilled off the edge. It sopped onto the carpet around Rob's sneakers.

"I…!"

Christie completely lost her head at this point, and as soon as her hand found paper napkins, she was tearing out wads and sopping up wherever the ice tea had landed. "Ohmigoshididntmeanthis iwasnttryingtospillitonyou, iwouldntdothatnotonpurpose iwasjustspillingonmyselfsoyoud…"

When Christie came to her senses, she was she kneeling down at Rob's feet, vigorously rubbing a wad of paper towels onto his fly.

Christie's hand stopped. So he wears boxers, a small part of her brain noted. Christie looked up. Her eyes met Rob's. She stared at Rob. Rob stared at her. Christie started to blush. Christie looked down to her hand.

All at once, Christie yelped, bounced a foot into the air, and scrambled backwards as if Rob's jeans were covered in tarantulas.

Rob smiled awkwardly and examined the furniture. "I didn't mean to be intrusive," he said, voice just a tad wobbly. "Wow, that must be the first time a girl's thrown a beverage at me. I always wanted to take it cold, without reacting, like in the movies."

Christie covered her eyes and cradled her head like a child. How could Rob make jokes at a moment like this? Didn't it bother him to have her touch… touch…! Christie wanted to die.

"Don't worry, Christie. You have baking powder in the fridge, right? Just coat it on the carpet, and this shouldn't leave any stains."

Were there any nifty cleaning solutions for Christie? Could paper towels descend from above and soak *her* up.

"O-okay. But your clothes, do you need…?" Christie trailed. What clothes could she give him? Only she and her mom lived here, and neither of their clothes would fit. Was this the end? Was Rob going home?

"No problem," Rob said. "I had gym clothes in my backpack for a run. Could you help me clean up though? Just throw these in the sink and scrub some baking powder, please? Use warm water."

Without warning, Rob kicked off his sneakers, stripped his shirt, undid his belt, pulled off his jeans, and handed everything in a messy pile to Christie. He stood in the middle of the living room in his wet boxers.

Christie clutched the pile dumbly to her chest, gawking. Rob grabbed his backpack by the front door and rounded into the hallway. The bathroom door opened and closed with a thump.

With all said and done, Operating Clumsy-Spill had literally backfired.

"He really doesn't see me that way," she whispered to herself. "Not even a little bit."

She had spent an entire day scheming to fluster Rob, but the only one getting flustered was herself. Her clothes looked ridiculous. Her cutesy voice made her sound like an idiot. None of it was doing anything.

She set glumly to spot-treating Rob's clothes in the sink, rinsing them under the warm tap and watching dirty water swirl into the drain. She scrubbed baking soda into stains, holding the fabric tight. She blushed as she worked. It felt somehow indecent, like she was intruding on his privacy.

But that was stupid. Rob never got embarrassed over stuff like that.

In that moment, everything Christie had done seemed stupid. Even if the plan worked, what was the point? Rob bared himself easily — she suspected he'd even admit to the diaper stuff if she asked point blank — but Christie couldn't tell him anything. She couldn't even tell him what music she liked. Everything Christie did was an act.

But if she didn't act, how could she get close to anyone? She continued washing, the same paradox as ever rolling around in her head.

Rob returned from the bathroom wearing nylon shorts and a varsity tee. He gave her a quip and a smile, and after borrowing the washing machine, he suggested they sit at the kitchen table to work on the circuit. This was convenient for Christie, so she agreed. They focused, connecting wires to nodes and checking the outputs. Rob seemed content to let questions about her hobbies and friends drop.

After a time, Christie looked up at the clock. It read 5:20. Her bladder was full to bursting, and she'd be cutting it close if she delayed much longer.

*Here goes nothing*, she thought. She closed her eyes and pushed.

And pushed.

"Christie, are you alright? You're shaking…"

Christie flushed. How come nothing was happening? She hadn't peed since early this morning. Since sixth grade, she'd *never* gone more than two hours without going to the bathroom.

"I-I'm just feeling cold..."

"Really? It must be eighty degrees in here. You don't have diabetes, do you? Are you dizzy?"

"Oh, no no no! If I just put on my sweater…" Christie said, reaching for the cardigan on the back of her chair. But then she reconsidered. "Actually, now that you mention it, I am feeling… mmm….!"

How hadn't she thought of that? Being sick was the perfect setup! Didn't sick people pee themselves all the time? She redoubled her efforts.

As Rob reached for her forehead, Christie closed her eyes. She squeezed her thighs and pushed. She tried to imagine pee streaming out, soaking her leggings and puddling on the floor. She thought of swimming in warm water, of sitting on the toilet. She tried visualizing her muscles relaxing, her bladder shrinking. She even pretended she was in diapers again, letting go and feeling them get warm and thick as she sat quietly in class. She tried to remember the cashier from this morning.

But nothing happened.

Rob's face was painted with worry. "Christie, can you stand? Could you tell me your Mom's number?"

In a last ditch effort, Christie leaned forward and, under the table, pressed her hands down into her pelvis. Her bladder screamed for relief. Groaning, Christie pushed with all her might.

"E-e-e-e…" Christie stammered, "Excuse me!"

She jumped up and bolted for the bathroom, leaving Rob sitting dumbfounded.

She couldn't do it. She couldn't do it. She slammed the bathroom door behind her, tugged her leggings down, and before she knew it she was sitting on the toilet, gushing pee like out of a firehose.

She couldn't do it. She hadn't even tried. Even as she'd been pushing, another half had been holding tight. She wasn't brave enough to wet herself in front Rob. Even if he liked it, even if it meant becoming his girlfriend, even to win a million dollars, even to avoid public execution — she just wasn't ready to be seen like that. Christie wasn't strong enough to be seen as weak, let alone by Rob.

As the last drops dribbled out, Christie realized again how stupid she'd been. This whole plan existed because she wasn't brave enough to ask Rob out. How could she possibly be brave enough to wet herself in front of him? Christie wanted to die.

After a few minutes, she headed glumly out of the bathroom. She tapped Rob with the door. He'd been standing there, his hand ready to knock when she came out.

"Christie?"

"It's nothing," Christie said miserably. "I was just holding it, is all."

Returning to the kitchen, Rob and Christie finished hooking the circuit with subdued efficiency. They talked, but only to debug, to double-check the jump wires. When Christie actually focused on the project, the work went smoothly. It was pleasantly all-consuming. Rob, maybe reading her mood, didn't joke or needle, and after fifteen minutes, the SR latch was functioning correctly.

"Well look at that," said Rob. "Perfect."

The breadboard, once a mess of wires, now seemed an orderly thing. A few LEDs were straddled over the terminal strips on spindly legs, observing the inputs running into the latch. They blinked on and off by timer. The output LEDs stayed blank, however. As they'd intended, the latch was locked at `00`.

Christie looked at nubby little switch that controlled the SR latch. It was flipped to `CLOSED`. As long as it was `CLOSED`, the stored value would remain the same. Christie found herself imagining there was a nub like that somewhere on her body. She imagined scratching the back of her head, adjusting her shoes, or rubbing the small of her back; and finding it there. She would tap her forehead and chuckle, thinking, how silly of me. How did I forget about this thing. Christie would flip the switch `OPEN`.

But there was no switch. Even if there were, she had no idea how to flip it.

"Why did you have to help me?" she whispered bitterly.

"Excuse me?"

Rob had his hand on the base of the breadboard, ready to disconnect the power supply. Christie did not look into his eyes, but kept staring that the blinking lights.

"I didn't want your help," she said, without really knowing why. "Why did you make me your charity case? Do you know how hard that was for me? I would've been fine on my own. Things would've been easier on my own."

Rob blinked. "Uh, the circuit?"

Christie bit her lip. "But how could you possibly understand that? You can do anything. You're strong, you don't need help. You don't know how hard it is to be helped. Everything's so easy for you…!"

"Christie, calm down. You're very smart, trust me, it's just that you're in ninth gr–"

"Yeah, aren't helpless girls great? Girls who can't do anything for themselves. Girls who need someone to handle their problems..."

"Christie?"

"Girls who are clumsy, who cry, who get worked up nothing. Girls who can't speak right, who can't grow up, who feel awful all the time. Girls you can look down on! Aren't they just great?"

Christie was choking on tears at this point. Leaning back in his chair, Rob was staring with eyes wide. He stared as if she was a stranger, an unknown fifteen-year-old girl who had broken into the house and was sitting in Christie's chair. He didn't seem to know what to do. His hand reached out toward her, but she batted it away.

"Christie…?"

"I'm sorry," she said, shaking. "I don't know what I'm saying."

"Is it something I said?"

"It's nothing to do with you," she lied, wiping her eyes with her forearm. "Thanks for your help tonight. If you don't mind, I'm tired. Tell Shelly I went to bed when she gets back."

Without waiting for an answer, Christie cleared the table of glasses, grabbed her cardigan, and hurried to her room, closing the door behind her. Not bothering to undress, she lay face down on the bed. She buried her head in the pillow and calmed her breath. How would she finish the project on her own? she wondered. What would she tell Shelly tomorrow? How would she manage to avoid seeing Rob again for the next four months, what he went to college?

And was that really what she wanted? Christie reviewed what she'd done tonight. Manipulating Rob. Lying to Rob. Yelling at Rob. And now, keeping Rob away. Was that really what she wanted?

Why did nothing ever go right for Christie? Why did she always lie when she wanted to tell the truth, keep distance when she wanted to get close? Why did she get angry at kindness? Why did she hate people who helped her? Christie felt like she was emitting a kind of magnetic forcefield, a push-away field, a cloaking shield, the maintenance of which consumed all her energies. She had poured everything into the shield to protect herself, had let the field grow stronger and stronger. But after so many years, she no longer remembered how to turn it off.

Christie lied to everyone about everything. She concealed everything from everyone. Everything she said or did was fake. And she could not even imagine any other way to live.

With these and other problems rolling around in Christie's mind, she fell gradually into a light, restless sleep.

Christie dreamed she was in homeroom again, and Shelly's group was presenting their physics project. But somehow, Christie was still twelve years old.

The project was immensely complex, a maze of wires and lights, all tangled and flashing and beeping. Christie was a part of it, a little LED taped to her wrist. Samantha was explaining that, with a D-Gate activated, their circuit would remain in stasis. Then, at the appointed moment, Shelly pulled out the control switch. "But if we flip this," she said, "it will begin to accept new inputs!"

She flipped the switch. The LEDs kept blinking, blinking, blinking.

Christie woke groggily, twisting away from the drool on her pillow. What time is it? she thought, and looked around. The lights were on. She felt like she'd fallen asleep a couple of minutes ago. Her body felt weak, sticky all over.

It *had* been a couple of minutes, it seemed. The digital clock on her dresser read 5:58pm.

Christie wondered what had woken her up. She'd slept barely four hours in forty-eight, and she'd been hoping to sleep through till morning, when Rob, Shelly, and her memories would be at safe distance. But now Rob would still be here. Shelly would probably arrive back in a few minutes, Christie realized with dread. She decided to stay in her room and pretend to sleep.

But then Christie remembered the bags. Oh crap, she thought, the bags. They were still in her room, sitting by her desk, and Shelly and Rob would need to retrieve them. Christie cringed.

Could she tiptoe out and leave them outside her door? If Rob noticed her, she'd be forced to say goodbye to Shelly. But if she was really quiet…

Christie rolled over on her sheets. It was only then that she noticed.

The front of her printed skirt was warm, sticky, and wet. Her panties clung to her skin. When she sat upright, she felt her bottom damping, and her bed made the sound of water being wrung from a sponge. Christie's heart started to race, and sweat formed on her brow. There was no way…

A light knock sounded. "Christie, are you awake?" came a quiet voice from her bedroom door. It was Rob.

Christie's throat was locked, her lungs paralyzed. She couldn't breathe. How could this be happening? This was impossible. She was in high school now. Christie tried to say something, but her voice gurgled out as an inaudible whimper.

"Shelly's back. I'm coming in," the voice said, and door creaked open.

And just like, Rob walked into Christie's room. He found her sitting on her bed in her printed skirt, knees to chest, clothes and sheets soaked, staring at him with wide eyes.

Christie's lips began to quiver.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: donbiki
Timestamp: Apr 17, 2017 at 3:55 PM
Content: Chapter 6: Starting to leak through

It had been a long life. A good life.

Maybe fifteen years wasn't so long, Christie thought, and the life she'd lived, well, to be honest it kinda sucked. That time she called Ms. Fletcher 'Mom' in Algebra II was pretty bad. Or that time she was caught lying about vacationing in New York. And sixth grade, well, Christie would gladly wipe sixth grade out with a dry eraser. Suffice to say Christie would change many, many things. But time waits on no girl. When Azrael descends on his silver chariot, all must make their peace, all must let go. And so Christie closed her eyes, and she sighed, and she waited for the warm embrace of His heavenly bliss.

Instead, Rob just closed the door.

"Are there any spare blankets in your closet?" he asked.

"Don't mind me. I'll be dead any second now."

Christie burrowed her head deeper into the pillow, hoping to restrict airflow and ease her passing. She was huddled under a cocoon of soaked sheets and pillows, under which she had scrambled the moment her lip started quivering. As far as final moments go, being found in a puddle of pee was pretty bad. Christie could do without waterworks too.

Christie's sheets and mattress were drenched through, but still warm, almost hot to the touch, like fluffy towels soaked in bathwater. It felt kinda nice, Christie thought, in a gross, totally not-nice kind of way.

Through the muffling of the pillow, Christie heard Rob slide open her closet door and start rifling through the shelves. Hangers jingled, linens rustled. What kind of guy pokes through a teenage girl's things without permission? she thought, but then remembered to focus on dying.

Suddenly, her cocoon was ripped away. Christie found herself looking up at Rob, who was holding wet sheets draped in his right hand like a torero. He had a folded quilt comforter and set of flannel pajamas in his other arm. Christie felt her face turn to jelly.

"I- I can… handle… this," she said. "Just go home. Please go home."

A pained look crossed Rob's face. "Oh boy," Rob said. "If only."

"If only what?"

"Sam and the others are coming over," Rob said simply. "I came to wake you."

Christie paled. "When?"

"Any minute. Come on."

Rob grabbed Christie by the wrist and tried to pull her up. Christie struggled. "I'll change myself!" she protested.

"Change…?" Rob tilted his head in confusion, then smiled wryly. "Were you expecting me to? Come on, get up. Actually, wait a sec. Let me grab a towel. Okay, here's one. There."

Rob recovered a rolled bathtowel from the closet's upper shelf and tossed it onto Christie's lap. Christie stared blankly. "This can't dry it all off…"

"Of course not. Leave your wet things on the bed and wrap yourself in that. Quickly, right? Not much time. I'll face this way."

He turned to the closet again and continued rummaging through her linens. Christie sat up and inched to the edge of her bed, mindful of Rob's back, hesitating. She was struggling to believe this was, in fact, reality. Was she still dreaming? Her skin tickled as moisture cooled against her thighs, and the faint smell of ammonia was sharp and distinct. She poked her legs.

"Are you done yet?"

"J… just a sec!" she said. With shaking hands, Christie undid her skirt, stripped her leggings, and coiled the towel around her waist. The fringe of her camisole was wet too, but not enough to drip. Together everything formed a colorful pile. She kept her panties to herself, obviously. She hurried up from bed, clutching the towel. "I'm up," she said.

Rob turned, holding another towel and the bulky quilt comforter against his chest. "You should shower upstairs," he said, "Shelly took the downstairs bathroom to fix her makeup. Be careful not to get your hair wet. Just rinse your skin."

While Rob talked he was moving efficiently. He stuffed the wet sheets and skirt into an empty project bag and twisted it up. He laid a towel over the damp patch on Christie's bed, then spread the comforter carefully on top. He handed her the flannel pajamas, then looked expectantly. He gestured for her to hurry.

But Christie just stood there, in a stupor. Her hands were tingling, like she'd sat on them and put them to sleep. Her muscles felt loose, weak.

"Go on," Rob prompted. "I'll handle things here."

"I don't usually do this," Christie said dumbly.

"That's good."

"No, really. I'll be sixteen this July. High schoolers don't wet the bed."

"No, not typically," he agreed. "They'll be here any minute, you know."

"I really don't, okay?"

"Okay."

Rob was smiling uncomfortably. No, that wasn't it. It wasn't just uncomfortable, not just awkward. Rob was smiling that 'specific smile'. She knew that lopsided angle, those pained cheeks, those knitted lips. But why? Had her towel slipped? No, no. Was it the outburst earlier? She'd didn't think so. Or was it just the general situation?

Then Christie realized, and her jaw went slack. "You…" she started slowly. Then she grew frantic. "I didn't give you permission to…! You…!" She scrunched her face up and covered it with her hands.

"Christie, towel. Towel!"

But it was much too much. Christie sunk to the floor, breathing heavily. Outside, she heard a car pulling into the driveway.

Christie's closet door lay open. On the very top shelf, next to the pillows and old books, there sat a bright, pink, bulky package. The bubble font on the front read: Pull-Ups® GoodNites® Underpants for Girls. Until a moment ago, the package had been carefully folded among Christie's linens.

Why couldn't Christie just have died?

A few desperate minutes later.

"So Christie, did you two make any progress on that project we were working on?" Shelly batted her eyes meaningfully.

"The circuit? It… oh! Um. Sure, we got some work done." Was that being obvious? Christie gulped and tried to not think about it.

Fortunately, Rob followed up. "Christie and I laid the groundwork. I could explain it in the kitchen, if you girls would like."

"Pass," said Sam. And Mori just giggled.

Christie ground her teeth. Why oh why did *they* have to be here?

A troupe of four had occupied Christie's room. Christie herself was standing in flannel pajamas, guarding the closet with all the intensity of a five-foot-tall Cerberus. There were Shelly and Rob of course, Shelly fiddling with half-combed helmet hair, Rob sitting strategically on Christie's comforter over the spot with the towel.

The two other visitors were from Shelly's group. There was Samantha — still in her sweaty lacrosse uniform from Friday practice, leaning against the wall and occasionally making delightful little quips about Christie's room. She was, if Christie had to describe her, a boar in human form: peevish, confident, aggressive, and stupid. Then there was Mori — dressed to the nines as ever, like you'd expect for the girl who got elected to student council treasurer for her boobs. She was sitting daintily on Christie's desk chair, in a pleated skirt and a scarf-for-effect, playing with her side braid. Christie felt a pang of irritation that Mori apparently dressed more strikingly on random Fridays than Christie did with four hours preparation.

The group had assembled to talk about the science project. That alone would be torturous. But with a soaked mattress beneath her comforter, dirty clothes under the bed, a package of diapers in her closet, and damp panties under her pajamas, this was basically hell. By now her underwear felt clammy and gross. Christie kept worrying that urine was bleeding through the crotch, but she was afraid to look.

"Who picked this loopy project anyway?" Sam complained. "What is a breadboard? Are we baking bread? What *is* RAM?"

"Random access memory," said Christie, irritated. "It's low latency storage for computers."

"Well of course *you'd* know. Does any normal human know?"

Christie felt her chest grow hot, her stomach and hips tighten. "Oh sorry, I forgot to communicate on your level. Let's see. 'Computer needs thing. Puts thing in little box. Box real nearby. Computer gets thing real quick.'"

Christie realized she was pressing her thighs together and winced. Inside her pajamas, the flannel was starting to wick up moisture. Christie needed to get a hold of herself.

"Don't fight, you two," said Mori sweetly. "I'm sure Sam didn't mean it, Christie. Oh, why must you always fight. We're such good friends."

Just like always, Mori thought she was best person in the room. Christie just wished Mori could be the best person in some other room.

"That's right," Shelly said, "I'm sure we can finish our *project* soon." She batted her eyes again.

Yes I get it Shelly, Christie thought. "We finished the hard parts. We just need another push."

Christie glanced at Rob. Distilled to the essentials, this was true. Of the circuit, of course, but also of the 'project'. Christie's objectives this evening had been to act clumsy. To show her underwear. To wet herself. To cry. To hug Rob. For Rob to help her clean up. Christie had achieved these objectives.

It hadn't gone according to script, but all the boxes were checked. Christie had been a clumsy, weepy ditz. She'd peed the bed. She'd cried about it. She'd clung onto Rob's shoulders in just a camisole and wet underthings, scrambling to put on pajamas while Sam was stomping around the house calling her name. Rob had even had to tie Christie's waistband, her hands were shaking so much. So, yeah, that covered everything.

Christie had intended to tell Rob the truth eventually. To say that she'd loved him since grade school. That she didn't know how to get close to him. That she'd heard about his… quirks from Becky. That tonight had been an act.

She definitely still intended to use that excuse.

"Earth to Christie. Earth to Christie," said Sam, waving her hand, raising her eyebrows, and cocking her mouth open. "What else needs doing?"

"Next Rob needs to see me wearing d… to see the, the wearing on the… Rob to… see… to help… D-Gates! We need D-Gates! Yes, that's the big thing left to do. Once we have D-Gates we'll be set."

The group exchanged looks as Christie clutched the closet handle with sweaty hands behind her back. Sam sighed. "Could someone translate? I'd really like to go home sometime soon. It smells weird in here." She inclined her head and sniffed, as if to demonstrate.

"Oh Samantha, why must you say these things?" Mori said philanthropically.

Christie pressed her back to the closet. The room seemed to shake and bend, her skin crawled, and her whole body tightened, like a rope being twisted over and over and over. Hatred and anxiety vied at her temples, making her head pound. Suddenly the smells around Christie seemed vivid, pungent. She wanted to go to the bathroom, she wanted to go anywhere. But she couldn't abandon her guard of the closet. How long was this going to last?

Sam continued. "Because we've got two days, Mori. This is a group grade, and I'd like to know how we stand."

Christie flared. "Then maybe you should ask *before* the Friday night before the due date?"

"I *do* ask," said Sam, face red.

"When?"

"All the time. Remember our fall project?"

"What about it!"

The fall project had been a modified Newton's cradle with a replaceable inner sphere. The project was accompanied with calculations for how long the cradle should bounce for different materials — steel, rubber, flat and coarse plastic. It'd taken forever.

"When I asked how the project was going, you treated me like a useless bum!"

"That's because you didn't do anything!"

"I can't do anything when you hog the work, then treat me like a moron!"

"What do you mean I hog all the work?"

"Oh, please," Sam said, throwing her hand, "It's obvious you think you're better than us."

Christie would not cry. Christie refused to cry.

The part about hogging the work was true, she guessed. But what was she supposed to do? Everyone expected a perfect result from her. That was why these things got shoved her way. She always worked hard on her parts, she dotted the t's and crossed the i's, she put in the nights. If she didn't, she would be exposed.

Christie didn't complain. She didn't ask for help. But she had to produce a perfect result. What right did Sam have to call her stuck-up for protecting herself? Why was Sam even here? Couldn't Sam go do whatever popular girls do on Friday nights?

Christie squeezed her eyes tight.

A car alarm blared out in the night. HONK BEEP HONK BEEP HONK BEEP HONK BEEP.

"What the—"

Christie's curtains flashed yellow as everyone winced and covered their ears. Rob jumped to his knees and pushed open the window, causing the cold spring night to poor into the room. "It's mine. Damn, where did I leave my keys?" he said, patting his shorts frantically. "There's no one in my car, is there?"

Forgetting the argument, Shelly, Samantha, and Mori crowded in around the window, squinting into the dark. Mori covered her mouth. She squeaked that she saw a man with wires in the front seat, but Shelly laughed her off (*Who would want to steal that rust bucket?*).

Rob checked his jacket. Then: "I gotta check my pants. Christie, where's the laundry closet again?"

"It's… uh…"

But Rob had already grabbed her hand and was pulling her out the room. He tugged her out, slamming the door behind him, then lead her down to the kitchen. Christie felt a little dazed, but managed: "Don't you remember? It's down the hallway, on the left."

"I know," he said quietly, "Come out to the car with me."

Before Christie could ask a question, Rob took his jacket and draped it over Christie's shoulders. She instinctively spreadeagled her hands, worming them into the armholes. Then Rob shuttled the zipper up with a nimble swish. Christie looked down. It hung over her like a tarp, and due to the difference in their heights, the hem reached down to her knees.

"But your keys…" she muttered.

"Right here," he said, and pulled a ring of keys out of her front pocket… his front pocket. "Come on."

Rob hurried out the front door, and Christie followed barefoot onto the driveway, wearing just flannel pajamas and an oversized bomber jacket. She shivered and bunched her arms as Rob hopped into his car and ignited the engine to disable the alarm. Christie watched, cold and baffled but not entirely displeased to be standing underclothed in a frigid April night. It was better than being inside with *them*.

Christie wasn't sure why her presence was required, though. She was cold, especially where wet fabric met her skin. Also, Rob's gesture of lending her his jacket seemed stupidly chivalrous. Kind of insulting, really, like she couldn't handle the cold. When he emerged from his car, Christie glared at him.

"Those are your workout clothes," she said, pulling at the jacket. "You should've kept this. I'm dressed warmer than you."

"My parents are old fashioned. I'm sure my sister would snitch if I dragged a girl half-dressed out into the cold," he said with a stupid grin, waving sarcastically to the window. Then, closing in, he said quietly, "You were starting to leak through."

Christie's face filled with blood all at once. "I didn't ask you to do that," she said, sharply.

"Don't be like that," he said, then messed up her hair before returning to the house.

Back inside, everyone had blessedly left Christie's room and assembled in the kitchen, curious about the Mystery of the Alarm Malfunction. Mori was insisting there'd been a car thief, who'd presumably made a run for it. Sam brushed her off and guessed a bird had landed on the hood. Shelly blamed Rob for putting off oil changes.

Christie kept Rob's coat on, looking about self-consciously. She didn't dare lift the hem and look, but when she slipped her fingers underneath, she winced at how damp the front of her pajamas felt. Luckily they were a dark color. No one had noticed… right?

Sam and Mori had donned their jackets, too. "We gotta split," said Samantha at length. "My dad should be back any minute. He just dropped us off on his way to pick up milk and diapers, really. And we wouldn't want to disturb *Christie's* work."

Christie clutched the fringe of Rob's coat more tightly.

"Thanks for having us!" said Mori. "See you tomorrow, Christie."

"Tomorrow…?" Christie was still trying to process whether 'milk and diapers' had been a jab. Sam did have a little brother… she couldn't have noticed, could she? No no no, no way. "Why tomorrow?"

"Well," started Shelly, "we were just talking, and everyone thought we should finish the project together."

Christie felt like she'd been slapped in the face.

Shelly continued. "It's a hard project," she said. "And it wasn't fair to push the tough parts all on you. Also, I know it's not your fault, but Sam's feelings were hurt when you—"

"What do you mean, my feelings were hurt?!"

"… but Sam was bothered about not getting to contribute," Shelly corrected herself. "We'll get done faster as a group, after all. So I called everyone up and set up a sleepover…"

"A sleepover?" Christie blinked. "Oh no no no no no. That's not a good idea."

"No?"

Christie stuffed her hands into the jacket pockets, squeezing tight. Rob was grimacing sympathetically. A sleepover with Shelly's group was about the last thing Christie wanted, and that was *before* she'd wet the bed out of the blue. That had to be a fluke, right? It had to be.

"Why can't we just split the work like usual?"

"Come on, it'd be fun!"

"What are we, little kids?" Christie grumbled.

"Don't be stubborn, Christie. Anyway, Rob will be loafing around on Saturdays, and can help us out. Isn't that right, Rob?"

Christie stammered, trying to think of an out. You don't understand, she wanted to tell Shelly. Red alert! Abort mission! Christie was *not* executing her plan with Shelly's friends prancing around, no way, no how.

But before she could collect her words, a car rolled into the driveway and honked. What was it with cars rolling into the driveway this week?

Sam hurried to the doorway and started pulling on a pair of muddy cleats. "You'll just have to deal with us little kids, huh. What a tragedy."

"Oh, why must you say these things!" Mori whined. She grabbed her purse and curtsied slightly. "Bye Christie, Shelly!"

The two jogged out to an SUV idling in the driveway. Christie strained her eyes to look for grocery bags, but the car had its high beams on. In a few moments, the driver gave a friendly beep, the engine roared, and the SUV backed out.

"It's settled then," Shelly said.

The entryway dimmed as the high beams panned away, and the whole house darkened. But that wasn't the only shadow to fall over the room. Shelly bunched her arms and leaned back on the counter. "By the way… what happened to your clothes?"

"M-my clothes?" Christie fumbled with her tongue. Without thinking, she glanced down and checked her pajamas anxiously. There weren't any visible stains, were there? "I changed. I was, I was just going to bed…"

"Just going to bed?" Shelly said, "Were you going to bed too, Rob?"

Rob frowned down at his t-shirt and shorts, then laughed. "What are you implying, sis?"

Shelly was staring icily, eyes narrow. She passed her glance back and forth between Christie and Rob, with an expression like she'd tasted something bitter. Christie didn't understand, but at least the focus had passed off of her for a moment.

"I'm not experienced with these kinds of things," said Shelly slowly, "and the air freshener Christie uses is pretty crazy. But Sam was right. Compared to when I was here earlier, that room did smell… earthy? Pungent? And that comforter over the bed. You were sitting there the whole time. So quiet. So statue-like."

Christie twisted her toes in the carpet. She felt her chest grow hot, her hips and back tighten. Oh god oh god oh god.

"Do you really want to know?" Rob asked gravely.

"Yeah," said Shelly, "I do."

"It's pretty embarrassing to say."

"Uh-huh."

A pregnant pause ensued. Rob stared at Shelly, and Shelly stared at Rob, and Christie stared at the floor.

"That smell was urine," said Rob. "I wet my pants earlier, you see."

Another pause. The clock ticked. Outside, there was the distant sweep of traffic rushing by. Rob scratched his chin, smiling resignedly, and Shelly stared blankly. Christie's cheeks puffed out painfully as she tried to contain a giggle. At length, Shelly lowered her face into her palm.

"Seriously?" breathed Shelly. "Seriously? On tonight of all nights… I… just go grab your laundry… god…"

As Rob marched stiffly away, Christie couldn't hold it anymore. A few high-pitched titters escaped, then a giggle, then a roll of nervous laughter. Shelly gave Christie a withering look. For a moment, Christie forgot to be nervous, and just laughed, feeling warm all over, and not only from Rob's jacket.

"I'll wait in the car," Shelly said. "Your mom's away this weekend, right? Rob'll pick you up at four. And yes, you *are* coming. Gosh, I really don't get what people see in him…"

Christie kept laughing as Shelly made her way out the door.

Rob wasn't kidding, Christie thought. Ten minutes later, she was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, tugging her waistband out and inspecting the damage. Her panties hadn't seemed so wet when she'd pulled pajamas over them in a blind rush. A lot of pee had managed to seep through.

The front of her PJs was visibly soaked, of course, a dark patch standing out along the lines of her underwear. The back looked fine, but when she patted her hand onto her bum, the flannel felt sticky and damp. Worst of all, some excess moisture had rolled down and soaked into the inner thighs, leaving dark streaks that ran down her legs. Christie bit her lip, wondering if the stains might've been visible below the hem of Rob's jacket.

She rolled up her PJs and tossed them in the wash, along with her sheets and those cute clothes she'd worn. As the machine started tossing, she sighed in relief. It was nice to be alone, finally. She pulled a nightdress over her head and prepared for bed.

After all was said and done, today had been a good, but very exhausting day. Unfortunately, her mattress was not doing so hot. It was currently propped up on its side with a fan blowing it dry. Normally this would be no problem. Christie didn't mind sleeping on the couch. But you couldn't wash a couch, and tonight honestly worried her.

Maybe Christie'd read one too many of those stories in her research, but a sense of doom had descended with regards to her bladder. What if it wasn't a fluke?

After chewing her lips red, Christie double-checked the living room blinds, dimmed the lights, and locked the doors. Then, climbing upstairs to her closet, she fetched the package of Goodnites. What the heck, Christie thought, she'd bought the stupid things anyway. Christie tore the package's plastic wrap along the perforated line, then fished out a pair. They were thinner than she remembered, and they'd added graphics of butterflies and colorful tearaway sides.

Sighing, Christie raised her nightie. She threaded both ankles through the legholes, bent down, and tugged the pullup snuggly to her waist. Then, after running her fingers along the gathers, she smoothed her dress back down again. The Goodnite felt starchy, a little itchy against her skin.

Looking into her bedroom mirror, Christie noticed her nightdress was slightly translucent, and she could detect the outlines of bright purple designs underneath. She stared a long while. Somehow, it did not feel like she was looking at herself. It felt like she was watching some other five-foot-tall girl with brown hair and green eyes, standing in Christie's room in a white nightie and bedwetters pants.

Christie went downstairs, lay on the sofa, and fell asleep. It took twenty minutes, her mind busy with thoughts of tomorrow, of sleepovers, of the project, of to say Rob. Of her plan. When she did fall asleep, Christie dreamed she'd gone to school in pajamas four days in a row, and the class was voting on whose duty it would be to dress her the following morning.

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:04 PM
Content: Hello! Time traveller from 2022 here, don't mind me.

I finished this story a long time ago elsewhere, but want to dump it here in case that other site goes belly up. If I lose my hard drive, I want to be able to read this again in the future. Apologies for the necropost.

Chapter 7: Muscle memory

Christie woke to her cell rattling across the coffee table. It rang. Bring-bring-brrring. (Christie hated those popsong ringtones everyone picked). Rolling over, she swiped at her cellphone, fumbling with the flipscreen. `SHELLY B.`, the display read. Christie tapped END and dropped the cell on the floor.

Light poured into the living room from the skylight. She squinted and yawned. It took her a minute to remember why she was sleeping here, on the couch, in the living room. Oh yeah, I wet the bed last night, Christie thought, without special distress. Her back was sore, her hair was a mess, and her right hand was covered in drool. But she was enjoying that weird morning sensation of feeling both gross, stiff, sticky, warm, and wonderful.

The thoughts 'gross' and 'sticky' rang a bell, and Christie anxiously rolled up her nightdress and stuck a finger in her pullup. It felt dry enough. Not convinced, she kicked her legs up on the couch armrest, pressed her chin to her chest, and reversed the pullup on her thighs. But, as expected, the padding was white.

She sighed in relief. So it *had* been a fluke.

Of course it had been. Christie felt stupid. On Thursday and Friday, Christie must have read thirty of those stupid stories. In TBDL stories, it was a law of nature that wetting the bed unlocked an unstoppable tidal wave of incontinence. In those, she'd probably be peeing her pants and sucking her thumb by now.

Getting up, Christie ripped the Goodnite's tearway sides and balled it up in her hands. Then — with a firm mental note to empty the trash — she tossed it in the kitchen wastebasket. After burying the pullup under some wrappers and a styrofoam cup, she washed her hands and looked for something to eat.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, Christie would eat low-fat yogurt for breakfast. But this morning her sweet tooth was insistent, so she buckled and pulled a carton of whole milk from the fridge, then searched for the pantry for Count Chocula. Mom bought the cereal for Christie's little cousins when they visited — seven and ten — but she wouldn't notice if some went missing.

Christie's cellphone chirped, indicating a voicemail message had been left. She turned on speaker phone and ran Shelly's message while she poured the cereal.

Hey Christie girl! Sorry about all that last night, don't know what I was thinking. Don't know what my brother was thinking…. Anywho we'll be over at four. Be ready! I've got some ideas about our 'project'. Make sure to bring some cute clothes! See ya then! CLICK

Christie grimaced. She'd somehow forgotten about the sleepover. What a joke.

She settled down indian-style on the couch, nestling the bowl of soggy chocolate in her lap. But before taking a second spoonful, she squirmed. This felt weird. It felt breezy, not to mention a little lurid to be lounging around without underwear on. So, setting the cereal on the coffee table, she padded upstairs to her room.

Upstairs, her mattress still sagging against the wall. Christie hauled it down and then, surveying the room, did some light packing while she was opening the closet anyway. She pulled down her old sleeping bag — there was a little dust from two years disuse — along with two pairs a jeans, three pairs of socks, two bras, six panties, some sweatpants, some blouses, and a hoodie. Christie didn't grab any skirts, leggings, jumpers, or camisoles. While packing, she realized she'd reached a decision overnight. She would quit the charade with Rob. No acting, no fawning, no peeing, no diapers. She would ask him out fair and square. He deserved that much.

Tonight, she thought, gulping.

Christie hurried so her breakfast wouldn't turn into mush. Once the basics were in order, she remembered her initial purpose, pulled down her package of Goodnites from the linen shelf, and slid a pair on. Then she climbed downstairs and dug into the Count's remains.

"Rob really was a prince last night," she mumbled halfway through the bowl. "Why does he have to be so nice?"

He had helped her, watched out for her, protected her, taken the fall for her last night. Christie didn't see how she deserved this. She'd been tight-lipped and selfish. She'd been a handful, basically wasted his Friday night. The only time Christie'd really talked to him, she'd thrown a tantrum and stormed to her room.

So why was Rob nice to her? she thought, chewing slowly.

Three possibilities came to mind. The first one set butterflies loose in her stomach — that he liked her, that she was special to Rob. But no, that couldn't be the case. The second twisted her stomach — that she'd wet herself, and let him live out a private fantasy he'd had. She couldn't bring herself to believe that. The third possibility made her stomach sink — that Rob was just nice to everyone.

And there was her answer. Rob was just nice to everyone.

Slurping down the extra milk from her bowl, Christie found herself fantasizing about the first possibility, about Rob liking her, her and her alone, and that this was why he'd helped her, even at the cost of embarrassing himself. It was a pleasant dream. So she let it run forward in time, to all the wonderful scenes of young intimacy. In this dream, Rob would listen to her problems, wipe away her tears, indulge her bad tempers, clean up her mistakes. As she was dreaming, a little milk spilled from Christie's bowl onto her cheek, and her skin there tickled hot with imagined fingers, clearing it away.

In this fantasy, Christie accepted Dream Rob's care unselfconsciously. In this fantasy, Christie wore her emotion on her sleeves, entrusted herself to him, let herself be spoiled by him. In her fantasies, she would drink greedily from the bowl, talking about herself quite unreservedly, sloshing milk down her blouse without feeling embarrassed. Rob would laugh, and she would laugh with him. Shelly was there, rolling her eyes and grinning.

A shiver of guilt ran down Christie's spine. She pushed the image away, wiping her cheek with her sleeve. Though no longer hungry, she poured a second bowl and continued eating.

Maybe Christie wasn't so different from Rob, immersing herself in these absurd stories. For while Christie could easily imagine Rob wiping milk from her cheek, she could never imagine herself letting him.

Christie felt her bladder tugging. When she looked down, she was surprised to see a hint of purple at the waist of her nightdress. Was she wearing…?

Oh come on, Christie thought. Rubbing with her palm, she confirmed that she was, indeed, wearing another pullup. She had stripped off a Goodnite after waking up, chucked it in the trash, and then immediately marched upstairs and thrown on another one. What the heck. Was this some kind of long-term muscle memory? Both her sweats and pajamas were in the wash, and she hadn't worn nighties much in the past few years, so… God.

But Christie kept eating. The flavor was very sweet, and her thoughts were very bitter.

"What'd he think if he could see me now?" Christie muttered to herself.

He'd probably be turned on, she thought, unhappily.

No, she thought, unhappily.

What had Christie done to deserve any special treatment?

Christie kept eating, despite the small part of her brain tallying calories in the background. Rob had not shown any signs of interest in her, even after she showed him….. that. Christie poured a third bowl, and slurped down its chocolate milk. She knew she should be getting ready for tonight. She knew she should shower, go dress. But her muscles felt sluggish, her mind flighty and disordered.

With three more cups of milk in her stomach, Christie's bladder tugged again, more sharply. There was another reason to get up. But then Christie remembered that she was, in fact, wearing a diaper. She had paid twenty dollars for them. They were her size, her weight. She was going to throw them away anyway. And she would take a shower this morning, so…

No.

No no no no no.

Christie got up and strode to the kitchen wastebasket. She would in no way be peeing herself because she was too lazy to go to the bathroom. That was crazy. What kind of logic was that anway? That her supply of *diapers* would go to waste if she didn't wet herself? So what, if Christie owned a case of Nair, should she shampoo herself bald?

But, on starting to rip the Goodnite's tearaway sides, Christie's paused. Her cheek still tingled with phantom touch of Rob's finger. Her whole body buzzed slightly, and she remembered, vividly, Rob tying the laces on her pajamas. Wasn't this the type of thing Rob liked? she thought.

It wouldn't hurt to imagine a bit, Christie decided. Smoothing her nightdress, she positioned herself in the spot of the kitchen she'd planned wet herself last night, then closed her eyes.

She pictured the room. There was Rob sitting at the table, hands working on the SR latch. There were Shelly, Sam, and Mori too, though there shouldn't be. They were all looking at her. From there faces, it seemed Christie had, again, made a mistake. Christie felt that familiar sensation of heat and tightness, but instead of tightening further, she loosened.

Christie's toes knit over the linoleum floor, her whole body shivering. She imagined warmth spreading, her pullup getting soggy and thick. She imagined it sagging as it pulled down at her waist, then leaking, sending warmth rolling down to her feet. Everyone in the room could tell. Christie was paralyzed. More pain. More heat. In that moment, everyone's faces softened. It seemed that, somehow, something had been communicated to them. As if, somehow, all the feelings Christie held jealously within had escaped, and become obvious to all.

Christie opened her eyes, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. She batted them away. How could she have such a self-absorbed dream? It was her own fault anyway.

Christie unknitted her toes, ripped the tearway sides, and threw another dry Goodnite into the trash.

Chapter 8: Sleepover, extra diapers, truth-or-dare

At 4:05, Rob's car pulled up to the curb and honked. Christie collected her things — backpack, sleeping bag, roller suitcase — and carried them self-consciously across the driveway. She was wearing her usual mainstays: loose blouse, knitted cardigan, and dark jeans. This outfit shouldn't be embarrassing. It had, in fact, been designed by Christie to say nothing about Christie. But dressing this way threw so much contrast on yesterday's bubblegum-and-rainbows outfit, it suddenly felt very forced. So Christie fought a blush as she meandered out to the car, thanking god for the distraction of a flock of geese, honking over head.

Shelly hopped out and waved. "You got shotgun!" she called, and dove into the back seat.

Christie dumped her stuff in the trunk, then timidly entered the open passenger door, closing it with a clank. Her heart quickened. Rob was drumming his fingers on the steering will. She remembered suddenly that the last time she'd seen Rob, she'd been wearing wet pajamas, dripping pee on his jacket.

Rob tipped his sunglasses with a smile. "Good afternoon. Got everything?"

"Yeah," said Christie.

"You sure? Toothbrush? Science notebook? Extra underwear?"

Ah, so he did remember.

Shelly exploded from the back seat. "Rob! Have you no delicacy? Maybe you should pack some extra underwear, huh? Geez!"

"I have everything I need," said Christie, smiling awkwardly. Then, trying to change the subject: "Thanks for the ride."

"No problem," said Rob, restarting the engine. Once the car had safely backed out, he continued, "It's for my own sake, really. Shelly is threatening to reveal my porn stash to Mom, you see."

Christie's face grew hot, smile twitching. Shelly exploded from the back seat with renewed vigor. "You… delicacy! Geez!"

Rob chuckled. "Now now, not to worry, Christie. I know some of my sister's secrets too, but I'm smart enough to save them. For example, P-L. Oh yes, Shelly, P-L. I know. Nice expression by the way, I can see it in the mirror…"

Rob nodded with satisfaction as Shelly quieted in the back. There would be no further outbursts for the ride.

"Anyway," Rob continued, "We finished the hard part yesterday. The rest shouldn't take long, just two hours I guess. Provided of course you girls get to work, and don't just play around, wasting time and chatting it up until midnight."

After settling in at Shelly's house, the group of eight girls played around, wasting time and chatting it up until midnight.

Christie surveyed the scene. Diet Pepsi bottles and pizza boxes were littered here and there. There were Taboo cards, curling irons, a bottle for a game Spin-The-Bottle that never got off the ground for want of males. Say it right was reverberating through the walls, though not so loud as before Mr. Blanchette came up and told them to keep it down. The room smelled like a fruity hair conditioner.

Christie had asked about the project at six. "After Family Guy," said Becky.

She asked about the project at eight. "Is anyone else kinda hungry?" said Mori.

She asked about the project at ten. "It's too late, how about we start early tomorrow, say six?" said Ana.

Eventually the caffeine supply ran low, and the girls started rubbing their eyes. Their science project still sat quietly in the kitchen, LEDs flashing forlornly in the dark. Christie, feeling spiteful, set her cell alarm to 6:00 AM on the dot. The last seven hours had been one long headache, and she intended to extract this petty revenge.

The group was stalling at eleven-twenty when Shelly stood, called out, and tapped a spoon against a plastic cup. "Ding ding! Who wants to play truth or dare?"

"Who wants to fall asleep?" said Christie.

"So says Christie, professional spoilsport," said Sam. She somehow managed to yawn angrily.

Mori, still perky, shot Christie a condescending smile. "Just give in already!" she said.

Leaning back into the corner, Christie scratched her hair irritably. It was braided in a double dutch updo, with little plastic flowers in the circlet — all Mori's work. Christie had had to 'give in' for that activity. And when everyone played Taboo, Mori and Shelly practically tied her to the sofa. Why did they have to needle her into these things? Was it so much to ask to be left alone? Christie didn't want their pity.

"Or what," Sam pressed, "you don't have any… secrets, do you?"

Christie's chest heated and her hips tightened. "I hate stupid games."

"Oh? Apologies to Miss Eminence. I bet you pick 'dare' every single round."

It's 'your eminence' moron, Christie thought, squirming on the floor. She struggled to keep hatred from boiling over onto her face. "I'm going to the bathroom."

"Haven't you gone, like, ten times?"

"Three," Christie lied, "I'm going to change into pajamas. Have fun."

Becky piped up. "If you're getting up anyway, ask Rob if he wants to play, will you?"

Christie grunted, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and walked out. Becky and her hadn't talked since she'd texted Christie information on Rob. Christie supposed she owed Becky a favor, but had no intention of stopping at Rob's room. Christie had originally wanted to see Rob tonight — maybe confess her feelings to Rob tonight — but she'd like to do it in a better mood, and preferably without her hair dolled up like a flower girl. That plan was now kaput. Christie trudged down the hallway, backpack rocking back and forth, eyes cross-examining the floorboards.

Unfortunately, Rob was walking down the same hallway. Christie bumped into his chest rounding the corner, knocking her forehead right on his breastbone. She gave a little yelp, and then, realizing the situation, tried stupidly to cover her hair with her palms.

"Oh cool, you're still awake," said Rob, pulling a mint floss pick from his mouth.

Christie might say the same. Rob had retreated to his room around the time the spinning bottle came out, an amiable I-Knew-This-Would-Happen look on his face. That had been around nine. The bottle had been one of several tricks Shelly had copped over the evening — seating arrangements, twister matches, pointed karaoke songs. Christie had pocket vetoed them all, having no intention of doing this in public. Especially not around Shelly's friends. And so while Shelly and Becky complained at Rob's withdrawal, Christie had stayed quiet.

Now Rob was wearing sleeping sweats, cleaning his teeth, but he was still very much awake. Christie and he were alone for the first time tonight, in a dim hallway. Christie considered asking Rob to speak in private. But no, the moment wasn't right.

"Everyone's playing truth-or-dare," Christie said instead.

"Not you?"

Christie shifted her eyes. "They've been playing games all night."

Rob shrugged. "It's a Saturday night. They're teenage girls. Why not join in? You're a teenage girl too, you know."

Christie appreciated the vote of confidence, but she no intention of playing games that involved telling the truth or acting like an idiot. Which was most of them. "Everyone's supposed to be working anyway."

"Yeah, I get how you feel, but these projects are for working together after all. They're supposed to be fun, too, you know. Try to be flexible."

Christie bit her lip. Even Rob, she thought. Whenever she brought up the project tonight, someone always found some excuse. Always. Not only that, Christie ended up being treated like a killjoy. How was she the bad guy here? Christie didn't slack off. She did her own work. She was willing to do everything herself if they let her. How was she in the wrong?

"I'm gonna try to sleep," she said. "Somehow."

Rob regarded her awkwardly, as if wanting to say something more. But he just sighed and scratched his chin. "About sleep. I came up here about that… had this whole routine planned about an emergency call from your mom. But since you're already alone…" he trailed, leaning in, "You didn't bring any, did you?"

"Any what?"

"Bed diapers," he whispered. "I checked your bag."

"You what?"

"Sorry, sorry," Rob said, holding his hands out as if Christie were a snarling dog. "It's just that you're so proud about this kind of thing and…"

"I don't need any. That was just a misunderstanding!" she insisted.

"But last night…"

"Last night was different, and that's nothing to do with you anyway!"

"I'm just worried that…"

Christie snapped. "I can take care of myself, okay? I'm not going to wet… to have issues, and even if I did, that's my problem. I can pack for myself, I can dress myself, I can decide to play truth-or-dare or not myself. I'm not a kid anymore. Don't be full of yourself. Stop treating me like your little cousin or something!"

As Christie spoke, the universe seemed to conspire to make this tirade sound ridiculous. First off, it didn't help that Rob had a head-and-a-half on her. Nor did it help that Christie's hair glittered with sparkles and was braided like a kindergartner playing faery princess. But the worst thing was that, as Christie spoke, scenes from last night kept flashing in her mind. Pouting. Dropping things. Spilling drinks. Running to the bathroom. Saying her 'tummy' hurt. As she continued speaking, her words slurred and stuttered.

When Christie said "dress myself" it came out wet ("dreth myself"), because the image of Rob lacing her PJs was searing in her mind. She stumbled over 'truth-or-dare', 'treating'. And, in trying to speak firmly but not be heard down the hall, her voice came out warbly and weak. By the end, Christe was quivering, red-faced, with small hot beads welling in her eyes.

Rob seemed to consider the little speech anyway. After a pause, he smiled apologetically. "Sorry," he said. "I guess it's hard to remember. You're as old as I was, back when you last slept over, right? I wouldn't want someone a few years older than me nagging either, in your shoes. That's what you meant to say last night, isn't it?"

This isn't really what Christie had meant last night. But she nodded, grateful for the conversation to end.

Rob smiled uneasily. "But just so you know, I've got a few of them from your room. You know, once the topic of a sleepover came up, I thought... well, if you change your mind let me know. I'll be in my room, okay?"

Christie nodded, a little perturbed. She headed to the bathroom.

To be frank, that was a little gross. Christie knew Rob had a thing for diapers. She had accepted that, she was willing to let it slide. But taking Goodnites from her room? Trying to finagle Christie into wearing them, and in public? And pretending that was for her own good? It was just gross. She contemplated the endless perversion of boys and shuddered.

When Christie closed the bathroom door, she rolled down her jeans and checked her underwear like always. There were dribbles, nothing major. Christie guessed it happened while she was exchanging insults with Sam. The stain wasn't as bad as at nine o'clock, when some yellow had bled through the double-seam at the crotch. Then again, this pair was dark blue, so it was hard to say. Tonight was Christie's worst in months, but she knew she was under an unusual amount of stress.

Christie tried going again but found nothing in the tank. Sighing, she undressed. She opened her backpack, took sanitary wipes from a ziplock, cleaned, unhooked her bra, then stuffed her clothes in the laundry bag with their erstwhile, damp companions. Then she pulled on a fresh pair of panties and dressed.

When Christie returned to Shelly's room wearing black sweats, Shelly looked dejected. "Aw, I was hoping you'd wear some cute pajamas. Those are so… practical."

This comment delighted the room. "Sheeeeelly's a leeeesbian! ♬" sang Sam.

"Let's have a little fun… todaaaaay! ♬" joined Becky.

The room descended into insipid giggling. Shelly snorted, laughing too. Christie just rolled her eyes.

Everyone had changed into their nightwear while Christie was away. Sam, Ana, and Sarah wore sleep shorties, while Mori and Becky chose pajamas: Mori, plain blue; Becky, polka-dotted bottoms with a sassy "Da Boss" tee. Brook billowed in an oversized varsity shirt and boxers. Shelly, of all things, sported a lime-green sleeper styled like a tyrannosaurus rex, fluffy teeth lining the hood and fierce eyes on top. Shelly always went for cute stuff.

It always unnerved Christie how willing most girls were to strip in front of each other. She hated that. For gym, Christie always picked a corner locker and changed quickly, hiding behind its steel door. Other girls, meanwhile, were more than happy to chat and gossip in various states of undress, often about each other's state of undress. Last week, Christie saw someone walking around with her pad out, showing everyone how heavy her period was.

So admiring other girls' pajamas seemed a strange line to draw on female intimacy.

"Why don't we start the game with Christie?" Mori proposed.

Christie's lip twitched. "I'm gonna go sleep on the couch," she said, turning. But Shelly slipped behind her and blocked the door. It was about then that Christie realized she'd been ambushed.

She considered her options, but then just sighed. "Truth," she said, resigned. She could always just lie.

"Hmmmm," Sam pondered, leaning luxuriously back onto her cushion. "I can't decide. Anyone have something embarrassing to ask Christie about?"

"We could ask what boy she likes," suggested Becky, treacherously. Christie shot her a glare.

"Too cliché."

"Team Tampon or Team Pad?" tried Brook.

"Weak! Are you even trying?"

Ana, who'd been chewing a lock of her hair, suddenly struck her fist into her palm. "I know!" she said. "Hey Christie, I was always curious. When'd you stop wetting the bed?"

The question sliced into Christie like a paring knife to the back.

"Christie used to wet the bed?" asked Brook.

"Oh yes," said Ana. "It was a whole thing back in grade school. Was that… fifth grade? Fourth grade? Now I wasn't in the same class, but apparently she fell asleep in her seat one day? After that, it all slipped. She got bullied pretty hard afterwards. Awful stuff. Very cruel."

Ana sighed hypocritically, as if she had nothing to do with it.

Christie wondered what it would be like to choke Ana. Would it feel better than smashing her teeth in? Christie often wavered between smashing Ana's teeth, her familiar idea, and some variety of horrible death. In the end Christie always returned to smashing Ana's teeth, because if Ana simply died, it was probable that her smiling face would be aired on the nightly news, posted on local newspapers, and god-forbid be used as the logo for some children's foundation; whereas if Ana's teeth were ruined, Christie would never have to look at them again.

"Is that the question?" Christie asked Sam, eyes locked on Ana.

"Sure," said Sam, delighted. "That'll do just fine. So when did you stopping wetting the bed, Miss Too-Mature-For-Sleepovers?"

Shelly and Mori looked a bit perturbed. Becky was unreadable. The rest of the group was leaning forward curiously.

"Right before I turned thirteen," Christie answered at length. "During the summer vacation after sixth grade."

And that was the truth. There wasn't much of a choice, with Shelly present. Christie supposed she should be glad Sam had limited the question to bedwetting. In the background, a few girls mouthed 'wow', others conferred in whispers. Christie thought she heard mention of someone's seven-year-old brother, and Ana was smiling sympathetically. Christie couldn't take her eyes of Ana's teeth, those soft-looking, straight pearly-whites.

Sam looked dissatisfied. "That's it? What about some details? How often did you do it? What'd you do on sixth-grade field trip?"

"That wasn't the part of the question," said Christie. "I'd like to go to sleep now."

"Oh, but it's your turn, Christie," said Ana, still smiling insipidly, chewing another lock of hair. "You have to pick someone. For a dare, I mean."

"You, then," Christie said.

"Me?" Ana tilted her head. "Um… truth."

Christie fixed her gaze on Ana. "Do you only smile after using people," Christie asked, "or do you smile on other occasions?"

To Christie's great relief, Ana stopped smiling. "Using people…?"

"For your own benefit, I mean. I was always curious. Like making people the butt of a joke, for example."

A chill ran through the room. Ana stared, at a loss for words. Brook, who was close to Ana, had her mouth half-open, as if she thought she was supposed to say something, but could not remember what. The rest of the girls just looked blankly. The silence continued for three interminable seconds.

In the end, Shelly peeped up. "Christie! It was…" she said, starting sharply. But then she hesitated, and fell back on her normal honeyed condescension. "It was all just in fun. Don't you see?"

All just in fun.

That's what everyone said: All just in fun. If Christie said something cruel, Christie was being mean. But if cruel things were said of Christie, then that was 'all just in fun'. Those were fine, it seemed, so long as most people took some kind of mild amusement from the exchange. It had always been like that in sixth grade. Nothing had changed.

"Fine. I'm so sorry Ana," said Christie. Then she picked at random, "Do you believe in ghosts?"

The game proceeded for thirty minutes or so. For a while the girls wore expressions as if they were walking barefoot over a floor with broken glass. But eventually they forgot, eventually returned to their horrible gleefulness — everyone except Ana, of course. Girls asked other girls about phobias, crushes, siblings. Brook massaged Mori's feet. Sarah went to Rob's room to inform him she was reincarnated from an Egyptian Pharaoh. Sam started referring to herself in the third person.

Christie was not picked often. When she was, people threw her softball questions. That suited her fine. Christie was asked about her bra size (she wore B) and whether she liked scary movies (she did not). She didn't pay much attention to the game. More than anything Christie was enjoying the chance to seethe, kneeling quietly on her sleeping bag and reviewing, one by one, how terrible each member of the room was, and how much better the world would be if they didn't exist.

It was nice while it lasted, but as always she ran out of people in the room, and then Christie was kneeling quietly on her sleeping bag, reviewing how terrible Christie was, and how much better the world would be if Christie didn't exist.

"I pick… Christie!" said Shelly around midnight. "Truth or dare!"

"Dare," Christie said, without thinking.

Shelly erupted, driving her fist into the air. "Finally!"

Laughing, the other girls babbled over one another. "She's gonna ask to make out, isn't she?" "Poor Christie…" "We have a PG-13 rating, you know." "It's only legal in Massachusetts, Shelly."

Christie cursed under her breath. Why had she said dare, and to Shelly of all people? "I meant truth," she tried.

But Shelly had already collected her fuzzy green tail in both arms and was hastening towards the corner dresser. Cursing, Christie clambered up to intercept her. It was too late, of course. Christie was blocked, tackled, restrained, carried manfully (womanfully?) to the wall, and informed that No Backsies were in effect, and that she would have to abide by Shelly's decree. Everyone participated — except Ana, of course.

Shelly nearly emptied her dresser in the course of ninety seconds. Garments were fluttering in the air — chemises, gowns, slips, caps, nighties, robes, sleepers, snuggies. It seemed to Christie that her word, 'Dare', had opened a portal to some hidden pajama dimension, and that the laws of entropy demanded the ratio of sleepwear equalize between the two worlds. Shelly sorted through all the pajamas, dismissing this one as too big, that one as too dark, this one as too gaudy, that one as coarse. Pajamas piled up at a horrifying pace.

"Here!" Shelly cried triumphantly.

What in god's name had she picked? Christie craned her neck over Mori's elbow and tried to kick Sam away from her view.

"Gosh, I'd forgot all about this one. It's been years. But will it fit…? Back then I was… But Christie's about four-eleven, so… yes. Yes. Perfect."

Shelly held up pajamas much like Shelly's own. It was a sleeper: fuzzy, light purple, and footed. It appeared to be modeled after a bat… or no, a pterodactyl? Stretchy cotton flaps connected the sleeves to the torso, giving the impression of wings, and a great fleecy rudder protruded from the hood. Unlike Shelly's sleeper, there did not seem to be buttons on the front.

"I refuse," Christie said.

Shelly just cackled. "I told you to bring cute clothes, Christie… I told you, but you didn't listen. Jeans? Sneakers? Sweatpants? Oh Christie, these will never do. But don't worry, I've prepared something for you. It is, I think, the very cutest thing I own. Rob always told me so…"

"I am not putting that on."

"Not really up to you, I'm afraid," said Shelly. Then she barked out: "Mori!"

"Sir!"

"Relieve the lieutenant of her uniform."

"Yes, sir!"

What followed was 'all in good fun'. Mori took charge of the top, and Brook took charge the bottom, and Sam guided Christie's kicking legs into the feet. Everyone performed their role with relish. The group was greatly amused by Christie's lack of pubic hair, and Sam took it on herself to reprimand Christie on not changing into fresh underwear before bed, tossing the current pair aside. Only Becky seemed disturbed by the proceedings, watching with a queasy look on her face. Ana, meanwhile, just sat coolly back.

The whole experience was surreal, dreamlike. But in this dream, the group did not revoke Christie's right of dress because she had shown up in pajamas; but rather, because she had shown up without them.

The long, painful, useless night drew to a close. Christie, like the group, had accomplished nothing. Far from opening her feelings to Rob, Christie had bickered with and evaded him; and far from avoiding the attention of the group, Christie had drawn the most of anyone to herself. Before going to sleep, she considered one last time heading to Rob's room, telling him how she felt, but the thought of him seeing her like this — dressed as a fluffy pterodactyl — killed that idea stone dead. There was always an excuse like that, unfortunately. Whether her hair, or her mood, or her group, or her pajamas.

Christie's nylon wings rustled as she turned around in her sleeping bag. Why did Shelly own this ridiculous getup? She wondered how long it would take to undress if she needed to go in the middle of the night. She could always wake Shelly, but Christie had sent her such a venomous glare before laying down, that the idea of asking a favor now seemed impossible.

Shelly had not meant any harm in the game, Christie admitted. This was, in her way, a sign of affection. And perhaps Mori, Brook, and even Sam deserved some benefit of the doubt. To them, this was 'all in good fun'. But it was impossible for Christie to accept it in this way, and worse, she had failed to pretend she could. She had been sullen, resentful. Already, Christie could sense her own particular poison circulating through the group. It was always like this.

Some way to return Shelly's favor, Christie thought.

She closed her eyes and dreamed broke dreams. A few hours later, she opened them, and woke into a nightmare.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:05 PM
Content: Chapter 9: Like waves on the ocean, or the rain

The moment she woke, Christie knew something was wrong. She felt cold, very cold. All around her hissed the low sounds of breathing, the rustle of sheets. Sam was snoring loudly in the corner. If she focused her ears, she could hear a clock ticking dryly in the hall, but that was the only thing dry about the scene she woke to.

Christie was lying in a puddle. It was a cold, thin puddle, sticky and horrible. The seat of her footed pajamas had soaked through, wicking moisture up her thighs and down the small of her back, but the PJs couldn't absorb everything. With every shift in her weight, trickles slid around the interior of her sleeping bag. It didn't take long for Christie to understand what this meant.

It's unfair, she thought. It's ridiculous. Christie had avoided this disaster for countless weekends in sixth grade, back when she wet the bed all the time. But now, at age fifteen, having attended no sleepovers and wet no beds in years, she was sitting in a puddle of her own pee. Around her, the room was crammed with sleeping bags, pillows, sheets, and tangled bodies. Christie would laugh if she wasn't terrified. Goose bumps were tingling on her skin, rising up wherever the wet pajamas stuck.

Oh god, why didn't I bring the stupid pullups, Christie thought. Why hadn't she accepted one from Rob? There were seven girls in this room. She was doomed, doomed, doomed. She fumbled her hands about, shivering, trying to take stock of the situation, the dribbles and rustles in her bag sounding in her ears as loud as white rapids.

Suddenly a voice rang out to her left. "Those're my pajamas!"

Christie's heart spasmed. "Sh-sh-sh-shelly? You're awake?!"

"They're mine, Christie! Mine! You think that's cute, do you?"

"No, no, no of course not!" Christie whispered fervently. "Please don't speak so loud!"

"But who'd he say they'ur cute on, hm?" Shelly continued, "Me! Me..."

"Shelly?"

When Christie rolled over, she found Shelly sprawled sidelong on the floor, T-Rex hood draped crooked over her eyes, her mouth open and a line of drool dribbling pleasantly onto the carpet. Christie took a deep breath.

Over the next minute, Christie, in the calmest and sweetest voice she could manage, reminded Shelly that she was only borrowing the pterodactyl pajamas. She assured Shelly that, yes, the PJs still fit her, and that no, Christie was not planning to give them to Stacey, whoever Stacey was. Shelly proved stubborn. But eventually, with assurances given, her voice trailed off and gave way to snoring.

Okay, Christie thought. That almost gave her a heart attack. But this was still fine. Her bag was waterproof, after all. Christie had insisted on this when she was twelve and anxious about leaks, so there should be no pee on the carpet. Shelly's friends were all sound asleep. And as her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw on the clock that it was only five-fifteen. No one was likely to wake for two hours. Or four. Maybe six.

Christie could strip out of these pajamas and use them as a rag to clean up. Then she would sneak to the bathroom, dry her sleeping bag, change, and dispose of the evidence. When the group finally woke, she'd tell them she'd ditched the PJs for being too degrading. That was true enough. For now, she just had to get out of these pajamas.

Here Christie ran into a major problem. They were footed pajamas. She tried to tug the pants off, but there were no pants. She reached for a zipper, but there was no zipper. She patted the front for buttons, but found only fabric. She tried to worm her shoulders through the neck-hole, but it was way, way too small.

Someone stirred on the other side of the room. Christie froze, heart pounding.

She was making way too much noise.

After waiting a tense few minutes with no further stirring, Christie abandoned her original plan. She sat up and, lifting her bottom, pulled the sleeping bag to let the pee run down toward her feet. Then, by degrees, she wrung out the footed pajamas, working her way from the lower back down to her ankles. She did two passes before she was convinced they wouldn't drip. Christie felt pathetic, like a little kid hiding an accident from Mom.

Thank god the soles are rubbery, Christie thought. She didn't know what she'd do if the feet were soaked. Christie crouch-stepped out of the sleeping bag. Then, moving gingerly around Shelly's splayed arms, she folded her sleeping bag and crept towards the door, scanning anxiously back for damp footprints. There were none.

But now Christie ran into her second major problem: her backpack should have been sitting by the doorway, where Christie dropped it last night. Where was it? The backpack contained her clothes, her laundry bag, her cellphone, her sweats. Christie didn't see it, so scanned all around the room. It was nowhere to be found.

They stole it, Christie realized. After the fuss she'd thrown — and she'd thrown quite a fuss — they guessed she might go back on the dare and change during the night. They'd taken her backpack, the vipers. But where had they hidden it...?

But this wasn't the time or place to think about that. Christie slid out into the hall, closing the bedroom door with a terrible creak, and tiptoed away.

In the bathroom, Christie drained her sleeping bag into the toilet, cringing at the loudness of the splashing. She unrolled a wad of paper towels and wiped the interior of the bag, then turned it inside-out to air dry. That problem, at least, was solved.

Christie examined herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. If Shelly had intended these pajamas to attract Rob's notice, she had excellent instincts. The light purple color, the soft bunchy polyester, the bagginess around the waist, the playful googly-eyes on the hood. Even at her height, Christie was amazed they made clothes like this in her size. Shelly's T-Rex sleeper looked whimsical; this looked downright infantile. Christie supposed the bottom-half being sodden with pee didn't help any.

Amazingly, Christie still had to pee. She guessed she must have wet the bed right after falling asleep — much like yesterday. The lack of any warmth in the pee seemed to confirm it. Christie puzzled over this. She had once read that bedwetting occurs in deep sleep, at least one hundred minutes into the night. She had slept less than four hours, so she must have peed before the first session of deep sleep. But to wet the bed so early implied peeing while still partially awake.

She pushed that thought away. She had to get out of this getup. Twisting around, she spotted some buttons lining the back of the sleeper, covered by a velcro flap. That explained it. She hadn't found seams, hadn't found zippers. But how were you supposed to get these on and off anyway? Christie wondered. Ask your mom? She tore the velcro flap open and set to popping the buttons.

This didn't go as planned. The bottom two buttons popped easy enough, positioned where she hooked and unhooked her bra, but the top two joined awkwardly at the base of her neck. She tried reaching up from behind. Her fingers could only brush them. She tried angling her hands down over the shoulders. She couldn't get any leverage. The buttons were small and tightly fit, and despite Christie's height she was still an inch too tall for the pajamas, pulling the fabric taught.

It was no exaggeration to say Christie spent twenty minutes with those damn buttons. She worked at them sitting, standing, crouching, and lying down. She scraped her back against the sink, wedged a floss pick into the button hole, pulled the shower head off its holster and rubbed stupidly at the flap. After all this, she faced away and scrutinized her back in the mirror, convinced she must be missing something. She should be able to take off a pair of pajamas.

What would Sam think if she could see Christie now? Contorting herself like an amateur yogi, frantic to hide her wet cartoon pajamas, but unable to undo the buttons? Or Ana? Wouldn't she find this rich. And Shelly, she'd probably be at loss for words, unable to smooth over this level of lameness. Becky, Christie pictured, would flash a knowing smile, a How-Low-You-Stoop-For-Love smile. Christie ground her teeth.

Christie's bladder jerked. Cupping her hands over her crotch, she leaned forward, squeezing her hips, tightening her lower back. She managed to hold the flow, but trembles ran down her back. It had been the worst episode since September, maybe the worst since September of last year. She wanted desperately to use the toilet, but these stupid buttons wouldn't come off!

"No one could blame me," she whispered to herself.

No one could blame her. This was against her will, this was Shelly's fault. Christie zipped and rolled her sleeping bag, stuffed it in the deep recesses of the towel closet. Then, sneaking from the bathroom, she crept downstairs, holding her hips tight, shifting her weight to each new step with a visible wince. The old wood stairs groaned in protest, as if to blame Christie for bothering them before sunrise. She apologized feverishly under her breath, as if it made a difference.

Christie made her way to the kitchen and looked for the second drawer down, three to the left. This was the house's junk drawer. Christie used to keep spare talc and sealant bags here, back in the sixth grade. Now it contained only the normal accouterments — tacks, pens, stick glue, AAA batteries, elastic bands... and sewing scissors.

She pumped the scissors a few times — as she always seemed powerless but to do when picking up a pair of scissors — then positioned them below the buttons, guiding the soft fabric between the blades. The polyester should cut easily, with a pleasant chip-chop. Then she'd be free. Christie drew a deep breath.

But she didn't close the scissors. She just stood there in a dim kitchen, cold metal against her back, sticky PJs clinging to her thighs.

"Come on," she said to herself. "They don't even fit her anymore."

And how could anyone blame Christie? This was a desperate situation, she had to go. What's more, letting anyone find out she'd wet herself would be social suicide. If it were Rob, Shelly, or maybe Mori, they could laugh off such a catastrophe, but Christie was not Rob, Shelly, or Mori. Christie was Christie. She was the girl on the fringes, the girl who had called all the other girls childish, who had publicly sworn not to wet the bed just six hours ago. If Christie did not get rid of these pajamas, Christie would be destroyed.

As Christie thought this, her bladder tugged again. She squirmed and wriggled on her feet, and a little warmth dribbled down her left thigh.

"Just do it. Just do it!" she whispered.

What did she owe Shelly? Last night was the worst humiliation Christie'd known since they stole her pants on that terrible Halloween. This whole sleepover was Shelly's idea. Truth-and-dare had been Shelly's idea. These pajamas had been Shelly's idea. Shelly knew Christie didn't want to, but she forced her, used Christie for her own amusement, like a toy, like a dress-up doll. 'Just in good fun'. What did Christie owe Shelly?

As the sky pinkened outside, Christie stood there in the utmost misery. It seemed the moment would drag on forever, stomach roiling, bladder aching, heart racing, with cold, wet PJs itching at her skin. But, just like that, the moment ended. The least welcome sound in the universe rang out.

Bring-bring-brrring! Bring-bring-brrring! Bring-bring-brrring!

Somewhere upstairs, Christie's cellphone blared out.

Oh my god, she thought. Then, just like that, Christie started hacking through the flap of the pajamas. "Crap! Crap crap crap crap crap crap crap!" Through the ceiling, she heard bodies stirring, mouths yawning, swearwords spilling. Christie dug into the fabric, pumping the scissors frantically. Too frantically, as with her shaking hands, the scissors more shredded than sliced the pajamas.

Christie remembered all at once. She'd set an alarm last night, for six o'clock! Oh god oh god oh god, Christie thought. What a great revenge. Why wouldn't the scissors cut right? Were these dull? She was working at the shoulder now. How much more did she need to cut?

At that moment, Christie heard the new least welcome sound in the universe. Upstairs, there were heavy footsteps. The door to Shelly's room slid open.

Christie snatched the scissors away and tossed them into the junkdrawer, and then, with all her might, tried to rip the ruined fabric asunder. A little more warmth spurted out and trickled down her thighs, and sweat poured freely down her face, stinging her eyes. Christie was coming apart. The pajamas, though, held strong.

Footsteps plodded down the upstairs hall. There was the muffled sound of conversation. Christie's mind went blank.

In a moment of blind panic, Christie did what felt natural to her. In situations like this, there was only one answer. Muscle memory took over. Christie made a dash.

She reached Rob's room in five seconds flat. Bolting in, she shut the door, rushed Rob's bed, grabbed Rob's shoulder, and started shaking him awake.

"Robby, Robby! I need help! Please help!"

He rolled over, bleary eyed. "Christie? What time is it?"

"It's it's it's... six..."

Christie got control of her breathing. The shades were drawn, but even in the dark, the room seemed much as she remembered. There was a bookshelf lined with thick science fiction epics, spines flecked with white tears from reading and re-reading. There were posters with machine diagrams, a chinup bar, a few stacks of sports and auto magazines. All around was the comforting smell of Rob.

At the moment, Christie did not feel particularly comforted. Rob rubbed his face, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Then he looked Christie up and down, and an pained expression took over his features.

"I think I can guess the gist of what happened," he sad, pressing his lips. "Oh Christie..."

"I couldn't... I can't get it off," said Christie, smiling weakly. How was she supposed to act in this situation?

"Why did you lie about wetting the bed? Did you think I couldn't keep a secret?" said Rob. He frowned at the damp patch on her thighs.

Christie clutched Rob's cover, shaking her head. "I didn't lie!" she said. "I wouldn't lie, I never lie!"

Rob took her answer philosophically. Then, twisting his neck, he regarded the sound of bare feet padding stickily down the stairs, with girlish laughter following behind. It must be Mori and Brook, as they were the only morning people in the group. Rob sighed, brushed Christie away, and rose from the bed, yawning.

"Rob, I—"

Something sparked in Rob's sunken eyes. "That book series... What was it called?"

"Book series?" said Christie, confused.

Rob looked to his bookshelf, as if for a hint. "The one with vampires. I heard from Mori everyone was talking about it on Thursday, that you trashed it — or its fans, I guess. Something about forever alone types? Mori said it hurt some of the girl's feelings. Sarah, Brook, a few others..."

"But I didn't mean... That was just..." Christie said.

"You know, when I opened your closet, the first thing I noticed wasn't the diapers. It was the row of books... that very series," he said. "Christie, why do you have to tell this kind of lie?"

"It wasn't a lie!" Christie said.

"Or on Friday. You told me everyone was working on posters and papers for the project. But no one knew anything about that. They said you were planning to do everything yourself. Was that a lie?"

Christie tried to think of an answer for that. Rob regarded her, and Christie cowered back. Tears collected in her eyes.

Rob indicated the fraying on Christie's pajamas shoulder. "Then this. What were you planning to say about this? You could have woken me earlier. Or Shelly. Or anyone. Do you really trust us so little?"

Christie wished she hadn't come here. This had been a mistake, a terrible mistake. Anywhere she could have gone would've been better. She wished she'd ran out to the street, or locked herself in the bathroom. She wished she'd stabbed those scissors into her neck, rather than come here, rather than hear this.

As tears began rolling down Christie's cheeks, the sharpness left Rob's face. Instead, he just looked exhausted.

"Come over here," he said, sighing. "Turn your back."

At this point Christie was more than ready to turn her back on Rob. Shoulders low, Christie bent her neck to let him work at the buttons. Rather than his smell, she smelled her own — that of old sweat, greasy skin, stale urine. Sniffling, she tried to check the runny snot that was crawling over her lip. Her back flinched at every spot where Rob's fingers brushed. Christie felt like a human worm.

"It's a shame," Rob said wistfully, fretting over the ruined pajamas. "These were always my sister's favorite."

At that, Christie's crotch grew hot. Her thighs grew hot. Her knees, her shins, her feet and toes grew hot. The pajamas, still fairly wet, did little to retain the flood. Instead it all dribbled down, drip-dropping in a puddle on Rob's carpet.

Christie couldn't say she tried to stop it. She wet herself as young children do — impassively, just staring at her feet. As if wetting herself was a force of nature, like waves on the ocean, or the rain, and so quite beyond her power to control.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:05 PM
Content: Chapter 10: Normal

Twenty minutes later.

The girls lay about the den as Mrs. Blanchette fried bacon in the kitchen. There were glasses of orange juice, which no one drank, and muted reruns of The O.C., which no one watched. No one had changed into clothes or brushed their bed hair. On the couch, Mori was sipping from a small mug of coffee, black. Everyone else was groaning and batting eyelids like they longed for sleep, or to die, whichever. As for Christie, she wondered if she smelled like pee. She felt like her brains were bleeding out of her earholes.

"What happened to the dino jammies?" asked Sam in a dead tone.

"What happened to the dino species?"

"Um, a meteor destroyed them?"

They're gone for good, Christie thought. They were sitting in a double trashbag in Rob's closet. Christie had peed them, stretched the neck out, cut the shoulders with scissors, torn them apart, then peed them again. She doubted the Salvation Army would want the pajamas anymore. Christie was now wearing some of Rob's clothes: a too-large American Eagle tee that fit like a pullover dress, dark red, with a pair of plaid boxers peeking out underneath. Christie didn't have socks or slippers, so she sat with bare feet folded under her thighs to keep from shivering. She missed warm toes. That was the one thing she missed about those awful pajamas.

"Something like that," she said. A me-teor, she thought.

Like Mori, Christie was drinking coffee. She took hers with cream and five cubes of sugar, palmed from the kitchen counter. In her last cup she'd used six. Christie was cold and tired, her legs felt gross, her head was pounding, and she was surrounded by terrible people. The coffee's sweetness and warmth were her one source of comfort.

Fortunately, Sam seemed too tired to continue her line of questioning. Christie kept drinking.

Now, Christie was not too torn up about Rob. That was water under the bridge. If Rob wanted to think she was a liar, that was fine. If Rob wanted to think she was a pity-seeker, a crybaby, a selfish snot, that was fine. People were free to see Christie as they would. Christie was used to it.

So she'd bent the truth, and so she'd hid some things. Everyone did that. How else were you supposed to survive? And if there were people who could tell the truth about everything, they had no right to judge her. Such a ridiculous luxury was unimaginable to Christie. And given Rob got off on girls pooping in pampers, she didn't see where he got his Holier-Than-Thou attitude.

Christie was free to see Rob as she would, too — as a self-obsessed, arrogant show-off, a guy who thought he knew everything, who considered it a favor to tell people what to do, lording it over them, while indulging his own sick kicks on the side. Oh yes, Christie saw it very clearly now. And she felt like quite the fool.

Mostly, Christie just had a headache. She slurped more sweet, rich, wonderful coffee, letting it warm her. But just as Christie was starting to feel better, Sam let out a miserable moan.

"Why six?" she cried. "What about other numbers? What about eight, nine, ten? And why put a PIN on your phone! Why?"

"You're the one who hid my bag."

"Five is a number, too!" Mori told Sam, chuckling and holding her fingers out. "Or four!"

The group murmurred complaints about being woken up at the time they'd agreed to wake up. Christie ground her teeth. Even Shelly stirred from under her mound of sheets. "All my fault… I knew she'd change… if she could. Clothes… didn't think of Rob… how it all backfires…"

Could nobody shut up? Christie wondered. Could nobody just shut up? Didn't they all want to sleep? Christie shot a venomous glance at Shelly, but Shelly seemed too drowsy to notice. The only quiet members of the group were Ana, leaning against the couch ottoman with a tired, acrid expression; Brook, who looked like she wanted to say something, but seemed to think it unloyal; and Becky, who was asleep.

Shelly lolled her head over towards Christie, smiled hesitantly. "Christie… about Petrie… you didn't…?"

"Maybe I gave him to Stacie," she said cruelly. Her stomach was rolling around her intestines. Christie ignored the astonished look on Shelly's face and stood. "I'm gonna go shower. Tell your mom I wasn't hungry, please."

The sooner they finished the project, the better.

Christie went to put her mug by the sink. Her thighs chafed as she walked. She guessed she'd have a nasty rash, given all the hours with wet clothes on her skin. But even with the pain, it was an immense relief to leave that room. Christie dumped and rinsed the mug, then fished in the sugar bowl and popped a sugar cube on her tongue.

It seemed outrageous, now that Christie thought about it. Why was she here? She never liked it here. She didn't like any of them. Christie was happy enough being alone. But whenever she came here, she had to switch between two roles. Sometimes she played reserved, serious, superior Christie. This was the Christie who refused to gossip, who wouldn't play games, who nagged everyone to work, who didn't read trashy novels, who knew what RAM was. Everyone resented this Christie.

Other times she played tragic Christie, the Girl With No Friends. In this role, Christie was like the little sister Mom tells you to bring along. Treated well enough, but condescended. You braid that girl's hair with flowers, dress her up in cute pajamas. Everyone can bask in their benevolence for tolerating her presence. And why? Because Christie peed her pants in grade school? How did that make her inferior to anyone here, to these lazy, self-absorbed airheads?

Three years ago, Rob arranged for her to come here, probably thinking himself quite the savior. And Christie had even believed it.

Christie thought of everything she'd done in the past two days, and it made her want to puke. The kid clothes, the peeing, the diapers, the begging Becky and Shelly for help. It was so pathetic, so grasping. Then she thought of the things she'd daydreamed of doing, in the desperate fantasy that he'd love her; of sucking fingers, of wearing velcro sneakers, of switching to tape-style diapers and letting him change her, of going and cuddling with Rob until he noticed.

Then she thought of when she was twelve. She remembered the time she'd run up to his room, wet and crying, begging to go home, and how she'd let him hug her tightly in his arms. Was that when Rob got his fetish? she wondered. Or had he taken an interest in her because of that, all along? The thought cut her deeply. And she rued it, rued it, rued it. She rued to have left Rob such wonderful memories.

She rued these things all the way up the stairs. At the top landing, Christie finally noticed the footsteps climbing up behind her. Turning, she found Brook standing frozen halfway between two steps, looking awkwardly up.

"Ah, good morning!" said Brook.

"Good morning," said Christie.

Christied turned and proceeded down the hallway. But Brook scurried after her.

"Hey, do you have a second Christie?" she asked.

Christie sighed. "If last night is any clue, sure."

What could Brook possibly want with her? Until a second ago, Christie hadn't been sure Brook knew her name.

Wilting, Brook released Christie's wrist and flexed her fingers guiltily. "Ah, ha ha ha! Yeah, I hope it's not seven hours this time!" she said. "You know, I only moved here this fall. We haven't really gotten the chance to know each other, have we?"

"I have a headache," said Christie. "What is it, Brook?"

"Well… where to begin… I'm good friends with Ana, you see. And about last night, I just wanted to say. I didn't really understand why you were so cross, during truth or dare. I'm sure Ana didn't mean anything."

Christie snorted. "Of course not. I'm nothing to Ana. I'd be amazed if she wanted to insult me."

"Hey, that's not what I meant! Look, I…" she said, and bit her lip. "I woke up early this morning… when you were, um…" Brook twisted her lips awkwardly.

Christie regarded Brook with ice in her eyes. "And?"

"And Ana would never… I mean… if she knew you still… I mean… how could she have guessed. If she had known, she wouldn't have brought that up. Ana doesn't have a cruel bone in her body. Trust me!"

Brook clapped her hands together Catholic-style and smiled earnestly. Christie sighed. How should she handle this?

"Very touching," said Christie, "You must feel great, right now. Such a nice thing to say. Offering the unpopular girl sympathy, defending your friend... it's a two-in-one bargain."

Then Christie walked up, took both hands, and pushed Brook up against the wall. Brook blinked. Three inches taller than Christie, she could have easily resisted, but she just blinked.

"I've known Ana since I was eight years old," said Christie. "Let me tell you about Ana."

"As you can probably guess, Ana's always been a mayfly. Even in the third grade, in her cute little daisy suspenders and light-up sneakers, she was always sitting in the middle of some group, chewing her hair, fidgeting. Always so eager to please. I think teachers put golf balls on our desks just because Ana was in the class.

"Ana was a 'nice' girl. You see, Ana would latch onto anything: any group, any topic, any game. I couldn't even say if she had any interests of her own. If you liked pogs, she liked pogs. If you wanted to play rulerball, she wanted to play rulerball. She just fit into her surroundings, like a jello mold. Of course that made her popular. Who doesn't like a girl who lets you have your way? And wow, when she managed to please her group, what a smile she made. With jokes, with favors, with gossip. She'd practically shine.

"You said we haven't gotten a chance to know each other. Well here's a chance. I am not Ana. I have never fit in. I don't like pleasing people, and I've never been popular. Just the opposite. When it got out I wet the bed, everyone was delighted. What a wonderful running gag. And when the pressure finally got to me, when I cried, when my grades dropped, when I skipped school, everyone was delighted. And that time I peed my pants, oh, it goes without saying.

"You say you're good friends with Ana. If so, I must be Ana's best friend in the whole wide world, because I couldn't even guess how much I've made her smile. It was easy to please everyone by talking about me, so Ana smiled and smiled and smiled.

"You said, Ana didn't mean anything during truth-or-dare. Well of course she didn't. I'm not part of the group, so how I felt never crossed her mind. And that's fine. It's not like even I think my feelings matter. But for you to see me this morning, in all my patheticness, for you to get guilty, for you to come up here planning to make yourself feel better, to get my understanding, and expecting me to care about how you and Ana feel…"

Christie's throat was dry. She doubted she'd spoken this much before in her life. The smell of bacon grease wafted up into the hall, turning her stomach over and over and over. What was the point of saying this? Everyone used Christie. It was 'all in good fun'.

"I'm going to take a shower now," said Christie. "Excuse me."

A door creaked open behind her. "Could I put in a word first?'

Christie bit her tongue. "What word?"

It figured. With everything that happened this week, it figured. Christie did not bother to turn. Brook was looking past Christie, blinking like a deer in the headlights.

"Normal," said Rob, "Ana was very normal."

"Rob! Weren't you in your room?" Brook asked. "I th-th-thought…"

"I had to pull some stuff out of storage," Rob said. "Brook, would you mind going downstairs? I've got to talk with Christie for a bit."

Brook paled and nodded. Then, without looking down, she slipped away, down the hallway, and hurried down the stairs. In the silence she left behind, Christie heard the echoes of forks scraping on plates in the kitchen. Was there nowhere she could be alone in this house?

Christie turned to Rob. "What."

"I was just thinking," he said, "I'm making a mistake."

"What kind of mistake."

Rob sighed. "Come in. I'll show you."

Inside was a tiny room, lit by a single flickering lightbulb. There was a hatch on the ceiling, open, with aluminum stairs leading up to a dusty attic. Rob climbed, and Christie followed. The attic was unheated, making her bare feet and legs shiver. There were boxes and boxes and boxes.

"My mom's a total packrat," Rob said. "She never throws anything away. Would you believe she's saved every TV Guide since the mid 90s? We could check what time Roseanne aired on ABC Tuesdays, if you're curious."

Christie kept her face blank. She hadn't really heard Rob's words. A spider was scuttling across the floor, and she was trying desperately not to jump onto one of the boxes, or worse, at Rob. He was probably about to launch into a lecture about the nature of friendship or something, and Christie was determined not to show a moment of weakness. She steeled herself.

Rob shook his head. "Anyway, I came up here to look, and would you believe, she actually did keep these. 'Just in case,' she'd say. I guess she was right this time, though…"

Rob opened the flaps of a corrugated box labeled `MISC – 2004`. He pulled out a bulky white package. "Your waist is still under twenty-eight inches, right?"

Christie couldn't even summon the words. She sneered.

"No dice?" Rob said. Unfazed, he pulled out a second, blue package. "We could try the ones with tapes instead? They run larger. They're a little thick, but if you borrow one of Shelly's pullovers, they shouldn't show. I mean, I always thought you walked funny in these, but hey, I knew beforehand. Do you think you can do the tapes yourself? I could ask —"

"Why would I want to wear diapers?"

Rob looked at Christie like she'd asked why she'd want to wear clothes. "You might have an accident…"

"The sleepover is over. Do you think I'm going to fall asleep in the next few hours?"

"Christie... we have to finish the project today. It feels a little cruel to point this out, but you just emptied about a half a liter of urine onto my bedroom carpet."

Christie turned brick red. "I told you, that's because I couldn't get out of those stupid pajamas!"

"Most people can hold it for a little longer after waking up…"

"Well I couldn't, okay?"

"Then maybe—"

"I haven't peed my pants in years! Or do you think I'm lying about that, too?"

Rob eyed her over. "What about Friday?"

Christie rolled her eyes. What about Friday? Christie thought she could remember if she'd peed her pants on Friday.

"Christie, do you remember what happened three years ago?"

"How in the world could I forget?"

"Are you sure this isn't like that?"

"Oh, I bet you wish."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You want to know, huh?"

How had Christie ever fallen in love with Rob? This was ridiculous. He was taking advantage of her, swooping on her moment of weakness. He was using her, like everyone else.

"You're the worst!" said Christie. "What am I, your dress-up doll? Is that what your old girlfriend was? Did she pose nicely for you? Oh, but how wonderful to have the real deal, a girl who wore diapers in grade school, a nice, childish, vunerable, stupid, stupid girl. Of course, for me it's terrible, it's painful, I practically want to die. But what does that matter? As long as you can use me up—"

Rob grabbed Christie's wrists.

"Let go of me! I'll scream!"

"Be quiet."

The words cut through her like a bullet. For the first time, it occurred to Christie that she was alone with a boy in the attic, that she was barely wearing any clothes. Rob stared at her darkly, fingers pressing her wrists like a vice. He looked like he wanted to kill her.

"You're hurting me," Christie whispered.

"You too," he said. "What are you talking about?"

"Like you don't know."

"Tell me."

Rob loosened his fingers, letting Christie pull away. She rubbed her wrists indignantly, then picked up the blue package. It showed a half-unfolded white diaper with arrows pointing to different parts, bragging about the absorbancy, the breathability, the leak-guards. How long had it been since she'd touched this?

"Were you planning on changing me yourself?"

"What? Of course not."

"Come on. Wouldn't that be funner? Having me dependant and all, like in the stories."

"What are you getting at?"

Christie couldn't believe it. She threw her hands in the air.

"Stop playing dumb! I know everything! I know you like diapers! I know you get off on childish clothes, like this morning! I know incontinent girls are a fantasy of yours! I know it all, so just stop playing dumb!"

"What in god's name are you talking about?"

"Geez. Do I need to bring in witnesses? Do I need a notary? It's called TBDL, Becky told me all about it! It's on my phone, downstairs! Is that proof enough?"

"TB like tuberculosis? And Becky said what on the phone?"

Christie rolled her eyes. How much longer would he BS her? It was rich, after he'd made such a stink about lying. She knew everything, she had all the beans. To him, she was that girl in those stories: who wet the bed, who lost control, who would be humiliated, be forced to wear pullups, who would poop themselves and be moved to baby diapers, which someone else would change. It was all so obvious.

She opened her mouth to tell him this. But as she started to speak, she trailed off. There was only confusion in his eyes.

After a moment, she realized Rob had no idea what she was talking about.

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:06 PM
Content: Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old ー New Ch.10 (18 April 2017)

Chapter 11: True love

[CHAT]
okay heres the skinny. rob has a thing for girls who wet
themselves and wear diapers. its called tbdl. check out
these stories for some tips: tinyurl.com/3ag40（；¬＿¬)

wont blame you if you want to back out but
!!!!LIPS SEALED!!!!（＞＿＜ )
[/CHAT]

Becky.

When Christie first laid eyes on her, Becky was telling a dirty joke. What dirty joke Christie couldn't say. She hadn't heard a word. But Christie could tell from the crook in Becky lips, the way she danced her denim shoulders about.

It was during eigth grade, in the April just after Rob's breakup. Christie hadn't known Rob had friends over, hadn't known to hide in Shelly's room, so she stumbled on them when passing the kitchen. And there Becky was. A highschool sophomore, propped up on the counter, in a denim jacket and droopy orange blouse. She was surrounded by four chuckling guys, and she was telling a dirty joke. The guys didn't turn or look. The girl's wandering, wonderful voice had stolen their attention, just like it stole Christie's. Christie wanted to leave, but her legs were rooted in place. As the girl was reaching the punchline, her eyes drifted to the scrawny eighth-grader planted in the doorway. They narrowed slightly. Christie scrambled past the doorway, heart beating violently as laughter cut the air.

Christie's pause in that doorway had lasted five seconds, tops. But the moment was seared forever into her memory. This, Christie thought, was what power looked like. To Christie the attention of anyone, especially boys, bit into her like barbed wire. The President of the United States, with his five hundred megaton nuclear arsenal, had no power like that sixteen-year-old girl telling a dirty joke in Shelly's kitchen.

This first impression never fully faded. Later that year, Christie would graduate middle school and, as with many artificial partitions that slide open, the gulf between Becky and Christie seemed to shrink. Rob's friends and Shelly's started to mingle. Christie saw Becky blush, stammer. Christie heard Becky say stupid stuff. Christie saw Becky wearing a shirt inside out, once. But Christie could never forget that first sight.

In many ways, Becky was exactly as Christie had imagined her. She understood and controlled her environment. Becky must have known everyone in school by name; more than half, by secrets. And as Rob's friend since grade school, she must have known Rob better than anyone.

Christie knew Becky was powerful. But she never expected Becky would try to destroy her.

Hot water beat down on Christie. Her mind kept turning, turning, turning. Suds weren't bubbling at her feet anymore, now that she had soaped herself over, twice, three-times over. Now she was just standing there. For all she knew she'd been standing there for twenty minutes. There was a strange buzzing, a throb from behind her ears down her jawline. Christie didn't know what she was going to do. She didn't even know how she felt.

Rob didn't like girls who wet themselves, and Rob didn't like diapers. With these facts, the memories of the past three days, like shower water, beat down on her.

Eventually Sam came pounding at the door. Everyone's getting started! she hollered. Christie wanted to ignore her. She wanted to stay up here, in the shower, waiting for everyone to finish the project, waiting for them to let her go home. But there was no avoiding it. Christie cut the water, stumbled out of the shower, and rubbed herself down with a towel. She ran a comb through her hair, working from the ends up. The face in the medicine cabinet mirror looked sunburn red, with bags collecting under the eyes. How many hours had she slept this week? She wrapped her hair in the towel and got dressed.

Now. Was she really going to wear it?

She'd only taken it to escape. Up in the attic, Rob had barraged her with questions about what TBDL meant, what that had to do with him, but Christie had just stammered, unable to produce a coherent answer. She had thrown the fetish at him to shame him, but now the tables were completely turned. There was no way to explain herself without making him think that she'd… acted… in order to…

Christie pressed her face in her hands. I wanna die, she thought.

Accepting the diaper had seemed like the easy out. That was what Rob had wanted. But did she really need to wear it? It made her stomach crawl. It wasn't like he'd know anyway, right? What was he going to do, pat her down? Of course not. But then came the real problem: where to hide it. She'd stuffed her sleeping bag in the towel closet, but that could be explained away if found. How could she explain this? "Oh, I brought diapers as a gag"? That was crazy. Christie decided that, unfortunately, the best hiding place for the diaper was inside her pants.

The diaper was pullup style. Unlike the Goodnite, it had a sterile medical design, white with yellow lines running down the front. The outside had a slippery, plasticy feel, and tearaway tabs on the side. Stretching it in her hands, Christie found it made a riffling sound and winced. But what choice did she have? Pulling it up between her legs, Christie was surprised by all the padding in the back. She'd never noticed that when she was twelve. They were a little tight, but they still fit.

Christie zipped her jeans and checked herself in the mirror. They didn't show. Christie put on Rob's baggy tee just in case. She was too exhausted to fret. All her energy was consumed in trying to predict what she was going to do when she got downstairs, and saw Becky.

---------

Sit, it turned out.

When Christie got downstairs, she found that they had all gathered around the kitchen table, finally, all the eyes that Christie hated. There were Shelly's eyes and Mori's eyes. There were Sam's, Ana's, Brook's, and Sally's. And then there were Becky's and Rob's. As Christie entered the kitchen, the babble of conversation stopped. Every eye turned to Christie, then too quickly returned to the breadboard, its tangle of wires and flashing LEDs. A tension passed through the room. At the head of the table, Rob tried to resume his technical explanation of circuits. Next to him sat Becky, wearing a subdued, ironic smile.

Christie stood awkwardly by the door. In that moment when everyone's eyes had turned to her, there had been a weirdness, an awkwardness. At first she thought they could tell she was wearing diapers… but no. It was just the effects of the sleepover. All of them had reason to feel coolly towards Christie, and it hung in the air like the bite of a crisp winter morning. Normally, when entering the kitchen alone, some member of the group would say something, would wave, would nod. But for Christie, it seemed that everyone at the table had been hoping for someone else to do it. In the end, no one said anything. A terrible tightness took Christie. She wanted to say something that would dispel the air — a wisecrack or grumble would do — but she didn't have any words. She just sat.

"… so when you take Q&A for the presentation, the key thing is to understand is that a latch's output becomes its input. That's how this works. At first, the latch is set here. But once set, the latch sets itself…"

Christie squirmed, unable to sit comfortably. For one there was the pullup, sliding under her bum like slippery cushion. It didn't breathe well, was warm and already a little damp with sweat. Then there were the eyes, all looking at the circuit intently, which at any moment threatened to flit towards Christie. And then there was Becky, sitting by Rob, to whom, despite Christie's best efforts, her eyes were drawn like a magnet.

And you're not gunning for a senior just to seem more mature? More cool?

Like, you get rejected by Rob, and then what?

I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but, um. You know? I'm trying to think of how to say this...

Things could get messy.

You can't tell anyone about this.

Ever.

Again Christie saw Becky propped up on the counter, in that denim jacket and droopy orange blouse, in that cluster of guys. Christie saw her gaze, eyes narrow, burning into Christie like chloric acid, penetrating, absorbing, digesting everything, like a Gorgon, reducing Christie to her electrochemical essence. Even Christie hadn't done anything to deserve that gaze.

"Christie, are you all right?"

Everyone was looking. Christie froze. "Yeah."

"Your teeth were chattering…"

"I got a little cold, is all," she said. Christie tugged her hoodie off the back of her chair. Everyone returned their focus to the breadboard, happy for an excuse not to acknowledge Christie's presence. Christie grit her teeth.

Suddenly, Christie knew how she felt. All that time in the shower, she hadn't known, but now she did. Christie was angry. Maybe angrier than she'd been her whole life. It had nothing to do with Becky lying, or about the lie making her humiliate herself. Becky had seen Christie, and that made Christie boil. Becky had understood Christie perfectly, known what she wanted out of love, and countered it effortlessly. The treachery almost didn't matter; Christie hated Becky for seeing her.

In these past three years, Christie had constructed her whole life around not being seen. Being liked, being respected, or even being tolerated weren't important. She wanted, more than anything, not to be seen. To maintain herself whole, never showing anything to anyone, and so never being humiliated. Even hinting that she'd had a crush on Rob, in a casual offhand way, had felt like tearing her skin open with hot tongs. Christie craved nothing more than darkness. But Becky had seen right through her.

In movies, the worst parts of being a misfit are bullying and loneliness. Those movies understood nothing. The worst part of being a misfit is being seen.

"… so, you see, we just need to copy the bit here. Christie knows the details. Then connect the two to something that translates the output… maybe LEDs patterned in the shape of a digit? I could help out with the logic, but we should probably split into groups. Say, three to work on the poster, me and two others for the display, Christie and a partner for the second latch."

"How about Becky?" said Christie.

Becky shrugged. "Sure."

As the groups split up, Becky slid her chair over to Christie. Her hair smelled like peaches and cinnamon, and there was a subtle layer of foundation on her cheeks. Christie gritted her teeth. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on. Around Becky and Christie, the other two teams started to talk. But all the faces seemed to fade away, all the faces except Becky.

Christie undid a bag of jumper wires. "Nice makeup."

"Thanks."

"Do you always put on makeup in the morning?"

"Not really."

"Why today?"

Becky smiled.

Christie pointed out a line of repetitive wires to lay, letting Becky fill them in. Christie sorted through the circuit parts and tried to control her breathing.

"And what did you do with your hair?" said Christie "This early in the morning…. how did you manage that? So casual and natural like. It took me an hour to prep mine like that."

"Oh? You just need practice. I could give you some tips after we're done?"

"Wow! Thanks. Your tips are always so helpful."

"Don't mention it!"

Not just the faces, but the kitchen seemed to fade away. Becky kept slotting wires, one by one, but she wasn't looking down. She was peering at Christie with dimpled cheeks, a barely visible sarcasm painting her features. Becky's face was not so, so pretty, but she had all the intangibles. She knew how to carry her average face. And she was smiling. If Christie hadn't known her, Christie would think Becky hadn't caught Christie's meaning. But Becky, of course, caught every meaning. Becky knew what Christie was talking about, knew that Christie knew, and it didn't bother Becky in the slightest.

"I'm curious," said Christie, trying to bend a resistor into place. "How didn't you know?"

"Not know what?"

"You wouldn't have chosen that if you knew. Given my past, it might give me ideas."

Becky smiled.

Christie wondered how many gross options Becky had worked through. What kind of websites had she visited? And of all the options, she picked diapers, of all things, to push Christie away. Considering Becky, it was a hilarious oversight. Christie just shrugged. Becky, smiling with tight-cornered lips, flashed her eyes to Rob.

"Hey, does this wire go here?" she said.

"That's the wrong slot."

"Oh, okay. It's the wrong wire. So it doesn't belong here."

Christie narrowed her eyes. "Well, maybe for a different project."

"Mm. Are we doing a different project?" said Becky. Then, as if changing the subject: "Isn't Rob great? At explaining things, I mean. It's not easy to explain things in the right way, nice and simple. You have to simplify things, even if that makes them a little too pat. Otherwise people won't understand."

"I don't know. I'd like the right answer."

"The right answer can be hard."

At that moment, Sam burst out laughing across the room. It cut into Christie like a knife. Was she listening? No. No. She was laughing at one of Shelly's jokes. The poster group was chatting excitedly. Christie pressed her wrists hard against the table to keep Becky from seeing her shaking. The ploy didn't work, of course.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"You're shaking, sweety. And it looks like you've been having trouble with that resistor...?" she said. "Come here. Let me do it."

Christie had been fumbling pitifully with the circuit parts ever since she'd complimented Becky's makeup. Her fingers felt like they were made of lead. Dropping the resistor over and over again kind of undercut her attempts to sound chilly. She grimaced as Becky pulled in closer, prompting Christie to guide her hand. Without looking, Becky started speaking softly.

"Did you think Cynthia was his first girlfriend, Christie?" asked Becky, in a low, musing sort of voice. "Nice guys are like honey. They're sticky, draw lonely girls around them, make them get ideas. And when a girl doesn't know better, being stuck in honey feels a lot like love. Of course, it's not really love. They just want to suck up the honey. If you pour a little vinegar in, they'll scatter."

Christie pressed Becky's hand forcefully into the slot. "Are you sure you're not the one stuck in honey?"

"No. I've had my vinegar."

Christie leaned in to hiss. "You lied to me. You used me."

Becky rolled her eyes, smiling.

"What's that supposed to mean!"

"Let me tell you the truth, okay? The truth is, I see girls like you all the time. Girls who want a guy for the image, the ideal. That's why my little white lie was so upsetting. Wasn't it horrible? That nice Prince Charming role… spoiled! Now, if what you felt for Rob was twwoo wuv, he wouldn't need to be Prince Charming, would he? Dating him wouldn't have to raise you up. For true love, what would a little embarrassment matter? True love itself is embarrassing. But, in the end, Rob was just a prop for you to cling to. Just like this group here, by the way."

"So that's your excuse? You lied because I don't deserve Rob?"

"Of course not. I lied for myself."

"You're the worst," Christie spat.

Becky fluttered her fingers downwards. "Volume, volume, sweety," said Becky, her voice taking on a tinge of venom. "I bet you think I'm the bad guy, here. But I would honestly hate to see you mess things up even more. You do know you've messed things up, don't you?"

Christie ground her teeth. She looked around the room. She saw a group of people she hated; a group who knew nothing about her, who she had not let know her; who she'd insulted, cold-shouldered, bad-mouthed; who she was trapped here with. Christie had considered saying something about Becky, but what would she say? Everyone liked and trusted Becky. And why should anyone like and trust Christie? And anyway, did Christie even want anyone to know about this?

"But what do I know?" said Becky, suddenly. "You're free to ask Rob out. Who knows? Maybe he would even say yes. He treats you nice, like he treats other girls nice. But I don't think you could ever be with him, not really. He's nice, and I don't remember you ever being nice to anyone. Can someone who's self-centered really click with someone like Rob? I guess you could use him as a 'lover' prop just like you've used 'friend' props. But neither will ever become the real thing. That would mean thinking about other people's feelings, god forbid."

"You're projecting, you crazy bitch."

"Okay, sweety," said Becky.

"Don't sweety me! You used me. How can you go on like that, judging me, as if you aren't the bad guy here?"

"Let's finish this project and get home, mm? Don't do anything dumb. You'll lose your role."

Christie knocked Becky's hand away from the breadboard, pushed back from the table, and bolted up. "What do you know about me? You don't know the first thing about me, you spider!"

Becky rolled her eyes and smiled.

"What?"

Becky smiled.

"What's that look for?"

"You see who a person is by how they act, Christie."

All at once, Christie realized how loudly she'd been speaking. Around the room, everyone was looking. Shelly and Mori were whitefaced, Sam and Ana smiling caustically. How long had Christie been speaking so loudly?

"Excuse me," Christie muttered.

She left.

Christie left the kitchen, winded the den, headed up the stairs. Hurrying felt weird wearing a diaper. The bulk chafed her thighs with every step, and the crinkling made her cringe.

As she climbed the stairs, Christie realized Becky had won. She could never be with Rob. She didn't want to be with Rob anymore. It was too pathetic. Her whole life, everything about her life, was so pathetic, and she couldn't stand to let Rob see how pathetic it had turned out. She couldn't let Rob know what she'd done to try to win his love. She couldn't stand to have been caught in a lie. And most of all — now that Rob knew she hadn't made friends, despite everything he'd done for her — she didn't think she could endure his eyes. It was too awful. It seemed as if all her nightmares had blossomed.

In the bathroom, Christie unzipped her jeans and stuck her hand down the front of her diaper. Her hands felt sluggish, struggled to work the buttons. But she hardly needed to check. What use was it denying it, now? The inside was all mushy and warm against her skin, and when she finally managed to open her pants, the padding was a dark shade of yellow.

Christie, do you remember what happened three years ago? Are you sure this isn't like that?

And it seemed that, in three years, nothing had changed. Not with Shelly and her friends, not with Rob, not with herself. This was just the cherry on the cake. Deep in her mind, did she think she'd be forgiven if she did this? That to be weak would be better? Did she think it proved that the terrible parts of her life weren't her fault? Or did she just think people would pity her?

She heard a knock at the bathroom door.

"Go back downstairs, Rob."

His voice came muffled through the door. "I was just, uh…" The voice paused. "Worried."

"Okay."

"Becky started helping the poster team. It looks like you're halfway done with the latch, so you can finish whenever you're ready."

"Okay."

"Spares in the top drawer of my dresser, if you need them."

Christie blushed violently. "I won't need any!"

There was a long pause.

"You are coming down, right?"

Rob's voice sounded tentative, coaxing. It made her stomach churn. Somehow it seemed he was looking at her, even through the sturdy bathroom door. And she realized that she now hated his eyes more than any others.

"Christie, why don't you come down and talk? If you would open up, I'm sure everyone would understand."

And why would Christie want to be understood? She drew in a ragged breath, but couldn't speak.

Becky had used her? Becky had lied to her? Then what had Christie been doing? All this weekend she'd been lying. What was her SEDUCTION STRATEGY but a lie? What was this sleepover, but a way of using Shelly? She had tried to steal Rob with an act, a discardable lie. She wanted to be accepted by Rob, but had never intended to really accept that part of Rob. She was only thinking of how to tie herself to him, using secrets she had no right to know. Worse, she had spent all this time scorning him for it, looking sideways at his motivations, thinking him 'impure', when Rob was just trying to help her.

Christie was the worst.

"I'll try" she said, feeling her diaper grow warm even as she lied.

TBDL stories started with a girl wetting the bed. Then, slowly, the girl would lose control. The accidents would expand to the day. She would be humiliated. She would be forced to wear pullups ‘just in case’, but the accidents would come more and more frequently. This was, for Christie, a cruel form of justice. But she wouldn't let the last part of this story come true. It repulsed her, made her want to die. It would mean being seen. But most importantly, it would be indulging in something she didn't deserve.

"I think Becky wants to talk to you," said Christie.

"What?"

"Go ask her. I was surprised, is all. I'll be down in a while," said Christie. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Please," said Christie. "Stop coming up the stairs for me. I don't want you to come. Stop smoothing things over for me. It only hurts. And just... stop trying to help. You've been too nice to me. It's all my own fault, anyway."

There was a long pause. Then, a sigh, a thud against the door.

"You're right. Really, you're totally right, Christy. I don't think you even get how right you are. But… I dunno. What can I say?" Rob's muffled voice paused. "There are people it hurts to see you suffer, even when it's your fault."

Christie felt a squirt of warmth. Leaning against the sink, she fought off a wave of hideous self-pity. In the end, she didn't answer Rob. He left, his footsteps echoing heavy down the hall, and she remained in the bathroom, in her wet diaper, unseen, and pathetically silent.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:07 PM
Content: Chapter 12: Hate you, hate you, hate you, hate you

"What do you mean Rob won't help?"

Shelly shrugged. "He's reading in his room, I guess? We're on our own now."

"But why?"

"How should I know? I'm his sister, not a mind reader…"

Sam and Shelly both turned to Christie, sitting crosslegged on a stool at the counter, pretending to flip through a copy of Hands-On Electronics. Christie kept her eyes locked on the textbook, as she had ever since they called her down. Not that Christie understood any of it. But she kept her eyes locked there anyway.

The girls were in emergency session. It was now 12:04 PM, and in the two hours that Christie had been upstairs, the project had stalled. The display decoder was progressing, but the SR latches weren't. In fact, it seemed the first latch had actually broken. (Christie suspected she'd fubbed a wire while wrangling with Becky, but she kept this to herself). After an hour of trial-and-error, the group agreed there was zero chance of fixing the circuit without Rob.

"Hey," said Sam.

Christie flipped the page.

"Hey!" Sam insisted. "Don't ignore me like that. What did you say to Rob?"

"Nothing."

Sam threw her arms up. "Come on. You must have said something. Rob was just fine when he went upstairs, and then he was, like, muttering and stuff. When I tried to ask something, he brushed me off. I've never seen him like that."

"I didn't say anything, okay?" Christie squeezed the edges of the textbook.

"Not anything? You didn't say 'Hello Rob'? 'What'cha doing here for, Rob'? 'See ya later, Rob'? Look, what exactly did you say, word-for-word. Give me a timeline."

Eyes down, Christie seemed to twitch slightly. She was pressing the textbook down hard into her lap.

"Well?"

"Sam," Mori intervened, lifting her eyes from coloring the poster fringe, "It's no good to press her so. I'm sure Christie didn't mean anything. Isn't that right Christie?"

"But she hasn't even said sorry to Becky yet!"

That was unfair, Christie thought. Becky had insisted over and over that Christie didn't need to apologize. Of course she had. Becky smiled, Becky demurred, Becky waved everything away. Becky refused to be anything but warm, humble, and magnanimous — which was, Christie realized, probably the cruelest thing she could do.

Mori sighed. "It's hard, right away. Give her time."

"I can't," said Christie, suddenly.

"You can't apologize…?"

Christie knitted her lips as Shelly and Sam exchanged glances.

"Anyway," Sam said, "You picked the project, right? Rob said a Whateveritscalled Thingie would be better, but you wanted this one instead. Even though it's way, way above our grade level. Do I have that right?"

"I helped picked it, too, Sam."

"Enough, Shelly," Sam shot her down. "So from where I stand, Christie, you got us into this mess. What are you going to do?"

"I dunno."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I dunno."

"Well what's that for Miss Smartypants."

Usually at this point, well before this point, Christie would snap. She would pick a comeback, an insult, then she would puff up and counterattack. Knowing Sam, there should be any number of flaws in her logic. But Christie's brain wasn't working. There was nothing to do but sit and passively take it. She focused down on the labyrinth of schemata in her lap, boring into them, as if, were she to concentrate enough, it would absorb her in its ribbonous sketches.

"Christie, you'll get the pages dirty…" It was Brook who spoke, gingerly, from her seat by the breadboard. Christie stopped just as she reached to thumb forward. Her index and middle fingers were slick. Absentmindedly, she realized that she'd been chewing on them. A single line of saliva dripped onto the page. Christie thought to wipe them away but, using the same hand, just ended up rubbing more on.

Shelly spoke. "Could I get Christie to myself for a minute?"

"This can't wait forever," said Sam, glaring at the clock.

"We'll figure something out.

Shelly signaled with her neck, so Christie wiped her hand dumbly on her shirt, then followed, holding Hands-On Electronics awkwardly before her crotch as she inched forward. The group wormed their lips uncomfortably as she went. Out in the hallway, Christie peered under the book. Her jeans looked puffier than she remembered, but maybe that was her imagination.

Face-to-face, Shelly kept her features studiously blank, but there was a tightness in her eyes, a touch of something hard and bitter and sickly warm. Christie couldn't read it. For some reason, the face sent her memory sparking. She puzzled for a moment, and the remembered. Oh yeah, Shelly and Christie had talked alone in this hallway, years before. Christie had seen these lines on her face, though softer with baby fat. She couldn't read it then either.

"What?" asked Christie, irritated. "Are you gonna blame me, too?"

"Don't be a baby. Sam was just blowing off steam. She's probably guilty about playing around last night, like everyone else."

"Since when does Sam care about grades anyway?" Christie muttered.

Sam never made a secret of being indifferent to school. If anything, you'd think she was proud of it. Sam skipped homework, overslept, made graphite rubbings on her desk during class. She often bragged that she only studied to stay on the lacrosse team. What should a project grade matter to her?

Shelly folded her arms. "Now you're rubbing it in."

"Rubbing what in?"

"You always leave her out of these things, because she's useless. It was her idea to do it as a group this time. Why do you think that is?"

Christie stared for a few seconds, and then, slowly, a pit opened in her stomach. There could only be one answer. At first she tried to refuse it, push it away. On another day, it might have struck Christie as sweet, but now it was only painful. In the back of her mind, Becky's words started rustling around like sandpaper. A shiver ran down Christie's spine.

For Christie, Sam marked a low-waterline for laziness, stupidity. Sam was a useful contrast. Christie could roll her eyes, could be sarcastic, could joke. Sam helped Christie establish herself as diligent, as an achiever. It hadn't occurred to Christie that it might bother Sam to be treated so. After all, didn't Sam basically boast about it? But of course she would. Didn't Christie basically boast about being alone? Ana's teeth flashed in Christie's mind — pearly white and glistening.

Do you only smile after using people, or do you smile on other occasions?

It was easy to please everyone by talking about me, so Ana smiled and smiled and smiled.

I guess you could use him as a prop, just like you've used 'friend' props.

Christie stared at the floorboards. "I dunno."

"You don't make it easy, Christie…" Shelly said, sighing. "Well, whatever. I wanted to ask you about Rob. Did you tell him?"

"Tell him…? I…"

"You know. Tell him. The thing you've been putting off since Friday. The way he came down, I thought you might have told him. Did you?"

Christie bit her lip. "That's over."

"So he said no?"

"He didn't say anything."

"What do you mean he didn't say anything?"

Christie flared. "I'm not going to ask him out, okay? That's over. It was dumb idea. Forget it. Forget the whole thing."

"What do you mean, forget it? After that dopey look you gave Rob in the kitchen last Thursday? What in god's name happened?"

"What does it matter?"

"Well of course it matters!"

Christie squeezed her body tight. "It's none of your business."

"But this whole–"

"Just leave me alone!"

For a moment, Shelly looked incredulous. Then her composed features folded. "Well excuse me!" she snapped, before snatching Hands-On Electronics and storming off.

Please help me, Christie thought, to no one in particular.

Christie headed for the downstairs bathroom. The counter was littered with crusty toothbrushes, gels, and wrappers from the girls. She checked her pants, and found the inside of her diaper didn't look so different from earlier. The padding was thick and pulpy, yes, but when she held it in her palm it wasn't heavy, and it didn't drip when she squeezed either. Christie supposed she must be dehydrated. She had been controlling her liquids since Saturday. So maybe her pee was a darker shade of yellow than usual, making the diaper look worse than it was.

But this morning… god. Why had she drunk three cups of coffee? Stupid, stupid. How soon would those cups work their way down to her bladder? At this point, going to Rob for a change was out of the question. Could she stuff some pads in? But how much could those really hold? And the extra bulk… the jeans barely hid the pullup to begin with…

With these worries, Christie sat on the toilet and tried to force herself to go. Some came, just a few dribbles. Christie sunk her face into her hands and brooded.

Ah, yes. Christie remembered it now. It had happened after an argument with that girl in gradeschool. What was her name? Christie couldn't remember. It had been on Christie's first night here, the night she'd run to Rob's room. Shelly had pulled Christie out into the hallway. In fact, Shelly had been wearing her pterodactyl pajamas, the ones that were now sitting in a double trash bag in Rob's closet. How had Christie forgotten? Such a serious face for such a ridiculous outfit, such a ridiculous problem. In the end, Christie and the girl never made up, not really. The fight just stopped. They just existed, side by side, hating each other, until sixth grade ended and the girl went to Catholic school. Eventually the whole affair faded away, its sharp edges folded safely into the numbing layers of time.

Christie had been sitting on this same toilet, that night, looking at the girl's toothbrush. Christie always spent five minutes here before sleep, so she'd had plenty of time to look. The girl's toothbrush had been purple, with a grip shaped like Minnie Mouse, and it sat next to a matching plastic travel case. Christie remembered that. She remembered thinking the girl must have been close to her mother, and that thought gave her a bitter, sour feeling. Which toothbrush belong to Sam? Or Ana? Christie had no idea.

Please help me, she started to think, but pushed it away. She flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and took three deep breaths. Pulling the diaper up, it felt cool and clammy against her skin. As she fumbled with her buttons, she decided to be pleasant, at least to try. She wanted to never come to Shelly's house again. But there was no use making these sharp edges any sharper.

In the mirror, Christie practiced saying something nice to Sam, Ana, and Shelly. Nothing too revealing, but pleasant. She whispered, of course. Have you had any luck with that, Sam? Have you had any LUCK with that, Sam? Did you need help, Ana? Did you need HELP, ANa? I didn't mean anything personal, Shelly. I didn't mean anything PERSONal, Shelly.

You sound stupid, Christie thought. So she kept practicing. When she couldn't stall any longer, Christie stole back towards the kitchen.

There were voices in the hall. "… and she always eats lunch alone by the vending machines. You know that spot at the far end of the quad? Goes there every day. I ran into her once when I was looking for a bathroom, and she was sitting on the floor. Glared at me like I ran over her dog or something…"

Christie waited for a break in the conversation. Ana and Sam were doing most of the talking, seeming to enjoy themselves. Eventually, the group ran into trouble reading a truth table, so the banter paused. Christie took a deep breath and walked casually in. As expected, there was a hushed pause. Everyone looked, and most smiled. But it wasn't that smile, no. There was a glint of knowingness, of relish. A broken row of white teeth, here and here and here and here, stretching across the room. It smelled like blood. Christie had last seen this expression when she was twelve, but she knew this one immediately.

She went over to Sam and looked over her shoulder at the textbook. "Have you had any…?"

"What?"

Christie cleared her throat. "Have you had any luck with that, Sam?"

"This? The book? Oh yeah, mega luck. I mean, how else could I get any of this, right?"

"That's not really what I…" Christie started, but stopped. She leaned in and ran her finger along the columns, mouthing the numbers as she descended. "Okay… okay. So that part will only light up for two, six, eight, and zero. Look at the shapes…" Christie traced out the digits on the page.

"Geez, thanks. What would we do without you, Christie? If only you didn't spend half the day in the bathroom."

Tittering. Christy forced an awkward smile.

Sam grinned leisurely back. "So what do you do in there, anyway? You eat breakfast?" She paused for chuckling. "Or maybe…"

"Sam, don't be mean," inserted Ana, sounding rather delighted. Christie held her dumb smile. She scanned the room and saw Shelly fiddling with her cellphone, and a small dagger turned in her stomach. She ignored the room and sat down at the breadboard.

The latch wasn't working anymore. The LED that watched the output blinked sporadically, flashing on and off. It wouldn't hold its value. When Christie had worked with Becky, she hadn't been paying attention and messed it up. Now she checked and double checked connections, moving jump wires, shuttling LEDs up and down. Why couldn't she fix this? As the minutes passed, Christie grew increasingly frustrated. Soon even her body betrayed her, and she floundered with the wires, fingers turning into thumbs.

She was aware of conversations bubbling around her. She did her best not to listen. There was laughter sometimes, and whispers across the table, which Christie tried not to hear. She let the project absorb her, pouring everything into those wires, those lights. Eventually, the world itself seemed to take on a mathematical character.

To her left ran Shelly’s group. They were chatting, reading diagrams, inking in the poster. Becky was propped up on the counter, telling a joke. With Christie safely quarantined from the group, the tension had evaporated. They were high schoolers, and she was not. She was sitting alone at her desk, fidgeting in her wet diaper, drilling her fraction division exercises. She was wearing baggy navy-blue sweatpants, as if it were a secret, as if everyone didn't know. As if that weren't just another joke.

Christie had somehow missed something very essential, some unsaid trick that you needed to grow up, a trick that — like the web of circuitry before her — she failed completely to grasp.

Christie stirred from her trance, and realized she was peeing. She squeezed her legs together to stop the flow, then pushed herself up.

"Hey, where are you going?" asked Sam.

"To the b–" started Christie, then blushed. "To get some water."

Christie went to sink and opened the tap. She heard whispering behind her. It was Ana. "You know, when we were twelve she always pretended she wasn't thirsty. Then one night…." Christie opened the tap all the way and leaned in as she filled the glass. The sound of running water made her bladder ache.

Once the glass was half full, she decided to try again. She walked over to Ana, who was copying a decoder layout from the textbook. The room grew quiet. "Do... do you need help, Ana?"

"No thanks." she said. "Aren't you going to drink that?"

"Uh… yeah." Without any good excuse, Christie raised the glass to her lips and drank. But the movement was awkward, and some water dribbled down her cheek and onto her shirt. She blushed.

Ana flashed a slight smile: "Do you need help, Christie?"

More chuckling. Christie's eyes jerked reflexively toward Shelly, and she hated herself for it.

Christie continued to work on the SR latch for the next half hour. During that time, she felt obligated to finish the half-glass of water, and Sam 'helpfully' fetched another. Christie ignored it for a while, left it on the table. But when Sam 'jokingly' offered to bring a sippy cup, she felt slurped down this one too.

A general amusement was emerging about Christie's clumsiness, which seemed to grow worse as everyone grew more amused. Her fingers no longer seemed to work properly. And her concentration was shot. She bobbled parts, she dropped things, knocked a book on the floor. At one point she misslotted a wire and lost track of it, but she continued fumbling for ten minutes, pretending nothing was amiss. Occasionally, she would see Sam pantomiming her in the corner of her eyes — knocking an invisible glass back — with Becky laughing silently beside her. At the far end of the room, Shelly typed the report into her laptop, silently.

Passing by, Ana glanced down at her lap and said, "Do you need a napkin or something?"

Christie looked down in panic. Was that water? Yes, it was just a few splotches on her thigh. She tried to think of a clever response, but her heart was racing too fast.

"Maybe a bib?" said Sam. "I should of known she was too young for sleepovers."

"Lots of problems with skipping grades…" said Becky.

Another few ounces dribbled into Christie's diaper. This time, the warmth didn't wick right away, but rolled down to the padding in the back. Inside her pullup was all mushy and soft, and when she shifted her weight, small amounts of liquid pressed out, some leaking from the gathers. Christie quailed.

Why couldn't she be angry? That had been her shield. Becky had stolen it from her, had stolen everything. Christie needed to remember somehow. She needed to be proud, indifferent. She needed her cloaking device back. How could Christe have let herself forget something so important? If you can't be distant, you have to be angry. Then they can't hurt you. If you don't care, it can't hurt you. Why couldn't she be angry? If she couldn't be angry, there was nothing for her to be but a joke.

"Bathroom," Christie whispered, pushing herself up.

"Think you'll be back by dinner?" Sam asked, smiling.

The room didn't take much notice of the comment, and it won only a lukewarm smile or two. Everyone was absorbed in their work. Christie started to slink out of the kitchen, relieved that, if she had to be a joke, she was at least a played-out one. But just then, chair legs squeaked against tile, and a pencil slapped flat against the table.

"Enough, Sam," said Brook in a tight, high-pitched squeak. Everyone looked up from their work.

"Enough what?"

"Enough shots at Christie! You're taking it too far."

Sam leaned back in her chair, rolling her eyes. "It was just a joke, Brook."

"How many jokes in a row is just a joke? Don't you think it's enough? Why don't you think about her f–"

"Shut up," said Christie. A deep loathing soaked her voice. "Shut up, Brook. Pick up your pencil, tuck in your chair, and just. Shut. Up."

Brook stared at Christie, as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Except for the argument, the room was deathly quiet. Christie barely noticed. The world seemed to go red, seemed to swoon. The anger she'd been searching for boiled up in a wild froth, spilling over the brim and hissing where it fell. In that moment, Christie wished Brook were dead. She wished for a painful, humiliating death, and a hundred years in hell to boot. Christie dug her fingernails deep into her palms.

"Think of my feelings? Why don't you think of my feelings, you conceited snot. You think I wanted you to say that? That I wanted your help? That I was waiting for kind, brave Brook to help me? Don't make me puke. I said the things I said because I meant them, and I'd rather hear a thousand retarded jokes from Sam than a single word out of you."

Of all the things Brook could do, she'd committed the unforgivable crime of putting the situation into words.

"But… I…" said Brook.

Sam scowled. "So if Christie hates us all so much, why is she even here?"

"Hate is such a strong word," Mori jumped in, like a mother calming a child. "Why can't we talk this over?"

Christie shook her head. "No. Hate is right. I hate it here, I always hate it, and I hate all of you.

"I hate you, Mori, always butting in with your little saintly opinions, breaking up fights like you're better than us. You know you're sixteen years old, right? 'Why can't we talk this over?' Wow, great, it must be nice to have half the world like you by default. I bet I'd believe ditsy stuff like that if I were a double D.

"And I hate you, Ana, but of course you know that. You're a crowd-pleaser with no identity of your own. You just fit it, do whatever people right around you want. You're a gossip. You ever think about how what you say feels to people who aren't standing right next to you? Of course you don't.

"And oh, I hate you too, Sam, you sack of bricks. People aren't pretentious because they know what a circuit is, they're just not dumb. Speaking without thinking isn't some awesome virtue. You act like school is lame because otherwise bad grades would hurt. The way you hammer people for making you self-conscious is pathetic.

"Where to go next? I hate you, Brook, I just do. And I hate you, Sarah, you barely have a shadow.

"I hate you, Becky. You think you understand people, but you just understand their underbellies, how to make them squirm. You go for people's secrets. And why? Because it makes you feel better about yourself, because it helps you use people. But how does that actually work? You haven't had success with boys. I wonder why that is?

"And I hate you, Shelly. I hate you for bringing me here. I hate you for doing things that make you feel generous, and me feel like trash. I hate you for treating me like a puppy that pissed on your rug. Do you think you've done me a favor? Can't you see I'm miserable? Can't you see you've just made everyone miserable? Can't you see you've just used me to puff yourself up? Can't you see it, finally?"

It spilled out in a long, uncontrollable flow. The private thoughts that Christie had been collecting over the past year came out quickly, wildly, and completely. It was as if, after the sluices managing her feelings had jammed this morning, the dam suddenly burst, sending its entire reservoir pouring out. No one interrupted Christie while she spoke. In the back of her mind, she noticed Sam's face turning purple. Everyone else simply stared, wide-eyed.

"Why don't you go somewhere else then!" said Sam.

"Gladly!"

"Take the circuit with you, if you want!"

"Sure!"

Christie clawed her fingers and seized a great knot of wires, resistors, and LEDs. Then, in one motion, she tore the memory apart.

And it was done. She had made a clean break. Now Christie could retreat away from it all, from all these eyes she hated. And if she had to deal with terrible shame, she would at least do so unseen, in the dark. And if she regretted Rob, at least she'd never have to meet him. And eventually these sharp corners, too, would be folded away, and she could enjoy everything she'd never had philosophically, in retrospect, like a tragic play, when everything was numb and nothing mattered anymore.

As she turned to leave, Christie saw Shelly on the far end of the room. She still had her cellphone out, was still looking at the screen and typing on the keypad mechanically. Her posture was perhaps a bit tighter than usual. The only unusual thing about her was that she was crying.

A nausea swept over Christie. She felt her hips tighten, and before she knew it she was peeing. It was not a dribble this time. The pullup, well past its limit, pooled in the center, then began pushing pee out of the gathers and into Christie's jeans. No, she thought. Not this, I can't forget this, she thought. These are too sharp. Christie bolted from the room.

Christie did what felt natural to her. She'd been here before, the very first night she came here, when she was twelve, when she'd fought with the girl whose name she didn't remember. The past and present blurred. Christie made a dash for Rob's room. She bolted in, slammed the door. She collapsed back against its frame, pee streaming down her legs into her socks, tears running down her face.

She looked up at Rob. For the second time in her life, she said:

"Please please please Robby take me away from here, take me home, take me anywhere Robby, but please take me away…"

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:07 PM
Content: Chapter 13: About wiping yourself, changing yourself

This time, Rob was no longer fifteen. This time, Rob actually could take her away. So he did.

A rainstorm kicked up on Route 149 around three forty, and soon runoff was streaming over the pavement and the drab landscape was covered in mist. Traffic clogged up. Before long it was slowed to a crawl. According to the radio, a Volvo of long-weekenders had skidded into a guardrail three miles down, causing a pileup. Christie said she could wait, but Rob was having none of it, so they pulled up to the gas station a quarter mile down, a rundown Citgo with potholes all over the lot. The suspension bobbed as Rob turned in.

Christie waited in the car as Rob went in to talk to the clerk. Rain was still pouring down. A canvas tarp covered the passenger seat where she sat, rubbing coarse against her wet clothes. Rob had smiled apologetically when he laid the tarp, as if that mattered. Her skin itched inside the pullup. Christie wiggled her toes in her socks for warmth, but otherwise didn't move, just staring into the rain, listening to drops patter on the aluminum canopy over the pumps. Inside, Rob was smiling and scratching his head under incandescent light.

"Sorry for the wait," he said after a minute, worming into the driver's seat. "Guy says the bathroom's for customers only. Jerk. Here, take one."

Rob took a blue gatorade from his plastic bag. Christie waved it away. "I'm okay."

"Just a sip?"

"I drank some water earlier."

"When is 'earlier'?"

"Around two."

Rob smiled delicately, then pressed the bottle cap against her cheek. "Just humor me."

Of course Rob didn't believe her. Christie took the bottle and slipped her fingers awkwardly around the cap; then, after spilling some on her shirt, she drank. Rob watched intently. The gatorade tasted like cough medicine, but she took four big gulps.

"Thanks," he said. "Do you want to stand in the rain for a minute?"

"It doesn't matter…"

Rob frowned but said nothing. He retrieved his backpack from the rear seat. "There are wipes in the top compartment. Make sure to clean thoroughly, okay? You can get a rash. And... hm. I was thinking these weren't absorbent enough, so I brought the taped kind. Do you think you'll need help changing?"

Christie nearly dropped her gatorade on the floor. Her cheeks flushed.

"There it is," said Rob, laughing. "I was wondering where that face went. I thought I'd have to ask you about boys again. Or god forbid, your hobbies…"

Christie threw the bottle at him, but Rob snatched it from the air and slid it smoothly into the front cupholder. "Seriously, though. The tapes can be tricky. Pull tight, okay? First time I changed my baby cousin, the thing slid right off. If you need help, I could wait outside and just do the tapes?"

"I'll be okay."

He took a long look at her. "Sure," he said. Then he handed her the key.

Since Rob had taken Christie out to his car, he hadn't asked any real questions, hadn't talked about anything serious. She didn't offer anything up. In fact, she'd barely said anything at all. It wasn't that she was trying to be aloof. After she stopped crying, Christie just didn't feel anything.

The clerk was reading a magazine when Christie walked into the store. Her sneakers squeaked on the tile floor, but he didn't look up to see the girl with the strangely-pressed wet patches on her jeans, but just kept reading. The interior of the store was well lit, the shelves stocked with junk food, overpriced groceries, and baby diapers. She stared at that last item for a long second. Then, looking up, she saw herself in the monochrome security feed. Tiny. Puffy-eyed. Something bulky sagging at her waist. She felt like she was looking at a stranger.

The restroom was single use, surprisingly clean, and it was equipped with a full-width mirror. The sink smelled like lemon Pine Sol. Christie watched herself as she stripped off her shirt and her shoes, peeled off her wet socks; then as she wriggled out of her jeans. She let everything plop down to the floor. She kept looking for signs that the girl in the mirror was not, in fact, Christie.

Christie (or not Christie) stood there naked except for the pullup hanging at her waist. Even with double the padding of a Goodnite, the pullup had proved no match for Christie. It sagged a full inch down from her skin, swollen up and heavy, with drops of seepage on the plastic exterior. She peed it… twice? Christie squeezed the crotch, like an idiot, and a stream dribbled down onto the floor.

After mopping it up with her clothes, she got down to business, tearing the sides of her pullup and throwing it in the trash. Curiously, Christie didn't feel any resistance towards wearing another diaper. She didn't want to stain Rob's car, but mostly, she didn't want to think. So she didn't think.

Christie rummaged through Rob's backpack and pulled out a bulky white rectangle. After unfolding it and holding it in her hands like a map, she decided there was no doubt. This was a diaper. A full-fledged, no-nonsense, wearer-doesn't-use-the-toilet diaper. Back in grade school, Mom tried to beat around the bush with bedwetting products, but there was no equivocating this. The diaper had stretchy wings, four tapes. Its padding was about an inch thick, and when Christie held it between her legs, it ran from her belly button all the way around to her lower back. There was a pocket in the seat for bigger accidents, though Christie had never suffered that indignity.

As Christie watched herself holding the diaper bunched between her legs, a strange, greedy feeling welled up.

Amazingly, Christie couldn't remember ever examining one this minutely. She had closed her eyes for Mrs. Blanchette, and always pulled on pajamas immediately afterwards. Christie thought… no. She wouldn't think. She set to putting the diaper on.

Her fingers didn't cooperate. It figured. Christie leaned against the cool tiled wall, pinning the back flap in place, but it kept sliding while she fiddled with the landing zones. The wings would flutter, slip out of her grip. Christie tore one of the tapes by accident, then a second, so she had to throw the diaper away.

She did better with a second try. She managed to level the flaps, adjust the wings. Even though the tapes were crooked, they stuck just fine, and the diaper seemed more-or-less secure around her waist. But as soon as Christie stepped away from the wall, it began sliding down her legs, like Rob warned her. She tried to undo the tapes, refasten it tighter. But apparently these tapes were designed to stay put, and when she tore them off, the diaper ripped.

Christie frowned at the tear in the plastic, wondering if she should go ask Rob for help. She couldn't tell how she felt about the idea. Her thoughts flowed slow and thick, like molasses, and eventually her head started to hurt. Deciding it was too much of a pain to think about, she dug into Rob's backpack, and she found pullups stuffed at the bottom. They wouldn't hold too much pee, but how much did they need to? Christie decided she'd just change again later.

After tugging on the pullup and some of Rob's bulky gray sweats, she bagged her wet clothes and threw a third, ripped diaper into the trash.

Outside the rain had slowed, and Rob was standing under the eaves, talking on his cellphone. Christie paused a moment to watch his back through the sliding glass door. He seemed tired. Though the words were muffled by the door and rain, she could hear his low, serious tone.

When she finally walked up, the door jerked open.

"… a problem. Hold on a sec, I gotta go. Yeah. I'll talk to you later. Yeah." Rob snapped the cellphone shut. As he'd been speaking, he'd thrust his arm across the door like a boom barrier. "Hey Christie. Don't walk off the matt, there's glass on the sidewalk."

Christie looked down and saw a dust of green scattered over the cement. And she had bare feet. How had she forgotten about shoes? Wondering if she was missing any other clothes, she tugged at the sweats and examined her clothing in detail. When she looked up, Rob was smiling in amusement, but declined to say anything. There was a long pause. Rob seemed to be expecting her to ask about the phone call; but when she didn't, he pocketed the cellphone and, frowning, eyed her over. "It doesn't show too bad, does it?"

Christie blushed, bunching her hands in front of her legs. It didn't feel, however, like Christie herself was blushing, but some other person, far away.

"Say something," said Rob. "You're making me feel awkward, geez…"

Say something? Like what? Christie struggled for a moment, and only one thing came to her lips. "What are you doing."

"Doing?" The words seemed to confuse Rob. He twisted his lips, but then his eyes landed on his car, which was now parked against the curb. "For one, I was thinking about how to get you back in my car. You don't have any dry shoes."

"I can walk." Christie looked down and wiggled her toes.

"I know that, Christie. The question is, can you walk without getting blood on my carpet? No, you can't." Rob scraped his boot over the cement to prove the point. "So. I was thinking of throwing you."

Christie stared dumbly, played with her sleeves.

"No? Or you could wear my shoes, then toss them over to me. The problem is, if you miss, we'll be in a fix…"

Christie looked away.

"Fine. I'll have to carry you."

Christie bit her lips.

Rob sighed. "Geez. Can't get a rise out of you today, huh?" he said. "Well let me get that tarp then..."

He laid it out across the sidewalk.

As Christie was crossing over the tarp and into the rain, she noticed a twinge in her stomach. She felt queasy, like she was getting sick. There was something sour there, like two-week old milk. She pressed her tongue against her lip, trying to process the sensation.

As she climbed into the car door, she got it. Oh yes, Christie thought. She had wanted Rob to carry her. A simple thing, really. She'd wanted to be against his chest, her neck and knees resting limply in his arms. The desire burned in her like a kerosene torch, small but intense, and it was making her sick.

Rob shut his door with a thunk. He brushed himself off, reminded Christie to clip her seatbelt with a crooked smile, as if she had neglected to wear it as some kind of gag. Christie played along. She managed to fasten the buckle after a few tries. When she did, Rob ignited the engine, turned on his wipers, and merged into traffic. Christie sat back, enjoying the warm feeling in the padding of her diaper.

"I should've taken the backroads," Rob said idly, flicking the radio to an FM station for easy listening. The engine hummed and occasionally clicked as they inched forward. "It was only a twelve minute drive anyway. What a waste… well, hey. No need to nurse the gatorade. I got a four-pack."

Christie took the hint and uncapped her bottle to drink. It still tasted like cough medicine, but she felt thirsty all of a sudden, and she emptied the whole twenty ounces. While she was drinking, she imagined spilling the bottle, pouring it all over her sweatshirt, and her stomach twinged again.

"Your mom isn't home tonight, is she? No siblings either. Geez, I'm jealous. You ever raid the liquor cabinet? My mom watches hers like a hawk…" The radio cut to commercials, so he muted it. The pitter-patter of rain filled the car.

"Come on, say something. You're making me feel awkward again."

Say something. Like what?

"What are you doing," she said again. The words came to her very naturally.

"Doing?"

Rob drummed his fingers on the wheel. "Doing, huh. What am I doing. What, indeed..."

His face glowed red from the tail lights of cars ahead, and soon it was consumed by a difficult expression. She'd seen flashes of this ever since they'd left Rob's house. Between his jokes, in patches between small talk, he would show a tense, thoughtful expression. Every time she saw it, it cast ripples over the surface of her thoughts, making them bubble up: her greedy, sour, pathetic feelings.

When Rob looked over, she was shaking.

"Christie…"

She had to stop. She had to stop.

"I told you not to," she said, still shaking.

Christie told Rob not to help her. She told him, but she'd come to his room anyway. She didn't have any resolve. She didn't carry anything through. That was why she wanted him to carry her across the sidewalk, why she wanted him to make her drink, to tell her to buckle her seatbelt, to try to cheer her up. All of these pathetic wants, one after another.

Rob fixed his eyes back on the road. He tapped the wheel with his thumbs. "If it makes you feel better, it's not about you."

He turned the volume up. "You remind me of someone I knew, is all."

The traffic cleared up before long, and they made good time, turning onto Christie's street at 4:32pm. The street was dim with cloud cover. They found the house dark, with no cars in the driveway. Christie slumped in her seat, glad it was over.

"Well. That was awful," said Rob. He cut the engine and cranked the parking brake, then stretched and rolled his shoulders, yawning.

"Let me run in and change…" said Christie. "I'll bring your clothes out."

"Don't bother. I was thinking of staying the night."

Halfway through unfastening her seatbelt, Christie froze.

"If you don't mind, of course."

"No," she said, shuddering. "No thanks. I mean, sorry. There's nothing to… I'm just going to sleep anyway. I'm very tired."

He shrugged. "I can entertain myself."

"But I don't think my mom would like it if…"

"And how would she find out, exactly?"

Rob threw her a winsome smile. Christie stuttered something incoherent, squirmed in her seat. What could she say? Since they left the gas station, this car ride had been hell for her. The pleasant stupor of earlier had dissipated. She didn't know how to sit, what to do with her hands. The very presence of Rob made her burn, made her feel sick.

"I don't want you to stay," she managed.

"That's too bad."

"What?"

"'That's too bad.'"

"You said… you said if I didn't mind," Christie whined.

"Sorry about that. Chalk it up to a social lie."

"I'll tell my mom!"

Rob grew suddenly serious. "Who are you kidding?" he said. "You've never told your mom anything."

Christie didn't have an answer for that. She played with the empty gatorade bottle between her thighs, wondering when she would finally be alone again.

After entering the front door, Christie flicked on the lights and laid Rob's backpack down on the kitchen table. There were motes of dust dancing about the air, and there was a heavy silence to the house. Her diaper felt warm. She realized she was standing in the spot where she'd planned to wet her pants for Rob, two nights ago, and a bitter smile took her lips. Rob, meanwhile, hung his jacket by the door, kicked off his shoes, and took a stroll around the living room.

"It still smells like you killed a Keebler Elf in here," he said, shaking his head. "So. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," she said, instantly.

The clock ticked. Rob regarded her with a neutral expression, then he shrugged. "Okay," he said. "So are you hungry? I'll make dinner before you go to sleep. What's in the fridge?"

"I'm not hungry," she lied.

"Well I am," he said, flicking his wrist backward as he leaned into the fridge door. "Rye bread… milk… yogurt and eggs… some leftover chicken and beans. Geez. Ketchup, horseradish mustard. Old vegetables… hey, the peppers still look good."

"There's cereal in the cupboards."

"You shouldn't go carb-heavy before bed. Fats and protein, Christie, fats and protein."

She pressed her lips. "I'm not hungry."

Still hunched over at the fridge, Rob looked over his shoulder. A cold draft was spreading through the kitchen. Christie knitted her lips and avoided his eyes.

"How about we play a game?" he said, buoyantly. "It's called 'Humor Rob'. I like that game."

Dinner was a simple affair. Rob factored the ingredient coefficients and arrived at omelettes as the main dish. Christie told Rob she could cook — that she was a very good cook, in fact — but she was relegated to cracking eggs. Meanwhile Rob oiled a pan, reheated the beans, and chopped peppers.

In the end egg-cracking, too, was taken from Christie. She dropped one egg on the counter, crushed another so the yolk got all over her fingers. After trying to add sugar to the bowl, she was shooed from the kitchen and made to wash her hands. She sat piqueishly at the table while Rob cooked.

After a few minutes, he emerged from a smoky kitchen with two plates. To her delight, he burnt the toast. Further, he'd left the beans on the range too long, drying them out. He was carrying a large glass of warm milk in the crook of his arm which, to no surprise, was for her.

"Bon appetite."

"It's bon appétit."

Rob scowled. "I took Spanish."

"What would they say in Spanish?"

"They would say 'It's rude to correct people. Eat your food already, half pint.'"

Christie had to admit the omelettes tasted good. He had slow sautéed the peppers and chicken with lots of garlic, then folded them into the eggs. The eggs were soft and fluffy, bounced under your fork, and had just a dash of paprika. Once Christie took her first bite, she found herself very hungry, and she polished off her plate in no time. She even ate the burnt toast. Though, after the fact, she realized she'd been messier than she'd have liked.

During the meal, Rob did most of the talking. He talked about varsity sports, ATVs, and movies. He talked about a Popular Science article about cloning guinea pigs, about crime rates increasing during full moons, and about how Hitler was a vegetarian. He talked about abstract, safe things, never brushing on anything real, anything important. Christie put in a word here and there, nodded when needed. She drank her milk. For a while, Christie forgot about the shadow hanging over the table.

But the fifteen minutes passed. They passed pleasantly, too pleasantly, and she found herself staring at the crumbs scattered around her plate and her ketchupy fingers, wondering what she was doing. Was this fair? Was it fair for her to be eating Rob's omelettes, listening to Rob talk, laughing at his jokes? After fifteen minutes, Christie's cheeks hurt from smiling like an idiot. She thought suddenly of Rob talking on his cellphone under the eaves in the rain, what Shelly must have told him, and she felt her stomach shrink. How could this possibly be right?

Do you think you've done me a favor? Can't you see I'm miserable? Can't you see you've just made everyone miserable?

"Christie, you don't need to go to the bathroom, do you?"

She blushed. "No."

Rob was folding his napkin and stacking the dirty plates. He looked at her curiously. "Fine either way, I guess. I'll leave changes in the bathroom, if you need any."

Christie didn't squeeze or shift positions. She felt it hot against her skin. As her pullup swelled, she realized she was sick, very sick. Christie could have said no to Rob, but here she was: letting him stay over, letting him talk to her, letting him make her drink milk, eat dinner. Like she was some kind of victim. And now she was letting herself pee her pants. She was letting herself pee so he'd think Poor Christie. This was her 'seduction strategy'.

But no, sickness went away, and hadn't Christie always been sick? Becky was right. Christie loved Rob because he treated her kindly, but didn't insist on getting close. She couldn't stand to be close. She just absorbed his kindness, like porous stone sucking rainwater down into invisible aquifers.

Christie often wondered why she'd never made friends. Why she didn't make friends now was obvious. But even in kindergarten, she remembered how groups would form for coloring or games, how ones would turn into threes and fours, and how she stood apart. Why had that happened? Christie had a hundred theories for this. Sometimes she thought she'd been too serious, too gawkish; sometimes, more indulgently, too intelligent, too mature. Sometimes she blamed it on her mother moving around all the time, or on the divorce. Other times she blamed everything on random chance, that she'd simply been the last one standing, like in some invisible game of musical chairs.

Things would have been very different, Christie thought, if she'd found a chair. She would have fit in very naturally, done all the things that normal kindergarteners did, and then all the things first, second, third, and fourth graders did. She wouldn't have been a joke. Not being a joke, she wouldn't have needed to be proud. She wouldn't have grown bitter, and so no one would have hated her. Because no one hated her, fifth and sixth grade wouldn't have happened. When everyone found out she wet the bed, they would have laughed it off. She wouldn't have needed to be adopted by Shelly. Maybe they would have even been normal friends. In this world, Christie wouldn't have to feel humiliated, wouldn't hate them all. And so she wouldn't have said so.

But this theory, resting so much on social momentum, assumed that Christie had been good to begin with. Christie could never remember being good. The strongest theory, the one that came to Christie at night, when she lay down to sleep, listening to the whir from the heating grate, was that she had nothing to offer; and that, even when she was five, everyone had intuited this basic flaw in her character.

Rob shook his head, amazed but smiling. "Wow. Really wow. You're not doing that on purpose, are you?"

Christie twitched guiltily. But no, Rob wasn't talking about peeing. There was a trickle of milk tracing down Christie's chin. She had spilt some during dinner, not much, but now her hands were shaking, and some had jumped over the rim and dribbled down her cheeks. Christie jerked the glass away.

Very naturally, Rob leaned across the table, holding a napkin. He reached. But even before his hand touched her, she felt his phantom fingers against her cheek. Buzzing. Tingling.

"Stop," she said.

But of course she didn't say that.

Rob dabbed the napkin below her lips, then traced it up her jawline. There was a smile on his face. The smile said: this is a joke, this is a fun game. Rob wet the napkin and rubbed just below her cheekbone, cleaning off a stubborn patch of ketchup. Christie didn't look into his eyes as he worked. She felt warm and alone and very sick.

After dinner the evening poured out slowly, like pancake syrup. There was nothing to do or say, so they did and said little. Rob washed the dishes and, if only out of pride, Christie wiped down and disinfected the counters. The sky darkened around quarter-to-six. They turned on more lights. Somehow Christie ended up lying on the couch, watching a nature documentary about lizards on public broadcast. Rob brought a sports bottle full of apple juice, whereupon Christie accused him of trying to kill her. Rob laughed.

Rob watched with her for a while. He was surprised that geckos, far from being silent, made a sort of clicky chirpy sound, and he made a fool of himself trying to imitate it. Christie rested her head against the armrest and chewed on the soft cap of the sports bottle. A deep tiredness soaked her, but she couldn't imagine sleep. Her body felt like one big tangled knot. She watched geckos. After a while Rob went upstairs to read, but he would periodically find excuses to pass by: for a drink, for the bathroom, for a different book or magazine.

On Rob's second pass through, he notice that Christie had leaked through and suggested she change. She didn't believe him at first. But when she looked, there was a dark patch on the left thigh of Rob's sweatpants, about the size of a half dollar. Rob didn't blame her, even having reminded her to change during dinner, but he seemed surprised the tape diapers had leaked so quickly. Christie stammered something noncommittal and went upstairs to change.

Unfortunately, Christie discovered she'd left her pajamas in the wash since Friday, and they had congealed into a great mushy lump smelling of mold. Her sweats were still at Shelly's. After much fretting, Christie decided she had to wear her nightdress — the one she'd learned on Friday was slightly translucent. It seemed absurdly childish. At least it still went down below her knees…

In the bathroom Christie stripped, hiding the soaked pullup under dirty tissues in the trash. She tried for a second time to tape up one of the thicker diapers, this time sitting on the toilet seat; and for a second time she failed miserably. Christie considered asking Rob for help. It would mean him learning she'd lied, but didn't she deserve that? She stared down at the padding, laid on the toilet cover, already damp from contact with her skin.

She imagined it. Rob with his fingers at her waist, Christie in nothing but a diaper, holding her nightie up above her belly button as he smoothed the front. Thinking of it, Christie burned. Her whole body tightened, and a little trickle dribbled out onto the unfolded diaper. She breathed into her hands. Her greedy feelings were threatening to burn her up.

Christie put on a pullup from Rob's backpack — the last one — and taped the useless diaper into a ball before burying it in the trash. Her nightdress hugged tight to her waist and hips. Examining herself in the mirror, it didn't seem obviously a pullup. You could see the wetness indicator lines through the nightdress, but the tape diapers had them too. She pressed the fabric tight to make sure. Maybe if it were bulkier?

Christie opened the medicine cabinet to check if her mother had any Maxi pads. But there were only tampons.

Before she closed the cabinet, something caught her eye. The middle shelf was bare. All her mother's razors and bottles of prescription medicines were gone. Christie stared at the shelf for a long time, her throat dry.

When she went downstairs, Rob was sitting on the couch, channel surfing. "Welcome back. They switched to a cello concerto, and frankly, I'd rather listen to a 56K dial-up router." He craned his neck backwards. "Now why didn't you wear that to the sleepover? Shelly goes crazy for that kinda stuff."

He seemed to regret his comment and, grimacing, turned back to the TV. Christie sat gingerly on the other side of the couch, pressing her legs together. She wanted to say something, but she didn't know what.

"Did you remember to wipe?" asked Rob.

"Yes," Christie lied. "Don't treat me like a kid!"

Rob ignored the absurd comment. They watched TV in silence for a few minutes, settling on the evening news. Christie sat stiffly, afraid that if she lay down she'd forget what she was wearing and let the nightie ride up. The skin under her pullup itched, and she regretted not wiping. Then there were commercials and, of all things, a Pampers Cruisers ad came on. Christie blushed as the bright-voiced female announcer enthused about flexible leg-cuffs, extra absorbency, and stretchy sides.

"Did you get the tapes on okay?" Rob asked. "Those things are rated for seventy-two ounces, or so the package says. You sure you didn't wear it too loose the first time?"

"I dunno," said Christie evasively.

"Could I have a look?"

"Could you…? No!"

Rob snorted. "Oh come on. It's a diaper. Bikini bottoms must be a million times more revealing."

"I don't wear bikinis! I can't even swim!"

"Wow, really? What's your mom thinking, with us living near so many rivers and lakes…" Rob shook his head, sliding over until his knee brushed against hers. "Gym shorts, then. Those must be a dozen times more revealing, at least. I know you must wear gym shorts, since it's a requirement after all."

"That's… that's different. Those are clothes." Now blushing violently, Christie shielded her lap with her hands.

Rob frowned. "Do you really not want me to look?"

Christie didn't say anything. If Rob lifted her nightdress, he'd see she was wearing a pullup. If Rob lifted her nightdress, he'd see she had a rash. If Rob lifted her nightdress, he'd see she couldn't take care of herself, couldn't be trusted to tell the truth, was helpless and so, transitively, blameless. But Rob wouldn't be angry. Rob would just smile that crooked smile of his, shaking his head in mock disapproval, making a game of it. He would understand intuitively, like he always did, even the things she didn't understand herself.

Of course Christie wanted him to look.

"Radio silence, huh? Well. If you ask me, you'll just be upset if you leak," Rob said. "We're playing 'Humor Rob', remember?"

He reached for her nightdress. Christie's whole body tingled and burned.

"Stop," she said, out loud this time. "I don't deserve it."

Rob tilted his head. "You don't deserve to have me check the tapes on your diaper?"

"No," said Christie.

The commercials ended and gave way to the seven o'clock headlines. Rob's face, washed red by the TV's shift in tone, looked puzzled. He pulled his hand away. Christie kept pressing her palms down on her pullup, shivering.

"Let me think about that," muttered Rob.

Christie felt a little better. She had not let him wipe her face a second time. Now Christie just had to hope her pullup could last the night.

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:08 PM
Content: Chapter 14: A diary with all the words crossed out

The night drew late. Christie listened to the furnace tick and chewed her fingernails, trying not to think. Even after years of bitter nail polish, the habit returned on nights like tonight, so thick with memories. She had a comforter drawn sloppily over her, letting her hide her hands when Rob passed by. But the only light in the living room came from the dull flicker of the television set, playing mute.

"Not asleep yet?" Rob had said earlier, yawning. "Could you get to bed by nine or so? There's school tomorrow."

"I don't need so much sleep." Christie shrunk beneath her comforter.

"It'd only be ten hours. You're behind on sleep, aren't you?"

"But I don't feel tired yet."

Rob shrugged. "Suit yourself..."

After the exchange, Christie would periodically flip open her cellphone to check, with agony, the progress of time. She would count. Twelve hours until school. Eleven-forty until school. Eleven-twenty until school. Eleven-ten. Eleven-five. Eleven hours. Christie's eyelids grew as heavy as lead. She kept thinking she had to sleep, tried to close her eyes, but then she'd find them open again, staring at the ceiling.

Eventually she started thinking the opposite. If she didn't sleep, could she skip school tomorrow? The idea lit her spirits.

"Oh no, you're going," said Rob.

"But…"

"I'm not that nice, Christie. You're going."

"Or what?"

"Or I drag you to my car, if that's what it takes."

It was unreasonable. It was crazy. How could Christie go to school tomorrow? Never mind that she was peeing herself like a two-year-old. Never mind that she only had Goodnites and tape diapers she couldn't put on. How was Christie supposed to face them tomorrow?

Christie couldn't counterattack. There was no material to work with, no counter-accusations. Christie couldn't pretend not to care. She'd ruined that by bursting into tears and wetting herself as she stormed out of Shelly's kitchen. (My god, had that really happened?) Christie couldn't appeal to sympathy, even if she wanted to. And of course Christie couldn't apologize.

Christie was going to be destroyed tomorrow. The girls — at least Sam and Ana — would extract their vengeance. Christie would be lucky if she didn't cry in public. So much for a clean break.

Ten-twenty-three. Ten-twenty-two.

Christie hadn't seen Rob for a half hour. Her skin prickled, like that feeling you get from sitting on a foot too long. Taking her fingers out of her mouth, Christie rose from the couch. Where could he be? She stumbled over the carpet and searched the house.

Rob wasn't in the kitchen, the study, or Mom's room. The halls were empty, and she could hear her pullup crinkling as she walked. There was no one in the stairwell, the storage closet. Christie knocked on both bathroom doors, but there was no answer. Peeking inside, the bathrooms were dark except for baby blue nightlights that illuminated the toilet bowls. When had she last used a toilet? Christie wondered. It must be at least a day.

Climbing the stairs, Christie squeezed the bottom of her pullup. It was soggy, but still a better bet than a Goodnite, she decided. Maybe she should try lying in her own bed. Maybe she could fall asleep there, even though there were no sheets. Hopefully she would wake up in a different world.

When Christie entered her room, however, she found the lamp on and Rob sitting at her desk, mouthing words and tracing the lines of a book. She walked gently up, curious. What was he reading? When she peered over his shoulder, Christie saw the pages of her old locking diary.

She slammed the diary shut. "That's mine!"

"Christie…?" said Rob, blinking. "I thought you were asleep."

Christie snatched the diary, clutching it tight to her chest. "How could you? How could you?"

And how could she have forgotten to lock it? Why hadn't Christie thrown this thing away years ago?

Rob nodded, expression muddled, as if her were blinking a dream from his eyes. He nodded dumbly. "I shouldn't be looking at this, should I? I'm sorry… I was flipping through the older entries... it was just lying here. I didn't know what it was at first. I never write anything down myself, actually, and I'm always forgetting things I shouldn't. I always wished I'd kept a journal…"

Rob's eyes drifted to the diary at Christie's chest. He seemed deep in thought.

It was one of those children's secret keepers that had been popular in the nineties. The cover was filled with a collage of colorful words, all in different typefaces, words like "wishes", "memories", "dreams", "friends", "secrets". Its lamination was peeling, some of the letters fading. Dad had given it to Christie on her eighth birthday, which maybe explained why she'd kept the embarrassing thing through her tween years. The diary was sealed with a lock in the shape of a heart.

"How far did you read?" she asked sharply.

"March, 2004."

Christie put the diary down and covered her face with her hands. She kept them there for a long time. Honestly, she'd rather he read her 'seduction strategy', located towards the back of the diary. This, this was too much.

Without permission, Rob reopened cover and flipped to the ribbon placemarker. Today is: 3/1/04, it said. Monday. Weather: 40s. Sunny. Today's Dream: Forever And Ever.

Christie had used a multicolor pen for that day towards the end of sixth grade, writing with purple and pink for keywords. Her handwriting had been neater then, and — if only for this entry — more energetic. There were bubbly curves and serifs, flower dottings for the i's. Christie started reading without wanting to.

"It's amazing how different you saw things," Rob said. "I almost didn't recognize what you were writing about."

The entry recorded February 29, 2004 in six elaborate run-on sentences. That was the sleepover where Christie cried in Rob's room because she wanted to go home. She had written it for herself, so no essentials were recorded. Instead she had written a long list of disorganized details: that they had played monopoly, that Shelly forced her to change her hair, that everyone else had a normal sleeping bag. Ana. Ana. Ana. Rob had a mobile of the solar system. Rob's room smelled like mint gum. Rob had calluses at the base of his fingers that hurt her shoulders. Christie would do better next time.

The weight of the unsaid filled the room. Rob and Christie looked over the entry in silence.

"You really did hate it there, didn't you?"

Christie bit her lip.

Rob sighed. "I used to think being close, physically close, made people like each other. That's how it always worked for me." He ran his finger over the word awful. "It's a shame."

What did Rob expect? Shelly had invited Christie in December of sixth grade for twenty-four straight weeks. Christie knew it was from pity. She hadn't been stupid, after all. How could they possibly become close? How could Rob not understand something so simple?

"Why did you do it," asked Christie in a dead tone.

"Read your diary?"

"No. Have me invited to the sleepovers, back then."

He tilted his head. "Why do you think it was me? Anyway, it was you who accepted the invitation. You must have wanted to go yourself, for some reason or another. Don't lay that on me."

"Shelly kept asking over and over again. It was a pain."

Rob smiled nostalgically. "I'll give you that my sister is a pain."

Rob thumbed backward toward the previous year. The pages ruffled. When he was about to pass November, Christie thrust her hand over the pages and stopped him.

"You can't see that," said Christie.

"Christie… I already have. Twice."

"How could you? How could you?"

"I'm sorry."

The entries from February to October 2003 were hardly entries at all. They told almost nothing about those nine months, nothing about fifth or sixth grade. Most hardly filled two lines.

They said nothing about Christie's falling out with the class. They said nothing about Mike Ross seeing Mom's grocery cart, nothing about the "good fun" that followed, nothing about calling Patricia Munce a bitch — the first swear of Christie's life — or about Christie wetting her pants in class. The entries didn't tell how she'd pretended to have the flu for two straight weeks, except by a stretch of missing dates. There was no mention of Josh Taylor. There was no mention of having her sweatpants pulled down during recess, or about those nicknames Ana Bailey invented.

They didn't say how Christie had followed Mrs. Harper's advice, trying to sit with Laura Fisher's group at lunch, or how hilarious they'd found it. They didn't mention how Christie reported the group for cheating on math homework. They didn't mention getting suspended for scratching Tara Cook's face in gym, or Shelly Blanchette's look of utter disdain. They didn't mention summer field trip, or what happened to Christie's Halloween costume.

It was just a list of names.

Sometimes it was just one name. Sometimes, there were as many as twenty-eight. There were no bubbles or flowers for these names. Instead they were written in small, tidy letters, with careful attention to the a's, d's, o's, and e's. She had tried to record the names exactly right.

Often, the same names would appear over and over. Ana, for example, came up at least a hundred times. Only one name in the diary appeared in just one entry. That entry, however, filled an entire page. The name was written about thirty times, in huge, furious letters.

> Today is: 10/31/03. Friday. Weather: Who cares. Today's Dream: (Scribbles)

Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette.
Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette.
Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette.
Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette.
Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette.
Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette. Rob Blanchette.

Rob leaned back. "It doesn't bother me. I thought you might feel that way."

Christie didn't think any human ever hated someone like Christie hated Rob, those late night hours of October 31st, 2003.

The night had been terrible on its own. It was bad enough to be fooled into trick-or-treating, to honestly think they wanted her to go, to get all excited, to have mom buy her a costume at the last minute. It was bad enough to have her pants stolen, to have to walk through the neighborhood looking like that. But to have high schoolers get involved, give a lecture to everyone, lay down the law…

"How was it your business, anyway?" said Christie. "You didn't know me. I didn't even know your name."

"I heard about you from Shelly."

"So?"

Rob regarded Christie for a long moment. "I don't think I should say."

"So you can keep secrets, but I can't? You can just read my diary, then not tell me anything?"

"It's not exactly a secret. Shelly knows, my friends know…. Becky makes fun of me virtually every time we talk. She has a dark sense of humor like that. I suppose it's her way of being kind."

Very unworthy feelings welled up in Christie. "So Becky gets to know, but I can't?"

"No, you can't."

"Why not?"

"You'd take it the wrong way. Especially tonight." There was finality in Rob's voice. He pushed himself up. "Anyway, shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"I'm not tired."

"Christie… you look like a mess. You look like you could fall asleep any second."

"I'm not tired."

As Rob microwaved a cup of milk in the other room, Christie drew blood from her hand. She wasn't being good. She didn't feel like being good. A trickle seeped into the crevices of her teeth, soaking them red. Her fingers tasted like copper and broken dreams.

When Rob finished he poured the milk into a sports bottle and placed it on the coffee table. "I found some of your mom's sleeping medication," he said. "The back says you should only take a half dose, at your weight, and it might take a half hour to kick in."

Christie was lying on the couch, wrapped in a comforter. Rob offered her a single pill in the palm of his hand, but Christie rolled over, glaring at the back of the couch. "I'm not taking it. I said I'm not tired."

"Don't be stubborn," said Rob. He took Christie's shoulder and rolled her back over.

"Don't touch me, please."

"Oh yeah, you're not supposed to touch a girl's shoulder, are you? I'm always forgetting that rule." He sighed. "I'm not going to bed before you do, you know…"

"How terrible for you."

Christie tossed the sports bottle on the carpet and rolled over again. She buried her face in the seam. A small part of her knew she was being unfair, but she smothered it. What had being fair ever got her? Maybe it was time to accept that she was a parasite.

"Christie, could I see your hand for a second?"

Christie didn't say anything. After a bit of cajoling, Rob was forced to move her by himself. When he did, he took her arm firmly in grip, the calluses on his hand pressing into the soft skin of her wrist.

"Oh Christie, what am I going to do with you?" he breathed.

There was none on the couch, fortunately. Rob went upstairs to put the bloody comforter in the wash, and her sheets and pajamas in the dryer from the sound of things. He wrapped her fingers in a dishcloth before he left, telling her to be careful not to bleed on the couch. There was bustling in the storage closet upstairs, and he returned with a dusty old first aid kit.

Christie let Rob disinfect and bandage her fingers without too much fuss, but she kept her eyes on the seam at the back of the couch, stubbornly quiet.

"I've got mint chewing gum if you want some. Or you could chew the tip of the bottle, so–"

"I'm not drinking any more milk."

"I didn't ask you to. Just don't gnaw off the bandages, please. Are you cold?"

Christie told Rob she was fine. Nevertheless, Rob went to push the thermostat up a few degrees, which gave Christie the excuse to complain about not listening. Rob ignored her. He grew snippier, apparently losing patience. Christie lay on top of the remote control so Rob couldn't shut off the TV. So he waited in the living room as the night dragged later and later.

Christie willed herself not to sleep. She would not sleep. By ten, she was having waking dreams, nodding off despite herself, but her eyes would snap open. Her let hand kept wandering up to her mouth, and eventually Rob had to sit on the floor next to her to held it in place, grumbling to himself.

The breaking point came when Rob suggested Christie go change her diaper. She would fall asleep soon, he reasoned, and she'd be too tired to wake if she leaked.

"That's my problem."

He pressed his lips. "It's not just your problem, Christie."

"You're not my mom, Rob."

"Just go change, Christie."

"No."

"Do you have to be so difficult?"

"Oh, I must be such a pain to you," said Christie. "Why don't you just go home, then?"

"You are a pain. A stupid, stubborn, useless pain. A real idiot," said Rob. "You don't deserve me to check your diaper? Well of course you don't. What does that have to do with anything? Jesus, I'll get ulcers in my twenties. Just go change, okay?" Rob sat angrily at the foot of the couch, glaring at the floor. He hissed through his teeth, as if to reprimand himself for the outburst. But he didn't stop.

"Why can't you just let me help you, Christie? Tell me, is it really so hard? Why won't you talk to me? It's obvious you want to talk. You're such a kid. You keep flitting your eyes at me, mumbling your lips and making those puppy dog eyes. I'm not fourteen anymore. You must think you're so good at hiding things, but the truth is, you really suck at it. I have lots of experience with that face. You're just the same, down to the very last detail, practically a twin. You want me to be nice to you, but you won't let me be. Well sure. Any reasonable person would give up. You're always, always, always, always like that. It drives Shelly into fits."

Rob pushed himself up and stamped from the room. Meanwhile Christie buried her face into the couch, little beads in her eyes. Idiot. Idiot, she thought.

When Rob returned, of course, the pullup had completely given way, and Christie's nightie and the couch were soaked. Christie kept her face buried. She felt, in that moment, that she was going to die. Not that she wanted to die — that she was embarrassed — but that she was going to die, in a very physical sense. Rob, for his part, didn't look surprised to see her leaking all over the place. He was holding a folded diaper in his hands, along with talc powder, a box of wipes, and some towels.

"I shouldn't have said that," he said, frowning. "Just lie back, Christie. I'm about to break a very big rule."

Rob leaned gently over the couch, peeling the nightie off her skin. He examined her pullup with a thoughtful expression, then nodded to himself. "You couldn't get them on yourself, could you? And of course you couldn't say anything… I'm sorry."

Christie continued feeling she was going to die for the rest of the change. Rob lifted her legs. He laid a towel underneath her, folded the skirt of the nightie up above her waist. He mumbled something about things he'd seen before. Blushing slightly, he ripped the sides of the pullup and slid it away. Without looking too carefully, he wiped her smooth skin, scattered and rubbed in talc powder, and there, lifting her again, folded her into the padding of the diaper.

He closed the tapes nice and tight. It felt like a pillow between her legs.

Christie stared at the ceiling and tried to keep herself from overflowing. I'm sorry, she started to say, but she couldn't say that. She wasn't allowed to say that. Rob blinked down at her, looking as miserable as she felt. He went upstairs to fetch her a shirt, so Christie hurriedly wiped her face into the nightie's collar. Of course Christie wouldn't talk to Rob. How could she possibly? How could she ever tell him what she'd just done?

As the clock rounded 11:45 pm, Christie was sucking milk out of a bottle and peeing into baby diapers, squeezing her legs to feel the padding against her skin. She had hurt Shelly, hurt Rob. She was the most pathetic human to ever live.

Why did they hurt her so badly? she wondered. It still ached, even now. She hadn't even wanted to be their friend, that Halloween. She'd just wanted to be there, to rest her head by the gap below the door, to let a little of their heat blow out on her. They'd ruined her for it. They'd made her into this. She'd been mean before, of course she'd been mean, but she was just an insect. How big were her little fangs? They'd hurt her so much more than she could possibly hurt them. Did they need to hurt her so bad for trying to be happy?

"Christie, please just take the sleeping pill."

"I don't want to sleep." The voice came out broken.

"I'm asking you, as a favor. Take the dumb pill."

"I can't," said Christie. "If I take the pill, tomorrow will come."

The house groaned in the wind. Rob was sitting listlessly on the floor, drinking instant coffee from a tall porcelain mug. There was silence and more silence. The flicker of the television washed over his face as he seemed to consider. Then, stirring his mug, he started to speak in a worn, bone-gray voice, a voice much older than eighteen years old, one that seemed to crackle, turn to frost in the air.

"Let me tell you a story about tomorrow. Yesterday's tomorrow, I guess, but it's not a story about today.

"You were upset earlier that I read your diary, but kept secrets for myself. You're absolutely right. I'm sorry. It's easy to forget you're not twelve anymore. So I'm going to tell you this story I've never told anyone before, a story that only my friends know, a story that you're going to take the wrong way.

"It's a story about why I met you. It's a story about what people deserve."

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:09 PM
Content: Chapter 15: A diary with all the words crossed out (continued)

Sixth grade was probably my happiest year. It might have been fifth or seventh... no. That's wrong. It must have been sixth, sixth on the dot. In seventh I was just getting used to being thirteen, but in sixth I was an expert at being twelve.

There's an old Chinese proverb I like, that only a truly good person can love or hate. Well, probably the same goes for being happy. By 'happiest year', I mean I had life under wraps, and what's more, I thought having life under wraps was a part of me, was something I owned. I got good grades, because I was smart; I ran fast, because I was strong; I caught line drives and sunk free throws, because I was clutch; I made friends, lots of them, because I was funny, adventurous.

The first girl to ever ask me out did so on a ski lift. Imagine a frosty seat for two, chug-chug-chugging up a snowy hill, icicles hanging off the bars. 'Ask out'... maybe those aren't the right words. It was more like a statement. Or a legal deposition. She was wearing a pompom hat and big puffy mittens and was red up to the ears. 'I think I might kind of like you,' she said, dangling her little pink boots and skis in the air. Those words bewildered me.

We'd been skiing on a rec department weekend, and I barely knew the girl. How did I end up alone with her? She was in my grade... Susan, was it? Suzy? Our rec group had been crammed like sardines into the loading area, and I somehow got shuffled into a pair with her. I recognized her face from the group by the slide during recess. She had dimples — I remembered that much. And I remembered that she always laughed extra hard at my jokes. But why would she like me? What did that mean?

At the time, I wasn't even interested in girls. In TV shows, kids my age had crushes and asked each other out. They also went on spy adventures in Bolivia. The whole thing seemed like a bizarre invasion of fiction into my life.

The words tasted sweet, of course. Who doesn't like to be told they're liked? That they're special? So twelve-year-old Rob didn't turn Susan-Suzy down, not exactly. As we climbed the hill, I didn't say much of anything to her. I accepted her feelings and put them away, in effect, filing her legal deposition in a drawer. She could, I guess, continue (maybe, kind of) liking me on her own. We rejoined the group on the hilltop, and I continued my happy life.

The next few weeks saw a rash of that sort of thing. There were... six? There were Jasmine and Kelsey and Hannah and Leah... Leah cornered me backstage during Christmas pageant. (I was playing a wisecracking elf, by the way.) She tried to kiss me, very incompetently, and got saliva all over my makeup. The audience laughed. Apparently Leah'd read in a magazine that boys mix up feelings of nervousness for love. It didn't work. The idea seems more and more ridiculous the older I get...

Anyway, the first girl (Susan? Suzy?) must have been jamming up some invisible queue, because once she cleared way, they all rushed in. The middle of sixth grade was busy with girls for me. But the crazy thing was, none of them "asked me out". They just told me how they felt. It was like the girls were just trying to unload a secret off their chests. I was happy to oblige, and then to say nothing. I complained to Becky about them, but of course I was secretly bragging. There are few things more wonderful than to be twelve years old, and to be more special to them then they are to you.

Shelly, nine at the time, was old enough to consider me terribly unromantic. So did all her little friends. If you can believe it, she'd been a cute little sister back then, always fidgeting and wanting to play tea and tell her big brother all the dumb secrets of her life. Pretty obnoxious. I, in turn, told Shelly things that impressed her. But Shelly wasn't impressed to learn I'd been filing girls with crushes on me in a filing cabinet. I should date one, she thought. Why didn't I marry the girl on the ski lift? Didn't first mean destiny?

I laughed it off. I had no call to date girls, after all. If girls liked me, that was their own business. Why should I have to make my feelings clear, just because they wanted to tell theirs? So I continued to ski and play basketball, baseball, paintball, and meet at the slide with my friends, and Susan-Suzy continued to laugh extra hard at my jokes, and Leah continued to pass notes to me in class, and I was happy.

Next year came junior high, and I shed my old set of friends and crushes kinda like a snake leaves behind its old skin. I had no problems finding new ones. I joined junior league over the summer, moved up the batting lineup. My teammates and other junior high friends would hang out in the woods after practice, and we hit it off in no time. The eight-graders introduced me to ATVs, sarcasm, and the Goo Goo Dolls. At the time, I was glad I hadn't been sticky with my friends back in sixth grade, because they were now inconveniently located. Do people pack tap water when they move houses?

Now I'm probably painting myself as callous. Well, maybe. I appreciated my friends, I was open, even generous. You can't be liked without liking people, after all; and when people like you, it's easy to like people. I wasn't in any way exclusive. I would often pick shy or quiet people out, bring them into games or jokes, draw out their positives. They liked me for it. I was greedy for all the happiness — happiness — I could get, and they gave it to me. I appreciated people like I appreciated piñatas.

But I only knew the world as I had lived it, and in my world, things were easy. I let my friends go expecting they'd be fine without me. Why shouldn't they be? I believed Susan-Suzy would find another boy by the slide to laugh for. I believed the quiet kids I used as piñatas would find another person to crack them open. Of course, I was aware that some people weren't succeeding in my junior high, but they were strange and abrasive types. In effect, they deserved it. My old friends weren't like that. I would chase my own life, and they theirs, and everyone would be happy.

Or something like that. Really, I just didn't think about it.

When I remember sixth grade, I think of a world where oceans left beaches of emeralds rather than sand. Children make emerald castles, bury each other in emeralds, throw emeralds at their little sisters. While sunbathing, women complain about emeralds creeping up on their towels. Everyone wears sandals, of course, because otherwise the emeralds burn their feet. It's a very beautiful world, but no one would know.

Liking girls hit me in seventh grade like an October heat wave. There was no chance to reinstall my AC or unpack my summer clothes. One day I was complaining about a girl in Civilizations for blocking the blackboard with her stupid haircut; the next I was wondering what the back of her neck felt like, thinking the curls in her hair smelled so sweet...

I've heard stories from other guys about being thirteen. Generally, they didn't know what to do. The internet wasn't so big back then, you see, so it wasn't like you could Google questions or discover porn right off the bat. One of my friends says he spent hours staring at his mom's JC Penny catalogues. Another tried reading girly books in secret. Lots say they would close their eyes and imagine scenes — not even dirty scenes, just normal stuff. One was obsessed with the idea of teaching a girl how to rollerblade, having to catch her by the shoulders when she lost balance.

I, for one, knew exactly what to do. I opened my filing cabinet.

Leah, it turns out, had graduated to the same junior high as me. I would see her in the halls from time to time, and she would give me this little wave, flash me this little smile. And oh, she'd gotten pretty. Or at least, I realized it now. She'd taken to wearing tanktops, even in fall — I guess she was feeling the heat wave too — and they hugged her in all the right places. Sometimes the shoulders would slide and you could see the straps of her lilac training bras. (Thirteen year old boys go crazy for those little touches.)

When I asked her out, Leah had the strangest expression on her face. Fish-mouthed, eyes on the floor, twiddling her thumbs together. Nowadays, I think she was panicking, wondering whether she should play hard-to-get. She didn't in the end, she just said yes.

When it came to dating Leah, her hands, lips, and hair were nice. Everything else was terrible.

First off, Leah and I became an item, and my friends made hay with that, big time. "Here come the love birds!" "Kiss for the cameras!" That sort of thing. (They were probably jealous.) Shelly got sticky about the affair, always asking questions about my new girlfriend. (Now that I think about it, she was probably jealous, too.) Becky would joke that I was in heat — true enough, but it still annoyed me.

But worst of all, Leah was needy. She would come to my basketball practices. She would call me at home, sometimes three times a night. She wanted to know what I was doing. She would ask me if I liked her hair, ask me to meet her friends. Then she would ask if I thought so-and-so was pretty, and when I answered honestly, she threw a tantrum. She thought I spent too much time with my friends. She wanted to transfer to the same classes as me.

After a few weeks, I let Leah down gently.

Leah had wanted something from me that I wasn't interested in giving. She'd wanted to become one with me, for our lives to intertwine. But that was the problem. I was already happy with my own life. I didn't need to become one with anyone, let alone Leah. I'd just wanted an air conditioning unit, an ice dispenser, something to cool me down when I got hot. But Leah wanted everything, and so she was useless to me. She just wasn't worth the maintenance.

After that I went six months single, deciding that girls weren't worth the trouble. The leaves fell, the winter months rolled in. I focused on sports, on school, on friends. I dissected my first motor engine. My math scores shined, and I was bumped to Algebra 1. In basketball, they promoted me to starting point guard, and I settled into a smaller set of regular buddies from the team. We nicknamed ourselves the seven dwarfs, which, in a typical junior high type of way, we found hilarious. (Each of us was quite tall, you see.) I got to be Doc.

At the time, Doc was pretty full of himself. He was happy. He didn't rub anyone's nose in it, of course, because why would he need to? Doc had almost everything he could want, and as for the heat, he'd found ways of dealing with that.

(Don't make me blush, Christie.)

There was just one small problem. Junior high is, as you know Christie, all about status, and my policy towards girls turned against me real quick. Gone were the days of cooties. Suddenly girls were a battleground, and every boy was fighting for key war materials: jealousy, mostly, but also maturity milestones — hand-holding, dating, making out, going steady, public cuddling... nothing too graphic yet.

After jumping to an early lead by dating Leah, I lost ground in this theatre. Sleepy and Dopey found girlfriends in November, Grumpy in December, Happy and even Bashful on Valentines Day. At this point, Sneezy and I were the only bachelors. And Sneezy was "that guy" in the group.

When even some of the chubbier boys in seventh grade started hooking up, the rest of the dwarves invented little jokes about us. That we were monks, that we were romantics, that we had married our basketballs. I laughed, too. Nevertheless, they were exploiting my weak point to lift themselves up, and I didn't appreciate it. Now, I was still getting offers, though it was much more indirect these days. Girls loved to ask 'what kind of girl I liked'. That was their favorite stick. I kept turning them down. Soon enough I established a reputation as not interested.

I spent a few months frustrated. Why did I need to date someone? Leah had been annoying, emotionally needy. Frankly, I didn't want any of that. I preferred girls as fans to admire me from a comfortable distance. I just wanted the happiness I already had. Why did I need a girl to keep my happiness?

Eventually, I gave in, and started looking around for someone I could stand. Unfortunately, the prettiest girls in seventh grade were already objects with friends of mine, some current, some exes. They were out. A few likely candidates seemed like they'd be too needy; others, like they might turn me down. There were two girls who fit the bill, but they were — like me — confident in themselves. I didn't like that. Somehow, I didn't want a needy girlfriend, but at the same time, I wanted someone who needed me.

It was while I was mulling this paradox over that I met her.

You know those pebbles you find at the bottom of rivers? Wait. You can't swim, can you.... let's see. River pebbles are small, hard, and perfectly smooth. Like marbles. Larger rocks, softer rocks get broken up. Tiny rocks get swept away to the sea. But river pebbles, though, they're hard and just the right size, holding stubborn to their place on the riverbed. They get smooth since, over time, the current erodes their natural features away.

She was small, hard, and perfectly smooth, like a river pebble.

One morning she slid into a bus seat next to me. Is there anyone sitting here? she asked.

There wasn't. I was sitting at the back of the bus, rushing an algebra worksheet that was due in block one. An important worksheet. I glanced up to complain, but when I looked I didn't recognize her. She was a seventh grader, a short one wearing a sweater, a jean skirt, tennis shoes, and fishnets. (If you can believe me, this would've been fashionable in 2002.) There was sparkly gloss on her lips, but the rest of her was milky white.

Do I know you? I asked.

A little.

Her expression dulled by the most minute degree. She began picking at a fray in the seat upholstery.

Over the next two minutes, the girl explained that she would like to go out with me. The information came out in a calm but erratic way, jumping from point to point without any clear organization. Apparently, we had gone to the same elementary school, had even been in the same class in fourth grade, and I had done some kindness to her in the past. I had no memory of this. As she spoke, I did start to remember her face, which puberty had thinned out of recognition. I honestly didn't listen to much of what she said.

I tried to smile, and explained that I didn't have time for a girlfriend.

I don't need time, she said.

Then what do you need?

Not much. I just want to be your girlfriend.

I wondered what I should do. Should I file her away? Should I ask Becky about her?

I remembered the girl as a quiet sort in elementary, maybe a bit awkward. There'd been some nonsense with her in fifth grade, something I didn't remember clearly. But that was so long ago. The girl seemed more articulate now, even graceful, and I couldn't deny that she'd grown to be pretty. Seven, eight out of ten material. And despite how hard and smooth she seemed, there was something that would flash in her eyes from time to time. It made me curious.

Not much? But like, what about hanging out? Going on dates? Kissing, and stuff? I asked.

If you want to, she said, still picking at the upholstery.

But if she didn't need anything, why me? Why not some other boy?

There was a long pause.

It has to be you, she said.

So, after five minutes alone on a bus ride, talking while bouncing over potholes, I got my first real girlfriend. She smoothed her skirt, collected her bookbag, and returned to the front of the bus. I, for my part, straightened out my worksheets and hurried through the rest of my algebra homework.

Later, when I told the story to my friends, Becky was incredulous. I was dating her? Really, her? Where did I keep finding these girls? she wanted to know. I explained I'd been looking for a girlfriend anyway, and she seemed nice enough. Becky said I didn't know her, and since when did I want a girlfriend anyway? She said she could've found one easily for me, but I laughed her off.

It's no big deal, we're just dating. What do I have to lose?

You'll regret it, said Becky, sighing.

It turns out I had a lot to lose.

My girlfriend had this very fixed expression. It's what I remember most about junior high. It was the look most people get while waiting for microwave dinners to cook, but my girlfriend, she wore it all the time. She was wearing it when I first squeezed her fingers, when I cupped my hand on her knee, when I played with her hair, when I adjusted my grip on her shoulder for our first kiss. She was looking at me with that fixed expression, like she was waiting for something. What she was waiting for I could never say.

We set a schedule for our relationship. No, that's wrong, I set it. We agreed to meet when my friends' girlfriends were around, or in mixed gender settings — after school in the woods, usually. She would attend my games, basketball and baseball, like was normal for couples. We would walk from class to class together, and we would go to semi-formals, at least the ones I wanted to attend.

Rob's doll, my friends would joke when she wasn't around. Eventually I joined in.

In every way, she was my perfect match. She didn't want anything from me but, on the other hand, she denied me nothing. She changed her hairstyle, her shampoo, her clothes for me. She watched the movies I wanted to see, didn't ask to meet my family, or have me meet hers. She tried to become a fan of the television shows and space opera novels I liked. She even corrected her fixed expression for me when the situation called for it: smiling, laughing, even cheering, though I could tell this cost her dearly.

Once, she even started to flash me her underwear under the cafeteria table. I had meant that as a joke, to be clear. After that, I became very careful about asking her for things. Deep down, I was afraid what she might do.

If there was one thing my girlfriend denied me, it was her thoughts. She wouldn't talk about herself. Period. I had to prod to learn even the most basic facts about her life: what her parent's jobs were, what her favorite radio station was, if she had a computer at home, who her bestie had been in grade school. After a few weeks of trying to draw her out, I gave up, but I was still often surprised by the depths of her secrecy. Once, I asked her why she chose Latin rather than Spanish class, and she looked at me like I'd stabbed her with a screwdriver.

I did learn a few things. I learned she had a much older sibling, and a bad relationship with her parents. I learned she hated the girls in her class and that, when a free moment opened, she could be found reading the class textbook. There seemed to be a private war in progress between the girls and she — or maybe her whole life was a war, I think now — and I guessed I, too, was a prized war material. In fact, Sleepy's girlfriend thought she was dating me just to infuriate some of them. My girlfriend had a rather chilly reputation like that. But she was nice enough to my friends, and practically servile to me, so I didn't care.

As for hobbies, she seemed to have a penchant for sewing. No one ever saw her sewing, of course, just reading textbooks, but she had fabric scraps in her backpack. There were often needle pinpricks and nubby bandages on her fingers, and once, I saw sketches for doll designs in her English folder, though she quickly squirreled them away.

Why's she always so tight? I complained to Becky.

That's just how she is. It's what you get for picking up girls like candy bars. See, you're already regretting it.

I am not. I'm just saying. She won't even tell me how we met.

Maybe she's a space alien?

Come on, Becky...

Okay. Free tip from a girl: she's upset YOU don't remember. That make sense?

It didn't make sense. How could a girl expect me to understand things she wouldn't say? Frankly, I didn't care enough to pursue the problem. I was using my girlfriend, and she was using me, and obviously neither of us wanted encroachment. I joked that she was a little squirrel, and she laughed along. Of course she did. After a few months, the schoolyear closed.

In summertime we spent more time together. My group met in the woods for hours and hours during those long summer months — the dwarves and a rotating cast of characters — and my girlfriend would always tag along. I liked her there. It made me special, since besides me only Bashful brought his girlfriend along. Most parents were more careful about their adolescent daughters. That was probably being paranoid, of course. We had a reputation as "good kids", and there was nothing too untoward taking place. Just a bunch of kids screwing around. About the worst of it was collecting pinecones and chucking them at cars from the overpass.

My girlfriend seemed to enjoy the meetings too, though it was hard to say with her fixed expression. I reflected on how good a boyfriend I was for bringing her along, since she didn't have a regular group to hang out with. Of course, I'd done it for myself, but I let myself forget this.

Those were the best days for us as a couple. She seemed to soften, warm up in the summer sun. She was tanning nicely, dressing down for the heat. She talked more. I remember once when she was whispering to me, showing me this dragonfly that had landed on her shoulder. A jumping spider leapt down from the trees and ate it. She shrieked, tripped over her feet, dragging us both down into a swamp. I laughed and wrestled her down, pulled her back into the muck as she tried to scramble out. "These are the laws of the jungle!"

When she finally escaped, she was slathered in mud and shuffling out like a drenched rat. She slipped and fell back in. I laughed at her, hard. She glared at me for a long while, but then she smiled. It was a genuine smile, very rare for her.

I lied about "the worst of it" a second ago. We did get our hands on a case of PBR once, at the very end of August. Like any self-respecting pack of fourteen-year-olds, we cracked it open and tried drinking. It tasted god awful. Everyone thought it tasted god awful, but none of us admitted it, so we drank it all. Having a clever idea, I slipped three to my girlfriend.

At her weight, three beers loosened her right up, and I swept her over too an old treestump covered with mushrooms. Now I wasn't thinking anything... like that. I was just curious, hoping to get her to talk like drunk people talk in movies. She did. Kinda. She slurred and spilled and rambled. She talked to me about a lot of things, very honestly. But if I'd been hoping to hear sweet nothings about how much she loved Rob — and that's exactly what I'd been hoping — I was in for a shock.

The more my girlfriend spoke, the more clear it became that she basically despised everything in the universe. She hated her parents, her brother. She thought school was pointless, our town a waste of space. She thought our teachers were condescending and fake, and her classmates were hypocrites, cheats, or monsters. As she spoke, she kept returning to me with hanging prods: "aren't they?", "isn't she?", "doesn't he?". I nodded politely, each time. I couldn't bring myself to say I had no idea what she was talking about.

She kept returning to the word "using". But what did that mean? Who was using who? I couldn't think of any examples of people using other people. It felt like she was crazy. Eventually she fell asleep, and I laid a parka over her and went to talk to my friends. I decided I wouldn't try to pry into her thoughts anymore.

I suppose here's as good a time as any to mention it. I first heard your name in October. Shelly was in fifth grade, and she was complaining about a girl in class who called her a yo-yo. That was you, wasn't it? I'm pretty sure it must have been you.

Our relationship was probably doomed after that. I'd dated my girlfriend because she was convenient, yes, but also because I was curious. What was hiding behind that expression of hers? Where did she keep those secret she held so tight? Why did she have to date me, of all people? Curiosity kept me interested. But after that day, I felt like I'd managed to open her up, but I'd found only poison.

Over the summer, I saw an easy familiarity develop between my friends and their girlfriends. The way they bunched arms, picked songs, whispered to each other. Before they realized it, the intimacy that had been forced and nervous became real. There was a closeness to them. I wanted it. But my girlfriend was distant, and, after listening to her rant by that treestump, I decided she could never give it to me.

We kept dating for four more months, anyway.

September came, school started. She avoided me for a week or so. She was always heading to the bathroom, always "busy". Once I saw her dart behind a row of lockers, just before our eyes met in the hall. I'd been hoping that she'd forgotten everything, but apparently drinking didn't work like Hollywood. When we did finally talk, she made a stony face, seeming irritated. She must have understood, I think, how bad a mistake she'd made.

What's she so angry about? I vented to Becky in the cafeteria.

How should I know?

Come on, you love this gossipy type stuff.

Geez, Rob, thanks. You do know how to make a girl feel special. Oh, I don't know.... because she doesn't have any friends? Because her family's poor? Because people used to make fun of her voice? Because her boyfriend's an idiot?

I snorted. Her family wasn't that poor, and her voice was fine. If she didn't have friends, why didn't she just make some?

Wow, what an amazing idea, Robby. Aren't you a clever boy. Applause.

It's just common sense...

Course it is. But like you said, she hates everyone. Everyone returns the favor. Been like that for years. You'd have known that if you didn't pick up girls like candy bars.... well, she's bitter chocolate. That's who she is.

Why doesn't she just quit it?

Becky smiled then. I don't think I can describe the smile too well, except to say it's like the smile you get when a little kid asks why poor people exist. She shrugged.

It's like a control valve, I guess. Lets her control the flow of things, keep too much pressure from getting in or out. Without it, she'd probably implode.

Don't look at me. That's what she said.

Bashful had sex with his girlfriend in August. As the oldest in our group, going fifteen in September, it would be him if anyone to run the gauntlet. We dwarves made a great deal of fun with the event, even pooling together allowance money to buy him a custom cake: CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR LOSS. (The old lady with the pastry bag was perplexed.) I still remember Bashful's girlfriend giggling as he airplaned blue frosting into her mouth.

Normally, I guess, sex would wait another year or two. We were only fourteen, and we were much more squishy-footed than we'd like to admit. But thanks to Bashful, we were now in a hurry. No guy wants to be the last virgin in his group. So soon enough Sleepy and Happy had taken care of business, and then Grumpy and Dopy were on the prowl. Fall was a turning into a great season of romance for the dwarves.

This left me in a bind. The gulf between my girlfriend and me was growing larger by the day, and I had been considering dumping her. She wasn't doing anything wrong per se. If anything, she'd gotten even more accommodating than before, practically sycophantic. She started getting clingy. She even tried to smile in private. But now it repulsed me, it seemed fake.

Her bad reputation was starting to sink in for me. Before I would laugh off the jokes, the gossip. The casual references to her being stuck up. When I first agreed to date her, none of it had made any sense to me, and I just didn't see it. But now I couldn't forget what she'd said at the treestump, and it was niggling in the back of my mind. I began to worry her reputation might rub off on me.

Even so, I asked her. What did she think about having sex?

Where? she asked. I told her my parents (or my sister and co) were always home, so it would have to be her house. She nodded reluctantly.

So, for real, I asked. Would you want to have sex?

She hesitated. Eventually, she said she wouldn't mind, as long as I promised not to think badly of her. This requirement didn't make much sense to me, but I agreed anyway. We made plans to meet on a Thursday night when her parents wouldn't be home. I wrote her address down, smiled, and thanked her, as if she were a cashier printing out my receipt for potato chips.

My girlfriend lived in a duplex about ten miles from my house, so it made quite the pilgrimage. She said to look for lawn gnomes, chipped red paint. I parked my bike three blocks away, just in case, walking the rest of the way with the address slip held out like a map. Even with the already-chilly October evening, I spent a few minutes shivering on the porch, trying to psyche myself up.

When I knocked, she answered the door in a blue shift with bare feet, her hair tied back in a bun, skin wet and soft, apparently fresh out of the shower. We greeted each other. She let me in.

Inside, the house was plainly furnished but meticulously clean. She brought me to her room, an empty corner cubby with not a speck of dust anywhere. There were no posters on the wall, no music CDs or television or books, and no sewing machine either, to my surprise. There were just a desk, a dresser, a closet, and a bed. The colors and fabrics were typical. It struck me as like a sitcom set.

She asked if I wanted anything to drink. I said no. Did I need the bathroom? No, thank you, I didn't. Would I mind if she blow-dried her hair before we began? I said okay. Even so she lingered, biting her lip. I guessed she was worrying I'd rifle through her stuff, so I promised not to pry around. She flushed and retreated to the bathroom.

I often wonder what would've happened if I pried around. But I didn't.

In a few minutes, she returned. We laid a beach towel over the coverlet, drew the curtains, switched on the lights, then got down to business. The whole thing lasted maybe fifteen minutes.

I realized, even then, that she was just pretending to enjoy herself. This touched me, and I felt myself warming to my girlfriend, thinking I must have misunderstood her somehow. I thought I could taste what I'd been looking for, all along, on the air, like salt on a sea breeze. But try as I might, her body stayed tight, her kisses lifeless. Face smiling, her eyes were drifting a million miles away.

When we were done, she got up and shuffled to the bathroom in a strange pigeon step. I lay on the beach towel, staring at the ceiling. Rather than feeling sleepy, I just felt exhausted. The sex had been, if I compare it to a meal, like swallowing a gallon of a water for dinner. It had filled my stomach, but it hadn't satisfied my hunger.

Twenty minutes ticked. She didn't return. When I got up to look for her, I found her crying at the kitchen table.

Don't look at me, she said. Don't look at me.

In my defense, it's hard to imagine a teenage boy who wouldn't take it personally.

I cold shouldered my girlfriend for the rest of the semester. I felt bitter, bitter, as bitter as her words at the treestump. We still met after school and in the halls, but I ignored her as much as possible. We didn't kiss, hold hands, or even touch. She, for her part, grew more and more sullen. Her fixed expression of microwave-watching became a mask of irritability. When my friends asked, I joked that she was being a diva. She wanted me to kowtow for the great service she'd rendered me. Well, if she felt that way, why didn't she just go to hell?

I would have dumped her right then. But the truth was, I was embarrassed to be seen stealing a girl's virginity and then bolting. So I just treated her rough. I figured if I did it long enough, she'd take the hint. But she kept not taking it.

There was, I know now, not much chance of me losing face for dumping my girlfriend. Without my goodwill, people (and especially girls) started speaking their minds more freely about her. Before long, it was common knowledge that my girlfriend was a slut.

I didn't mind the rumors. As far as I was concerned, she had wounded me, and it was only fair that she should hurt too. And if others felt wounded, didn't they have a right to extract justice? So when the knives came out, I turned a blind eye. Leah, especially, felt my girlfriend had wronged her — stolen her property, more or less. If you can believe it, Christie, junior high girls are the worst in the world when it comes to bullying. Old enough to know where it hurts, young enough to lack any real restraint.

Becky confronted me once in early December. Stop being a baby, was the gist of it. She said I was acting like a drama queen.

I'm already over it, I insisted. But then why was I egging them on? Becky asked. I wasn't egging them on, I said, I wasn't doing anything, If people were sniping at my girlfriend, it had nothing to do with me. Maybe she shouldn't be such an ice queen. But it wouldn't cost me anything to help her, Becky said. Well if so many people hated her, maybe she deserved it.

You'll regret this, Becky said.

In late December, just after semifinals, I was sitting in homeroom during role call, and was surprised not to hear my girlfriend's name. I thought the teacher had misspoke, and looked around. But she wasn't in. Later that day, word spread that her family had moved, that she'd transferred to a school in the city. People had a good laugh about it.

When I got home that afternoon, my mom handed me a plain white envelope that had been left in the mailbox. No return address or postage. Just Rob Blanchette.

> Was thinking of breaking up since September. I didn't cause it seemed like a waste. But I guess now's good enough.

You're a real piece of trash you know that? Your friends are shallow frat boys and what does that make you? The king of the apes? You suck at kissing. I used to think you were sweet but then I got to know you. You were just like that since no one ever did anything to you. A little bruise to your ego and you outed yourself as a whiny little bitch.

If I hear from you again I'll call the police. Sincerely, go die in a fire.

That's how I remember the words. I can't tell you exactly, because right after reading the letter, I crumpled it and tossed it in the trash. Good riddance, I thought.

There's something obscenely backward about life. You're expected to make all the important decisions right away, when you're young. You pick your major before you've studied anything, your career before you've worked much, your wife before you've been married. Parents have kids... do they have any experience raising kids? Of course not. But by forty, when they do have experience, they can't have kids anymore.

On the other hand, old people can't make important decisions anymore. They're just winding out the clock. My grandfather has all the wisdom in the world. Does wisdom help him on the golf course?

The most common dream that everyone has — and yes, I'm including sex stuff — is going back, doing it all over again. Life should let you fix what's backward about it. You should've been able to make those decisions when you weren't so young.

Winter came, and my happy life picked up where it left off. I started to hear about you.

I stayed single, guessing that a messy breakup excused me from finding a girlfriend. Basketball season entered high swing, and I was already looking forward to high school. A varsity coach even dropped by to have a look at me. There were bitter feelings sometimes, yes. Who could blame me? But for the most part, I let my ex slip out of my life like a stone dropping into deep water.

I joked about her to Becky sometimes. That was about the extent of it. Becky was a good sport, acting, unwillingly, like a boxing coach who braced the punching bag for me. Mostly, she would just roll her eyes and let me speak. Sometimes she got philosophical about things.

What was the deal with her, anyway? I would complain. Did she like me or not?

Hm. I'd say she wanted to, but she couldn't.

Wanted to like me? What's that supposed to mean?

Well it's like this fortune cookie I got. 'Only a good person can really love or hate.' I think that explains it pretty well?

That couldn't be right, I explained. Liking aside, I knew for a fact she hated me. She'd written a letter calling me human trash, after all.

She did? Now that's surprisingly nice of her. I'll have to send an Easter postcard with my thanks.

THANK her for calling me human trash?

Sure.

Wait a sec, you know where my ex lives?

Oh no you don't, Becky said. The whole thing ended about as well as it could. Why are you always bothering me with this dating stuff, anyway? Don't you have any other friends to harass?

Sorry... I guess it's because you're a girl.... but you don't seem like one?

Wow. Thanks, Rob. Good to know.

When I wasn't playing basketball, studying, or harassing Becky, I spent more time at home. Snow had closed off the woods and ATV trails, and the dwarves — bless their jocky hearts — were far less entertaining indoors. I ended up hanging out with Shelly's friends, actually. Super Smash Melee had caught on like the plague in elementary school, and my house was constantly reverberating with the sounds of pokemon and shrieking italians. So I could hardly read.

We played a lot of Gamecube that winter, Doc and the little girls. Usually four-player splitscreen, tournament style. Though fifth grade was wearing on for my sister, she had yet to turn on me, and if anything her friends gloried in having a teenager around. I even convinced them to play NBA Street sometimes. Why did girls get so unreasonable when they got to sixth grade? Was it some kind of curse?

I learned a lot about you that winter, Christie. Eleven-year-old girls chatter nonstop, so I wasn't really listening. Even so, you absorb some stuff. Osmosis, I guess. So, among a million other things, I learned there was a round peg in Shelly's class. Or maybe a mild irritant?

She was a standoffish girl, tall for her age, with knobby elbows and a sharp-looking face. Or that's what the caricatures sounded like, anyway. You haven't grown much since then, have you? From the descriptions, she seemed like the type who's always raising their hand in class and making everyone else feel stupid. Or insisting kids not cut in lunch line. Or saying that they actually liked Where The Red Fern Grows.

Shelly's friends would make little jokes about the girl. Softcore stuff, really. When copying homework, they would fret over what Christie would think. When someone picked Mewtwo in character select, they'd say they were playing "Christie".

From what I gathered, Christie ignored an invitation to my sister's birthday last November. That had been the turning point. The invitation had been pro forma, since Shelly invited everyone. My sister prided herself as the class's social organizer, its main pillar. Christie not even answering the invitation was a slap to the face. Without the tacit toleration of Shelly and a few other prominent girls, Christie's role in the class changed. Before she had been a round peg, to be left respectfully aside; but now she started to be a pest, to be avoided, to be dealt with.

She became a safe target for venting frustrations. For earning brownie points with the group for landing a clever dig. For feeling better about yourself, because at least you aren't her.

These are the things you learn by listening to eleven-year-olds babble as they combo-stun Mewtwo in Super Smash Bros.

I didn't spare much thought to Christie, really. Shelly's friends made fun of her. If I had an opinion, it was that of course they would make fun of her. Frankly, Christie sounded like a little snot. What can you expect, when you act like that?

One day in February, I was at lunch with the dwarfs, debating whether the Tampa Bay Buccaneers would repeat next year, when I noticed Becky had bags under her eyes. She'd been quiet all morning. She was sitting there, picking at her chop suey with a spork. When I asked if she'd been up all night dreaming about Tight Ends, she just gave me a perfunctory little chuckle, and kept picking at her food.

Later that week, Shelly's friends were abuzz with gossip. A boy in class had seen Christie's mom at the grocery store, and she'd been buying diapers. Those bedwetting products with commercials on TV. Christie didn't have any brothers or sisters, so he was saying Christie, THAT Christie, must wet the bed. Everyone was shocked and delighted by this development.

Christie denied it, of course. But she stuttered and blushed when explaining about her 'younger cousins', so everyone guessed she must be lying. Could anything be sweeter? For a stuck-up snot to have such an embarrassing secret... it was almost hard to imagine anything juicier, anything more hypocritical. Before, the best the class could do was call her "Mewtwo". But now, a whole world of possibilities opened.

For the second time that year, I saw knives coming out. For the second time, I didn't think much of it.

Though Becky lost the bags under her eyes, she stayed morose for the rest of February. Sometimes I would catch her looking at me, with her cheek cupped in her hand. There was less zing to her voice, and when she talked, she spoke in slow and plain words, without any of quips or sarcasm. The dwarves noticed too. They joke she must be lovesick. Becky gave them a withering look, then resumed her old way of speaking. Even so, she sounded tired.

Was it something I did? I asked.

No, Becky replied. It's nothing that you did.

In March, the situation in Shelly's class plunged off the rails. How much of this story do I need to tell? I heard it from jokes and preteen gossip, so maybe it's be exaggerated. You hadn't been sleeping well, so you fell asleep during class. The predictable happened. You left a puddle on the floor and had to change in the nurses office. The girls started calling you "Christie's cousin" and asked for their desks to be moved, in case you nodded off again. You lashed out. One girl, Patricia, pointed out that, if she was a bitch, why wasn't she the one with no friends?

Around that time, you started going to the bathroom every break, between every block. Kids noticed this, and you stopped. At the end of the month, you wet your pants during recess, and everyone laughed. There was a PTO meeting about it. The teacher gave class detention, and everyone said it was because you'd been a crybaby. Kids started leaving pacifiers in your cubbyhole. You "got sick" for a few weeks. After you came back, people accused you of faking it, and you tore a poor girl's face open.

As the story unfolded over weeks, my major reaction was to scold them for saying the B-word. Why? It's a terrible story when you tell it plainly. But to everyone there it was a joke. Everyone was giggling, pokemon were roaring, italians were shrieking. What was the big deal? If anything, Christie was the one doing the really bad things. The rest was just comeuppance. It was just what she deserved.

In April, Becky had falling a out with Leah. It came very suddenly. One day they were gossiping together in third-block break, and the next they weren't. They didn't fight or didn't badmouth each other. They continued meeting with the same pool of friends, but only one at a time. Everyone was confused by the situation, since they'd known each other forever. Becky, for her part, wouldn't say anything.

Now, I had tried to keep good relations with Leah ever since our abortive romance in seventh grade. We would small-talk in study hall, we smiled at each other in the halls, we joined the same group in Spanish. One day I caught her under the bus sunshade. I waved, walked up, and she smiled at me. Once the topic of Becky came up, her expression soured.

Becky can get off that high horse whenever she likes. How much is she planning to drill me on it? It's not like it's my fault.

I frowned, then asked what Leah meant. We talked for another two minutes, with Leah venting and me just asking questions. Eventually, the buses arrived, so we said goodbye and parted ways. I walked unsteadily over to my bus. The driver pumped open the door and I filed in, heading to the very back of the bus. I plopped down, lowered my backpack, and looked down at the fray in the seat upholstery.

After a few minutes, I nodded to myself. It made perfect sense. My old girlfriend always kept her secrets well. She'd never told me anything. Usually you'd expect a letter, but she'd never do that. It made perfect sense that she'd leave me a note saying nothing and then go far away. It made perfect sense I wouldn't know she'd killed herself.

I rode my bike to her old house one morning. It was early and still chilly outside, and there were no cars, no streetlights. From the outside, you couldn't see anything. I'm guessing the owner hadn't found new renters yet, because the windows were boarded up for the winter. There were lawn gnomes peaking out of dirty snow, smiling at me.

I climbed up to the house, over the drifts, almost slipping on a sheet of black ice below the rain gutter. The door was locked. Of course the door was locked. So, after kicking ice on the porch for a while, I knocked down some boards and climbed into the window.

The house wasn't clean anywhere. There was dust, and the floors hadn't been vacuumed in months. Still no spiders. It seemed like the kitchen was being prepped for repainting, since white sheets covered the floor. I wiped my boots on them before heading for her room.

Everything she'd owned was gone. What had I been expecting? Her ratty old desk was still there, but nothing else. Even her desk chair and mattress were gone. So I sat on the wire bedframe, stewing. In the dark, her room seemed as blank and friendly as graphing paper. Had a human really lived here?

I opened the closet, not knowing what else to do. Surprisingly it wasn't empty. There were cardboard boxes stacked in the corner, one on top of the other. Had they been left behind? I took the boxes out and spread them across the carpet.

The boxes were full of dolls, you see. They...

What can I say?

They were hand-sewn dolls, you see. I don't know what to call them. The dolls had painted buttons for eyes, and their hair was... braided? with yarn I think. Yes, yarn, but all woven... I can't describe it right. Well, the dolls wore lots of clothes, in layers, very colorful clothes. I've never been much for arts and crafts, Christie. But I could see the care in... all the frills and stitches and stuff. The little details for each doll...

There was a kingdom in the boxes, Christie. A king with a tinsel crown and a queen with a lumpy wax nose. A dozen princes, and a princess in a shiny sequin dress. There were lords and ladies, with needle swords and gowns, so proud. An there were servants with brooms, eyebrows raised, and there were courtiers and tough-looking guards, and ministers with thimble hands in their robes. There was a cook with a pipe-cleaner moustache, and gossiping maids laughing...

I sorted through the boxes. When the sky started to get light outside, I packed them away.

I found one more thing in her room. In her desk, I found a book. The cover was worn and oily, and inside the pages had lines for writing. A diary, I guessed, but all the words had been crossed out.

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:09 PM
Content: Chapter 16: A story about yesterday's tomorrow, but not a story about today

There was a pebble in the river with all its edges worn away.

I quit the basketball team in March, just before regionals. That floored everyone — Coach, my friends, my parents, even Becky. For a solid week they hounded me about it, guessing I'd quit for this reason or that reason, or giving me advice, or cliches, or their stupid sympathy. I got to avoiding them. They had the wrong idea, I said. Then why? they'd ask, but I couldn't say why. It wasn't about shame, or grief, or anger, or whatever. I quit because I couldn't stand it anymore. All of it.

I couldn't stand rubber squeaking on wood anymore. I didn't like the crusty old gum on the bleachers, or the stupid pride banners from twenty years ago. Dribbling annoyed me. I couldn't stand the dwarves and the dumb looks on their faces, or the nasally, wet sound of Coach's voice. In school, I couldn't stand Becky with her fake sarcasm; or Leah with her stares; or cheerful girls, or people who knew, or people who didn't, or that girl in Algebra who teared up when I asked her the lunch schedule. I quit because everyone pissed me off.

Only a good person can be happy.

It got cold, stupid cold that March. You remember, right? The kind of cold where your fingers get raw and cracked in your pockets, and you just stand at the bus stop swearing and kicking chunks of ice around. Well, the ice just hurt my feet. We even lost power that March. What a lousy month.

I had a lot of free time, that March. I didn't have practice or games or dwarves, and owing to the winter there was no yard to mow. Since as long as I could remember, stuff had filled my life, but in March I realized how long days are. They come twenty four hours a pop. Take out eight hours for sleep, seven for school, twenty minutes for bus rides, an hour for random crap... Subtract it all and there's still seven hours. What was I supposed to do with seven hours?

Becky asked me at lunch (since I couldn't avoid her at lunch). What are you up to these days?

Nothing, I said.

And that was true. I spent March doing nothing.

I read some, the kind of reading you do to prove something. Old novels, high school lit. Textbooks. That sort of stuff. I might as well have read laundry tags for my clothes, because I didn't get anything out of what I read. The words beamed into my eyes and bounced off my skull. But there was nothing else to do, so I read.

I couldn't watch TV or play Gamecube. I was avoiding my sisters' friends, and they hogged the living room. They still came over, still knocked at the door, still squealed. They still talked about Christie, played Super Smash Brothers. But I didn't go down, I stayed holed up in my room. Something about them made me want to puke.

While I was reading, I'd run my eyes over the words and hear Mario shrieking through the walls, and feel scissors of hate working their way up my stomach.

I did wonder, sometimes, why my girlfriend died. Not every day, or even every week, but sometimes. I'd lie in my bed and stew over it, like an algebra problem. My first idea, coming home from school that day, was that she'd died to attack me somehow. She'd wanted to make me the bad guy. By dying, she thought she could hurt my feelings. I liked snorting at that idea, and kept snorting for as long as I could convince myself it made any sense.

Then, for a while, I thought she died to avoid being hurt, or because she was hopeless, or for pride, or whatever. That made more sense. It's why people die in movies. But still, it didn't sit right with me. It felt too kitschy. My girlfriend wasn't the type to back down, and I felt like her pride would keep her alive rather than kill her.

In the end, I guessed she died to become invisible.

I learned a lot about my girlfriend in March, as much as I learned from a year of dating her. I learned about her while lying in my bed, reading useless old books. I didn't need to bike to her house and find those dolls. I didn't need to ask her old teachers, or call her loser brother at his tattoo parlor upstate, or talk to kids who'd known her in grade school, with who she left no real impression except "quiet". I learned plenty in bed.

She'd always been so smooth and hard, like a pebble. But it clicked for me, right after she died, that I'd missed something simple about her. That was all surface. She'd been hard on the outside to hide a terrible softness inside, a softness she wouldn't show to anyone.

Don't look at me, she said. How hadn't I seen it?

But no, I must have seen it.

And I would lie in my bed and feel it: She'd wanted me to see. It has to be you, she'd said, trusting me to see her terrible softness, me and me alone, the boy she liked for something he didn't even remember, but I didn't look, I was too full of myself, she'd been waiting, she'd been looking at me with that fixed expression. That was why she died.

But no. That was movies. That's kitsch, a bunch of sop. She'd been using me, like I'd been using her, she was a fake the whole way.

People would say nice things about her, of course. People say nice things about dead people.

She was a sweet kid, said her brother.

We should have understood her better, a bully.

She had her whole future ahead of her, a teacher.

What a load of crap.

It has to be you, she said. And what did that mean? She'd wanted to use me against all the people she hated. Her soft parts were poisoned, poisoned deep inside and sealed away. She wanted me to hide her. And when I didn't do the job, she stole her terrible softness far away. She tried to hide it in the most permanent way she could. But like everything else about her, that plan amounted to nothing.

One Wednesday in April, Shelly's friends never came over. I kept waiting for the scuff of boots in the mudroom, but there was only silence. When I poked my nose out of my room, I found the house empty, just Shelly alone in her room listening to music CDs. I muttered thank god and went back to my room.

None of her friends came Thursday either. Or Friday. Not even Saturday. What was up? Not that I was complaining...

The story spilled out at the dinner table. It turns out some girls in Shelly's class got bagged for cheating — just homework, really, but the PTA was throwing a fuss. They were all suspended, most grounded: practically felon treatment for eleven-year-olds. Shelly was livid.

It was just BUSY work, she said. It's not like they did anything really bad. Tara's grounded a month over drills.

Christie was supposed to be the culprit. No one knew for sure, but everyone said you'd been talking to Ms. Spencer alone on Tuesday. When asked point blank, you just shrugged. Maybe if they didn't want to get caught cheating, they shouldn't cheat?

She's SO stuck up. Why'd she have to tell on them anyway? What's in it for her?

I guessed she wanted to hurt them. Seems like she did a good job.

Hurt Tara? Why?

I shrugged. Shelly glared at her mashed potatoes.

It's not Tara's fault no one likes her. Why doesn't she take her ugly clothes and fraction drills and go pee her pants somewhere else?

That spring, I got to feeling like I was surrounded by vampires.

It's not Tara's fault no one likes her, said Shelly, a vampire.

I think I might kind of like you, said Susan-Suzy, vampire.

Everyone knows your girlfriend's a slut. Vampire.

She was such a sweet kid. Another vampire.

I read some horror novels that spring. In horror novels there's a small underground of vampires living secretly in society, pretending to be human while they feed in the shadows. The idea is ridiculous, of course. In real life, everyone's a vampire.

I fed on my girlfriend, and she, in turn, tried to feed on me. In basketball, my friends fed on players who weren't any good. In grade school, my sister's friends were feeding on Christie. My parents fed on my achievements. Lots of girls used to feed on my girlfriend when she was alive. Now, when she was dead, everyone did. What are vampires to do when there are no humans left? They've got to feed on each other, and the weaker vampires are expected to submit.

One day at lunch — you have to sit with people at lunch — the dwarves were joking about this lunch lady who couldn't do mental math. The old bag kept a calculator by the money tray and had to punch it for everything. Like, she'd check for seven quarters. And she'd sneer at students like it was their fault.

The dwarves screwed up their faces and smacked their lips copying her. Twenty-five.... fifty.... seventy-five... Laughing.

The next day, they were talking about this kid who kept using pig latin in Spanish. ¿Como se dice 'dog'? --- Ogday. --- En español, por favor. --- Ureshay. Obviously desperate for attention. Was this his idea of showing off to girls?

Then there was a loudmouth who missed eight extra points in practice. How clutch. He'd be going straight to the pros, for sure.

Every day, a new blood bag. Every day, more hot blood for their veins. For a long time I wondered why they needed it, but in the end it made sense. They couldn't be young, strong, popular, or cool without someone else being old, weak, lame, or despised.

Were they cruel, all the time? No, only rarely actually. The dwarves hogged the top of the food chain, so they had lots of cattle. Sneezy, for example — always been the awkward one in the group. He was baby-faced, he stuttered, and he wasn't even a starter. Everyone handled Sneezy with kids gloves. When we joked 'friendly' jokes about Sneezy, he always laughed along. That was the price he paid to be there.

But the dwarves weren't the worst of the vampires, not even monsters like Leah. The worst were the fakers.

There was a school shooting in Maryland that May, a real nasty one. The principal held a moment of silence, played Amazing Grace on the intercom. When I looked around, I saw four girls crying. They had their tissues out and those super red faces that crying girls get. And then there were other girls hugging and comforting them. I felt like I was going to puke.

They never knew those kids when they were alive. Those kids were just photos on TV. But now the girls cried. They got to think, I'm a good person, who cries for kids who die.

Vampires.

Why were there vampires everywhere, all of a sudden? They hadn't been vampires before. Before I'd had friends and teachers and an annoying little sister. I'd had cute girls with hair that smelled nice. I had a basketball team and goofy classmates and chirping ten-year-olds. Now I was surrounded by vampires.

I wasn't happy anymore. She'd stolen that from me, she poisoned me, stuck her fangs deep inside. She said she didn't need anything from me, just to be my girlfriend, but she took everything. I even hated my parents now. Why couldn't she have grown up to be that sneering old lunch lady, lived her miserable worthless life?

And here I've been talking about her for two hours, but I still haven't gotten to the main thing — that she was such a horrible person. She never told me how she felt. She crossed out all the words in her diary... and that letter, that piece of trash? It didn't say anything. So here I am four years later, guessing, talking about vampires and pebbles and fortune cookies and bitter chocolate, but the truth is I don't know a thing about her, just that she made dolls sometimes. She didn't even have the decency to say why she made me a murderer.

One lunch period, out of nowhere, I snapped. Is it really that fun?

There was a long argument, lots of confusion, lots of yelling, a milk carton thrown, and I honestly can't remember any of it. In the end, Becky cut in.

Quit taking it out on your friends, Rob. It was her own fault.

What? I said.

That's what this is about, isn't it?

I told Becky she was terrible.

Oh I'm terrible, huh? Well sure. But here's the truth. She had a sad childhood? No one understood her? She was all alone? Oh, boo hoo. It's the easiest thing to stop being alone. You see that table? You see the empty seat? She could've sat there. She could've talked, could've talked to YOU, could've talked to anyone.

How could she talk? I said. They ruined her, they'd...

... pity her? Mm-hm. But her pride was more important, wasn't it? She wouldn't let herself be like that, wouldn't let herself stop hating everyone. She chose.

Why should she have to choose? That's nuts. We...

You couldn't have done jack shit, Rob.

Oh?

People like that don't get better. You're plenty nice, Rob, but she was selfish. I don't have sympathy for posers who aren't even trying to be happy.

I told Becky she was terrible.

Becky's lip twitched, and I thought she might cry for a moment. But she just snorted. She collected her milk carton and sporks onto her tray in a huff. Why do people who tell the truth have to be terrible? she muttered, and left.

Of course, I was just sucking blood. For me to feel better, someone else had to be terrible.

There's just one last thing, I guess.

In July, Shelly packed up for summer camp. You remember D.A.R.E. right? They still make six graders go every year, I think. Anyway the girls were buzzing straight through June about tents and canoes and campfires.... ready for a shock, of course, since D.A.R.E. camp is all peer pressure exercises. They gave me a headache. Mom even dragged me along to drop Shelly off. I didn't tell her friends, just glad to see them gone.

I saw you at the bus depot that July. No, you wouldn't have seen me. I was sulking in the car with a book. Anyway, it was hard to miss you. You were planted between the station's double doors, with kids milling around. There was a kind of electricity to you. I remember.... well, where to start? Your clothes, for one. Almost aggressively ugly... a fishing hat two sizes too big, reflective vest, baggy cargo shorts, high black socks, frumpy hiker's backpack... You had your shoulders squared and you were staring forward like you wanted to burn a hole into the station planter. And you were right there. All the groups had to pass right by you. Everything about you seemed to dare someone to say something.

After looking awhile, I went back to reading. Before I knew it, Mom returned and fastened her seatbelt. She gave me grief for not saying goodbye to my sister, then we drove home.

Now...

Do you remember those fill-in magnets from D.A.R.E. camp? The ones that go MY FAMILY: _______ / MY FRIENDS: _______ / MY PLEDGE: ________. The camp volunteers make you give them to your parents after camp, so they can guilt you about booze and pot when you're a teenager.

Anyway, Shelly brought hers home two weeks later, full of signatures and sticker photos and a few stick figure cartoons. Mom dutifully stuck it to the fridge. I DARE NOT TO ABUSE DRUGS AND ALCOHOL. Shelly seemed queasy as she handed it over, biting her lip and playing with her sleeves, and ever since she was kid, those were giveaways that my sister was telling a lie.

So, I asked, who snuck smokes into D.A.R.E camp?

But I must've guessed wrong, because Shelly just blinked at me. I frowned.

For the rest of the evening, Shelly stayed quiet. Too quiet. She did her laundry and cleaned her room, not even listening to the radio. She didn't whine, or phone her friends, or talk much. She sat still when Mom made her wait for aloe vera to set on her shoulders (Hideous sunburn, now that I remember it). After dinner, she even decided to work on summer math drills in her room. Now that was when I knew it was serious.

Must be a boy, I thought.

Anyway, she stayed weird for the rest of the week. She ate more, showered longer. She canceled on her friends for candlestick bowling. One night she asked me how many stamps you need to send a letter, and I told her. But shouldn't she hand something like that over in person?

But Shelly blinked again. So it wasn't a boy....

I searched the mailbox the next day, but apparently she hadn't sent one yet. There was an empty sheet of paper sitting on her desk for a few days.

I checked the fridge magnet again, curious despite myself. For MY FAMILY, she'd listed Mom, Dad, me, and our goldfish. For MY FRIENDS, she had all the usual suspects, plus some names I guessed were classmates. It was packed full. And then there was her pledge not to do drugs. Nothing suspicious...

Then I squinted.

After a careful look, I unstuck the magnet from the fridge and brought it to the living room. Shelly was on the couch watching a game show with a magazine in her lap.

So. What's this space for?

Shelly looked up with big doe eyes. I was pointing to a gap in the list of signatures that had been covered with a sticker, and just on cue, Shelly started playing with her sleeve.

It's not my fault.

What's not your fault?

I ASKED. I did ask, it's true.

Asked who? What? I started to say, but Shelly just shook her head.

It's not my fault she wouldn't sign, she said, and then burst into tears.

Here's the story, as far as I can tell. The Friday before Saturday pickup, everyone had their sharpies out and were swapping signatures. Shelly made her friends write extra small, since she needed to fit all of next year's class too. Her group went around, getting and giving signatures, drawing smiley face and writing little inspirational tidbits. She even thought it would be nice to offer a swap to you, when she found you sitting under a tree shucking a pinecone.

What am I, a collectible? you said. Leave me alone.

Come on, we'll sign yours, too.

Why would I want YOUR names? you said, and chucked the pinecone into the woods.

Shelly thought this very rude of you. Here they were trying to be nice, doing you a favor really, and you were spitting it back in their face. It's not like they had anything to do with what the boys were up too. In fact, Shelly was always very polite about Christie stuff, even offering to let you join her roleplay group, telling Patricia Munce to stop being a meanie with those jokes about the stuff they found in the resource cabin. But if anything, that seemed to make you sourer.

This whole camp is so dumb, you muttered, digging another pinecone out of the needles.

Now Shelly agreed (everyone agreed) that the camp was dumb, but it sounded awful coming from you.

Oh, okay then. So who are you going to get for friends, if not us?

I was thinking I'd just sit here.

We give these to our PARENTS. Aren't you going to put any effort in?

No... How many kids are there in camp?

Shelly stopped. Apparently you confused the group with the unexpected demography problem. How many bunk cabins were there? They muddled out some estimates. One of Shelly's friends guessed that there were probably around three hundred.

Then I've got two-hundred and ninety-six to think about before you, you said, and went back to shucking pinecones. Shelly shrugged.

Good luck with your two-hundred and ninety-six friends, then.

Maybe Counselor Claire will sign, Tara suggested. (Counselor Claire was a college volunteer, right?) Do you think Christie peed her pants so the adults would pay attention to her?

According to Shelly, the pinecone clocked Tara right in the forehead. She tried to pull it off, but it got caught in her bangs. You laughed. Shelly and her friends left in a huff. A few hours later, the camp counselors made you sign an apology, which you signed in cursive "Sincerely, Christie, your CAMPMATE."

That night, after you went to your bunk, the girls got curious and pulled the magnet out of your backpack. They found you'd left it blank. For the rest of the night, playing Old Miss with a flashlight near Tara's bunk, they had a running gag about who should go there. Counselor Claire. Pine trees. The PTA. Puff the Magic Dragon. The Huggies Corporation.

Eventually, someone thought it would be funny to write down some of the better ideas, so they took out a marker and started filling in the magnet. Shelly didn't write anything, even said they were being dreadful, but she did laugh.

Christie'll probably just tell on us, Tara said mournfully, just before bed. You'll see, it'll be a big thing. She'll make a big deal out of it.

But in the morning, you responded indifferently — found the magnet on the floor, snorted, and stuffed it in your backpack, more or less. And when the camp lined up for farewell pledges, you pulled it out and just signed. Everyone held their breath when Counselor Claire made the rounds to distribute stickers, but you held yours out so your hands covered the FRIENDS section. In the end, Counselor Claire just passed. You glanced back at Tara and rolled your eyes.

But that was a lie, wasn't it?

After lunch, cleanup time began. Everyone was pulling sheets off beds, sweeping cabin floors, cleaning mess trays. Shelly was given a bag and told to pick up litter, so she was making a sweep of the woods when she spotted you by the river.

You were at a little secluded spot, at the bend of the river. She found you kneeling in the mud, holding your hands in the water. After a few moments, Shelly realized you were scrubbing at the magnet. You kept scrubbing, scrubbing, but the marker wouldn't come off. And you were crying. Shelly watched behind a tree, horrified, and backed away.

After sneaking away, she rushed to the main lodge and started to throw a fit in Councilor Richie's office. She said she'd dropped her magnet in the river, that she was just devastated. So after a good long scolding, he gave in, and pulled an extra magnet out of the filing cabinet.

Just before the end of camp, Shelly flagged you down at the buses.

Sure you don't want to swap signatures? she asked.

Dead sure, you said. But Shelly pulled out the fresh magnet anyway, signed, and held it out.

I've already got one, you said.

But you've got to give that to your Mom, right?

Duh.

Look, you don't even need to sign mine. Here, just take it.

Shelly kept pressing you, and you kept waving her off.

I don't think you get it, you said, and gave my sister this look. Shelly said you stared her down like you hated her more than anyone on earth.

I really, really don't want to be your friend, you said, and then hopped on the bus.

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:10 PM
Content: Chapter 17: About wiping yourself, changing yourself (continued)

"She didn't have a right," said Christie, choking. Of course Christie had to be crying again. Crybaby. "That was private... that was mine. She wasn't allowed to see that."

The clock was rounding one-thirty, and tomorrow still hadn't come. Rob had talked and talked, sitting at the foot of the couch while Christie curled up and stared in the cushions. Outside of a few questions, she'd let the story run over her. Rob would stop to check if she was still awake sometimes. Time and time again, she thought she'd fallen asleep, that she was just dreaming, but then she realized her eyes were open.

Christie buried her eyes into the seam. She didn't know what Rob wanted from her. This was all so long ago. She'd love to have made different decisions, to go back, but her decisions had all be made. It felt so pointless to remember. While Christie cried her stupid, angry tears, Rob didn't say anything, just pulled his knees to his chest. It seemed like he finally got tired of talking. Christie spent a few minutes feeling sorry for herself -- because of course she felt sorry for herself, after hearing all of that. Idiot.

The clock kept ticking, ticking, and eventually everything got still inside. Her fingers hurt, everything hurt. She was so tired.

"Robby, what does being a good person mean." The question just slid out, like a downed tree being pulled downriver.

"I dunno."

Christie chewed her at her finger. "I don't think I could be a good person."

Rob shrugged. He leaned forward to take a sleeping pill off the coffee table, then he passed it back behind his head. "For a start, could you get to sleep?"

Christie nodded. She swallowed it down with three big gulps of water.

A few minutes later, Christie felt woozy as she got up from the couch, like she'd put her feet on backwards. She had to get ready for bed, she insisted. Rob didn't understand how these things work for girls. After some stumbling, Rob took her elbow and guided her to the bathroom sink.

"I'm afraid," she said, walking.

"Afraid of what?"

"Shelly..." Christie frowned at the cool stickiness of the bathroom floor.

"Is my sister that scary?" Rob smiled.

"I said I hate them. Everything I said was true."

Rob filled the sink a quarter full with warm water so Christie could rinse her face, then brush her teeth. She felt light all over. When was she going to fall asleep, anyway?

"She bont forgib be."

"Hold on, you're getting toothpaste on the mirror..."

"Oh." Christie wiped the mirror with her palm, then spit the toothpaste out. "She shouldn't forgive me."

"Do we have to talk about this now?" Rob wiped her chin with a hand towel.

It was strange for Rob to say that, since she'd be translucent soon. Christie felt woozy again. She grabbed his shirt and tried to convey it somehow. "I hate her... how can she forgive me if I hate her?"

"That is a problem..." said Rob, pressing his tongue on his lip. "Christie, do you have any other pajamas?"

"Pajamas? They're in the wash..."

When Christie looked down, she saw her nightie was already getting translucent, plus clingy and cold to boot. Or...? No, there was just water down the front. She must have spilled. Christie lifted the hem and started wringing it out, blushing at first, thinking her underwear must be showing, but then she remembered she was wearing diapers. Some water dribbled on the floor.

Rob shook his head and sighed. "Oh what the heck, it's not like you'll mind."

In short order, her nightie was taken, a t-shirt was found, and Christie was giggling at how silly she looked in the mirror. She looked so weird not wearing pants. But after a minute, she remembered again, and her body got heavy. The girl with the diaper poking out beneath her shirt stared solemnly back.

"I always hated her the most, 'cause she tried to be nice." The words sounded fuzzy.

"Again, do we have to talk about this now?" Rob closed the medicine cabinet, yawning. "You can tell Shelly all about it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow..." Christie's eyes blurred together. "What am I supposed to say tomorrow?"

"Hm. Since you've tried everything else, how about the truth?"

As Christie climbed upstairs, feeling squishy between her thighs, she thought about the word. T-r-u-th. It made goosebumps stand on the back of her neck. The truth, he said, like it was nothing. The idea filled her with dread.

Halfway up, she had to stop to shudder, and she was pretty sure she must have peed a little. How could Rob ask that? He didn't understand. It was easy to tell the truth about things you did. You can put all your filth in a box and disown it. But what about saying the truth about things you are? You can never disown that.

In the end, they reached Christie's room. The closet door was still open, with a pink Goodnites package staring down. Her diary was out, and her old pink sheets were laid on the bed. Everything felt surreal.

Why was everything so unfair? Christie wondered. She'd never asked for this. She'd never wanted Shelly to see her crying in D.A.R.E. camp, or for Rob's girlfriend to die, she never even knew her. Christie had tried to stop them from helping her, both three years ago and now. Christie'd tried so hard to keep a safe distance, to keep her sickness to herself. But now they'd made it her fault if she didn't get better, didn't become happy. The weight of their expectations pressed down on her.

Christie lay down on the coverlet, so tired. Her eyelids fluttered, and she suddenly couldn't move another inch. She felt herself becoming translucent. She was vaguely aware that Rob was changing her diaper.

"Would you give it a shot?" asked Rob, finally, as he ripped open the tapes. "For me?"

Christie nodded.

"So," he said, "what do you do for hobbies?"

"I read lots of romance novels. Sometimes I draw pictures and post them online. I like to imagine I'm there..."

"What do you do with your friends from band?"

"I don't have any friends in band."

Rob nodded. He was unfolding a diaper to her side. "What kind of music do you listen to?"

"I don't," she said. Then she grimaced. "I listened to Disney Radio for a few hours last week."

"Why did you write those names in your diary?"

"I wanted them to die," she whispered.

Turning away, frowning, Rob grabbed the backpack at the foot of her desk. He pulled out a box of wet wipes. While he was there, he slid her locking diary gently into the drawer.

"Do you have a best friend?"

"I don't want one."

"Hm."

Christie tried to bolt up, but found she couldn't. She rubbed her eyes angrily. "I'm not lying! Why do you think I'm lying? I just want them to leave me alone!"

"Don't squirm, I didn't say I thought you were lying. Geez, don't be such a kid..." He was just getting around to pulling up her legs. Christie looked away, trying to sulk, but it's hard to sulk when your eyes keep closing. "Then who do you want to leave you alone the most?"

"Shelly," she said, instantly.

Rob smiled. "Got it."

Christie blushed. Just then, she wanted to tell Rob not to look at her, but a little voice told her she shouldn't. Not those words. An awkward moment passed as he got to wiping. The wipes were cold, tickled her, and they made her feel almost awake again. After that, he got to fixing the tapes.

"Rob," she said with her fingers hiding her face, "did you love your girlfriend?"

"I dunno."

She tried to string the words together.

"Do you think she loved you?"

He stared down strangely. "Why do you ask that?"

"She made you unhappy..." Christie mumbled. "She must have known she'd make you unhappy, since she made everybody unhappy, but she came up to you on the bus anyway. How can you call that love?"

While Rob thought about that, Christie felt his eyes painfully. He was looking, looking at her. She couldn't turn away, so she glued her eyes to her belly. In the end, Rob shrugged again.

"I dunno. People use people. If that disqualifies her, there's no such thing as love."

At length he smoothed the front of her diaper and outed the gathers. Christie tried to help him fix her shirt and roll up the covers, but she couldn't, she was too far away. "Speaking of love," he said, "Who's that boy you like?"

The clock ticked.

"You," she said, helplessly.

"Oh," said Rob.

The house was very quiet as Rob smiled sadly down.

Christie shrunk back into the pillow. She'd known, of course she'd known. I shouldn't say, Rob had told her. You'll take it the wrong way, he said. She'd repeated those words in her mind all night, listening to him talk about that girl with the hard face who'd hurt him so much. Even so, Chistie'd wanted to think, she'd wanted to believe... and now the truth had escaped and she couldn't take it back.

Her fingers hurt, everything hurt.

Eating cereal Saturday morning, she'd wondered why Rob acted so nice to her. She'd wanted so badly for him to like her, for her to be special. Christie would've even been happy if Rob liked her for peeing her pants. But that story made things clear, didn't it? Just like Shelly, Rob didn't like her, not really. He treated her nice because he felt guilty.

"I'm so stupid," she said, giving in to her eyelids at last. She felt herself spreading out and out and out, mixing with the distant tick of the clock, with the gentle hum of Rob's voice, growing softer every word.

"Go to sleep, Christie, just go to sleep. You've been awake too long... we're gonna miss first block already, aren't we? We'll have no time, no time at all, so go to sleep. Today's been long and hard, and tomorrow will be longer and harder. You tried once, didn't you? You'll have to try lots tomorrow. You are stupid, did you know that? What am I supposed to do when you're this useless? I don't think I can do anything... so you'll have to be brave, and you've never been brave. But tonight there's nothing to be done, and you're just so broken, so just sleep, please sleep, my stupid, useless, precious Christie..."

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:10 PM
Content: Chapter 18: Secret?

Christie woke to the mumble of a saucepan simmering in the kitchen. She stirred. Her room was bright, very bright, and her muscles felt sluggish like she'd been sleeping for a hundred years. Downstairs, she heard a plate clatter on the counter, and there was a smell of cinnamon wafting through the open door.

She rubbed her eyes, rolling over to pat the bed, but she couldn't find her cellphone. What time was it? Was it a weekday? From the sun it must be at least eight, but her alarm hadn't rung. And why wasn't Mom at work yet? And why were her sheets different?

And what was she wearing?

Christie lifted the comforter and peered down at her bare legs. Wow, she thought. She had to shake her feet to convince herself they were attached. Below a lime tee she appeared to be wearing one of her grade school diapers, the ones Mrs. Blanchette bought, and the patterns on the front were all blurry. Probing her fingers inside, it felt mushy, and everything was smooth.

Her old lion plushy was sitting fiercely on the nightstand. There were pastel sheets on her mattress, no books or laptop on her desk. At the foot of her bed, she saw her old nightie folded in a neat square beneath a pair of slippers. For a terrible three seconds, Christie wondered whether she'd just dreamed about being a highschooler, whether she'd be going to sixth grade today, but then she started to remember.

Oh boy did she start to remember.

A minute later, Rob found her sitting in bed with her hands to her face.

"Oh, you're awake, cool. Six hours it is... get dressed and come downstairs. We don't have much time." Without another word, he clicked the door shut and she heard footsteps thudding down the stairs.

Not much time for what? Christie wondered. The bus would be long gone... she crept to the edge of her bed and wiggled her toes in the carpet. Outside there was a drip-drip-drip from the eaves as glaze from last night's rain melted in the sun. Christie felt at peace somehow. She'd alienated her 'friends', all her secrets were discovered, and she'd experienced every possible human embarrassment. Everything that could happen, had happened, so today couldn't possibly be more humiliating than yesterday.

Could it.

Christie shook the thought away, yawned, and stumbled up. Tugging off the lime tee, she rolled it up and tossed it in the hamper. Okay. She unfolded her nightie, pulled it over her head. Okay. She slid her feet into the slippers. Okay. So Christie could dress herself, excellent. Now if she could start peeing in the toilet, she'd be great.

Her stomach rumbled, so Christie penguin-stepped her way out of the room and down to the kitchen. It felt weird to walk with a saggy diaper, but no weirder than anything else this morning. Rob was cooking steel-cut oats with diced apple on the stovetop, still wearing yesterday's shirt. He nodded when she entered. Between stirring, he occasionally sipped from a mug of coffee. Christie plopped down at the dinner table, another weird feeling. Gross, but somehow.... appropriate.

When Rob brought out orange juice in a capped sports bottle, she was well past being offended.

"Coffee?" she pleaded.

"Bad idea."

"I only slept six hours..."

"Exactly. Caffeine dehydrates you. It'll actually make you tired-er in the long run."

Christie scowled. "Tired-er isn't a word."

"Glad you're feeling better, Christie." he said. "Speaking of dictionaries, do we have different definitions of 'getting dressed'?"

Christie blushed down at her nightie. "You left this on the bed, so..."

"For if you woke up in the middle of the night... well, whatever. This works. You can dress later. It might be better actually, since it's cute."

What? Christie thought, but Rob was already back in the kitchen, minding the oatmeal. She sucked her sports bottle irritably. The clock in the living room read 8:14, so for all his pronouncements about her going to school, it didn't seem likely.

A few minutes later, Rob brought out two bowls with spoons and set the saucepan on a trivet. The oatmeal was still piping hot, and Christie burned her tongue. After a few painful bites, Christie waddled over to grab some ice cubes from the freezer, and once they melted in, the oatmeal tasted okay. Way, way too much cinnamon and nutmeg, though, and Rob had barely added any sugar. Christie didn't let on that it tasted bad. She even ate neatly with a spoon, like you'd expect for someone older than four. Excellent.

"Did you Mom teach you how to cook?" she asked, socially.

"No. Dad won Mom's heart with a soufflé... do you need that life story? My throat's sore." Rob grumbled and blew on his spoon. Then, "Do you need a change?" he asked, as if it were nothing.

"Um..." No, I'm fine. No thanks. No, I'll do it myself. No, I already changed. No, mind your own business. "Y-y-yes...? Can we finish eating first?"

Rob nodded and went back to chewing. T-r-u-th. Christie remembered how he said the word. She squeezed her knees together, feeling a little gross.

The room was painted a beautiful yellow with morning light. As Christie watched Rob eat oatmeal and sip coffee, she wondered how much of last night had been a dream. She was ninety-nine percent certain he'd read her diary. Maybe ninety-eight percent certain he'd changed her diaper. He probably knew what she said to Shelly, Becky, Ana, Brook, Mori, and Sam. And even with the details fuzzy, she recalled him telling a story about his dead girlfriend. But had Christie really told him...?

Rob looked up from the bowl and caught her looking at him. He seemed suddenly uncomfortable. Yes, she had told him.

"You blush too much," said Rob, and jabbed his spoon at her. "Eat already. This was a royal pain to cook."

She ate, somewhat less neatly now. As she kept eating, Christie felt more and more awkward, and not just about... that. She realized she needed to pee. Realizing was a good sign, she thought, but she couldn't decide how to broach the subject. Should she just... go? She polished off her orange juice, figuring Rob'd complain if she didn't empty it. Once finished eating, Christie had recovered somewhat, and she wiped her hands and face with a napkin before Rob got any ideas. She was almost ready to bring the toilet up when, outside, a car rumbled into the driveway.

A car? Car? C...

The sports bottle jumped out of Christie's hand and careened across the floor. "Mom? But shouldn't she be...? Rob! Rob, Rob, Rob, Rob–!"

"Christie, Christie, Christie, Christie." Rob leaned over to intercept the bottle . "Relax. It's just my sister."

Christie stared at him, dumbfounded. "Shelly's in school."

Rob stared back. "Yeah, she's enrolled, as far as I know."

"But Shelly can't drive."

"Cars have passenger seats..."

Outside, a car door clanked shut. Some student's car, an old blue rustbucket. Christie took a deep breath, burying her face in her hands. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did. To be fair, you were drugged." Rob flicked her forearm, making her drop her hands. "Don't be such a baby. Good luck, and be brave. You're kinda on your own with this."

Shelly heaved as she stumbled through the front door, wearing a backpack, rolling Christie's suitcase, hugging two heavy-duty paper bags while dangling a messenger bag under her chin. She let it all collapse in a heap on the living room floor. It made quite a pile. Then she cupped her hands on her knees and huffed.

"Would it kill you... to come out... and help?" she said, panting. "Jerk."

"Good morning, sis. Glad you're feeling chipper." Rob went over and kicked the capsized roller suitcase onto its back. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

Shelly navigated through the flotsam and sniffed appreciatively towards the kitchen. She looked flush and windswept, her hair all messed up, but she was smartly dressed in stripe leggings, knee boots, and a polar fleece. There's something terribly awkward, Christie thought, about wearing pajamas when everyone else is wearing clothes. Never mind a junior nightdress (or a diaper for that matter). She silently cursed Rob for not making her change, but Shelly hardly noticed Christie. Her eyes passed over the girl standing by the counter, paused on her face for a vacant second, then went searching for food.

"Looks disgusting," she said. "Where's my plate?"

"You can eat from the pot. Dish soap's by the toaster when you're done."

Shelly giggled as she sat down, as if that was hilarious. Rob rolled his eyes and went to fetch another bowl from the cupboard, along with a mug and some creamer, and he poured coffee for Shelly while she complained about the oatmeal getting cold. Rob poured for himself, too, and then he refilled the sports bottle with more orange juice. Apparently, Christie was the only one not allowed to become dehydrated.

"Who gave you a ride?"

"Oh, someone-or-another. A nice middle-aged man who wants to meet up sometime. Do you think I should've given him my phone number?"

Rob gave her a withering smile, then glanced at the pile by the door. "Did you get everything?"

"Yeah."

"The stuff from the attic?"

"Yeah," she said, chewing. "Everything."

"My razor?"

"E-ve-ry-thing." Shelly stuck out her tongue, all brown and oatmeal-y.

Both of them were ignoring her, standing off to the side. From the bags, it looked like Shelly was delivering Christie's sleepover stuff, along with a jumble of circuit parts, some toiletries for Rob, and... two packages of diapers, their dusty covers poking out of the paper bags. Christie laughed weakly into her hands.

Shelly glanced at Christie blankly, like she'd gone insane, then returned her attention to Rob. "I told Mom you were staying at Craig's. Are you really playing hookie?"

"I had a rough night."

"Wah-wah-wah." Shelly acted it with her hand. "Well I pulled an all nighter, basically, and you don't see me skipping."

"Poor thing. I'll get some tissues from the bathroom."

"Go shave and brush your hair while you're at it. You look like a hobo." She mixed some creamer into the oatmeal. "This oatmeal's nasty. Are you going to sit down, Christie?"

The room went quiet.

For about two minutes, Christie had been twiddling her thumbs behind the counter, trying to think of a way to escape to the bathroom without seeming to run away, and ideally without Shelly getting a clear view of her waist-area. Unfortunately, the bathroom part would no longer be necessary. Christie, hesitating, shuffled out. She tried to make a long circuit around the table.

But Shelly reached back and caught her by the skirts. "Rob, can you go to the kitchen for a sec?"

Really? was all Christie thought, as Shelly tugged her over and pulled the fabric tight. Well, today still couldn't be more humiliating than yesterday. Just a random person checking her diaper.

"Wow. Wow, it's really true..." said Shelly, shaking her head, poking at the spot that had once been the top of the wetness indicator. "Unreal."

"Are you about done?" Christie asked sharply, cheeks burning.

"What's the big deal? I was stripping your clothes off, like, yesterday." Sounding outraged, she spun Christie around to look at the back.

Rob's voice echoed from the kitchen. "Uh, do girls have sleepover games I don't know about?"

"Quiet, Rob," Shelly said. Christie stumbled over to her chair, trying to sit down with some measure of dignity. Shelly sighed. "You can come back now, Rob."

Rob strolled in with a fresh half pot of coffee, then they all proceeded to drink in silence, to Christie's utter bafflement. A few minutes passed. Rob drank stone-faced, not even looking around, while his sister kept stirring her mug speculatively. The clock ticked. Christie squirmed on her chair, nursing her orange juice for lack of anything else. So should she go change, or...?

"We'll get going in thirty minutes," said Rob, suddenly. "I gotta shower, so you guys should get ready, too."

But as Rob pushed himself up, Shelly held up a finger. "Question!"

"Why don't you ask Christie?" Rob said.

Christie winced. He really did mean to abandon her, she realized with horror.

"I want to ask you," Shelly said. She pushed her mug aside and resettled in her seat. "Now, I've known Christie for a few years, and I know a lot about her. For example, I know she used to wet the bed. How could I not?

"I know she had a few accidents in grade school. I know she even wore diapers to school for a few months, just in case, so bullies wouldn't know. I know she's the type to keep quiet about things. I even know that she gets minor stress incontinence to this day. Minor stress incontinence. Not too uncommon in girls."

Shelly looked around, as if to an audience. Rob was listening blankly, Christie flinching at each new bullet item.

"I ALSO know she was using the toilet two days ago. I know she was wearing underwear — one hundred percent cotton underwear. For sure, I know she wasn't peeing her pants in the middle of the kitchen. I know that, if she did pee her pants in the middle of the kitchen, she'd notice. I know these things. So what's up? Shouldn't we be, like, seeing a doctor? Am I making sense here? Is this not INSANE? Is this not COMPLETELY, BATSHIT INSANE?"

Christie was laughing again. No, today couldn't possibly be more humiliating than yesterday, could it? Nope, no way, not possible.

After the outburst, Shelly took a long sip of coffee then exhaled. "Okay, I'm better," she said, deflating. "I even thought those diapers were kinda cute back then. Even if they are, uh, functionally pretty gross. Still, someone give me a straight answer here. This is crazy."

"Christie?" Rob prompted.

"Uh..." What did he want her to say?

"Do you have any idea why you're doing this?"

Christie blinked at him. He was smiling gently.

"It happened three years ago, too. Don't you have any ideas? Any at all?"

Suddenly both of them were looking to her, sitting there sucking her juice bottle in kid pajamas with her soaked diaper peeking out. Her face got hot. T-r-u-th. Christie would have definitely peed, then, if she hadn't already peed herself dry. What was she supposed to say?

"Do I have to?" she whispered.

Rob shrugged. "Don't you want to?"

"Wait. So you DO have an idea?" Shelly leaned forward.

Christie squeezed her hands tight. It was easy to tell the truth about things you did. But what about the truth for things you are?

I dunno. It's none of your business. It just happens. I have this weird allergy. It's because of trauma. Mom says weak bladders run in the family. I've heard there's a intestinal flu going around. I don't mean to do it. I do it on purpose. I'm trying to get a boyfriend. I thought it would be a great out from the sleepover. I wanted to gross people out so they'd leave me alone.

Christie covered her face with her hands. "It happens when I'm feeling lonely..."

The words came out like a root canal. Christie hadn't wanted to say them, but she had to, she had to, she'd promised. Biting her lip, she waited in silence.

"Is there anything else?" Rob asked.

"Anything else?" she said dumbly.

"Anything at all."

"Anything else, anything else..." Christie looked around the table, wracking her brain. What else was he looking for? To be honest, she felt a little betrayed after making such an effort.

Rob sighed, smiled, and scratched his head. "Well, I guess this one's tough to admit, and you may really want to keep it a secret. But still, I think you should say it. If only to Shelly."

Christie looked to Shelly, who was staring blankly. Then she looked down at her diaper. "Secret?"

"So I looked at your laptop last night. Sorry."

Christie nodded. That was nowhere near as bad as reading her diary.

"I like the pictures, by the way."

Christie nodded. Again, expected.

"And I was thinking about that TB thing you were talking about in the attic the other day, and..."

Suddenly, a lightbulb flickered in Christie's brain. Her throat got dry, her heartbeat slowed. Rob kept talking, but she wasn't really processing it anymore. She was thinking about the past few days, about Becky, about her Seduction Strategy. She was thinking about what a moron she was.

"... story about a teenage girl wetting herself over and over again, on purpose, so her parents would put her back in diapers. Does that story have anything to do with you, Christie?"

Christie mouth hung open. "No, you have the wrong idea, I, uh..." She licked her lips. "That was for..."

"For...?

"For y-... I was just pr-... I never..."

Christie's eyes darted between Shelly and Rob. She felt a blush coming on, the worst blush of the morning, by far. The kind of blush where you actually start smiling, because it's just so hopeless. Her mouth was locking, her mind was blanking. She couldn't form a single word. How could she explain this?

Christie was blushing, Shelly was blushing, even Rob was blushing.

Then Christie started laughing. So today could get more humiliating than yesterday.

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:11 PM
Content: Chapter 19: Bravery

"With, uh, THAT out of the way," said Shelly, once the awkwardness in the room had dissipated somewhat, "let's get down to business. About yesterday..."

Christie shifted uncomfortably on the couch cushions. Did they have to do this now? she wondered. Supposedly Rob would be driving them to school in half an hour. Couldn't she, like, brush her teeth? Change her diaper? Put on some clothes? Were Rob and Shelly doing this on purpose? Christie thought they must be doing this on purpose.

The two girls were sitting in the living room with saucered cups of decaf tea, semi-hot. (Shelly insisted on tea for serious discussions, even though they had coffee left. Rob insisted on the decaf and semi-hot parts.) Upstairs the shower was running, Rob having left them to 'talk it out' after accusing Christie of intentionally wetting herself. That was just so helpful, Christie thought, thanks a bunch, Rob. Christie would occasionally pretend to sip. Tea tasted like liquid kale to Christie, but she felt too sheepish to add sugar.

Shelly let 'yesterday' hang in the air, folding her knees to the side, eyes serious. Christie tensed.

"About yesterday. Did you ask my brother out?"

"I w..." Tea shot up Christie's mouth. "*cough* Th- *cough* *cough* THAT'S what you want to talk about?"

"Item one of three, lovebird. You did just spend a romantic night alone. Rain in the chill air, in a dark lonely house..."

"... the sensuous aroma of *cough* urine dancing in the air?"

"To be fair. I don't know how thrilled my brother'd be dating a teen baby." Shelly shrugged. Then a painful, cringing smile wormed onto her face. "Maybe if you could pretend to be a preschooler, at least?"

"I'm NOT a teen baby." Christie wiped her chin with her forearm and hissed. She'd been hammering that point over and over, but of course they wouldn't believe her. A blush had been enough to condemn her. Why did this keep happening to Christie? She told lies, and people found the truth. She told the truth, and people believed lies. She wanted to Rob to go away — he stayed. She wanted Rob to be with her — he left. She wanted coffee, but she couldn't drink coffee. She hated tea, but she must drink tea. For some reason.

Christie took another mouthful without thinking. Bitter! She screwed up her face, refusing to spit it out, forcing it down. "I'm not asking him out, okay? And I'm NOT a teen baby."

Shelly looked her up and down. "Uh. You sure?"

"YES."

Disposable diapers were an amazing invention, Christie reflected. She had to admit that, feeling a little spurt against her hands. People got distracted by flashy stuff like satellites and brain surgery and IMAX, but when you got down to it, the chemical engineering work in diapers was amazing. Seventy-two ounces. That was well over half a gallon. Christie could pour a two liter coke inside, and then another one, and the padding would soak it all up. If only she'd been wearing one of these yesterday...

"Then," Shelly continued slowly, "why were you spending time on... teen baby... websites?"

"Uh..."

Christie listened for the shower faucet, picking at the blanket beneath, the one that Rob conspicuously laid while the kettle was heating. She really did blush too much.

"I thought he liked that kind of thing..."

"Um, what kind of thing?"

Christie stared at her reflection in the tea. "You know. Girls pretending to be little. Diapers and bottles, and stuff."

"What?" Shelly said, blinking. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Becky said so, when I asked what kind of girl he liked..."

Shelly's eyes widened, and she clacked her cup into down. Did Shelly believe...? But no, Shelly shook her head, chuckling. "No Becky didn't. And why would she tell you that, even if it was true?"

"She DID tell me. Why wouldn't Becky tell me?"

"Because she wouldn't. I know Becky. Look, this doesn't actually matter, can we—"

"This DOES actually matter. I'm NOT a teen baby!"

"Okay, okay I believe you girl. Right? You don't mean to do it. Sure! I believe you! No need to throw a fit..."

"I'M NOT THROWING A FIT."

Some of the tea leapt over the rim. This was going great, Christie thought, and Shelly looked awkwardly away while she wiped the spill with the skirts of the nightie. "Why don't we leave it at that," said Shelly, charitably.

Like hell. Fuming, Christie turned and upended the blanket off the couch. She guessed her cellphone must be there somewhere. Maybe lodged in between the cushions? She stuck her fingers in and they felt plastic. Bingo. Christie tugged the phone free, pulled up her text history, then gestured for Shelly to lean over.

[CHAT]
okay heres the skinny. rob has a thing for girls who wet
themselves and wear diapers. its called tbdl. check out
these stories for some tips: tinyurl.com/3ag40 （；¬＿¬)
[/CHAT]
Shelly didn't react for a second. Her eyes widened, then she drew in a ragged breath.

"Shelly?"

"He... likes..." Shelly whispered. "if Becky says..."

"Uh, Shelly?"

Shelly was trembling, her cheeks getting pale, her lips moving. She was mumbling something. What was she mumbling? The teacup rattled on the coffee table. "H-h-h—"

"Shelly?"

"Hngggmmmp..." Shelly clutched at her chest, choking up. "Hmmmmnnnnng..."

"SHELLY?"

"Hnnngggmpphhhh...h-h-eeeeeeh-he-he... hih-hih-hih-ehehe-he-AH! AHA! HAHAHA! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh my god! Ohmygod! Rob likes WHAT? Ohmygod! This is amazing! I'm gonna die! I'm dying! Please help me Christie I'm dying!"

At this point Shelly collapsed to the floor, spasming, curling up into a ball, barking like a mad hyena. "AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA (gulp) AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA ( gulp) ahahahahahahahahahaha (gulp) ahaha (gulp) a-ha-ha-ha-ha...Ican'tbreatheanymore... jesuschrist... mysides!"

Shelly tried to wipe the tears that were streaming down her face, but they just rolled off her fingers onto the carpet. Christie stared at her, mouth agape. Shelly started to babble. "Do you think he made Cynthia call him 'daddy', Christie?! Do you think they had a rattle?! Do you think they took your stuff from the attic?! Do you think they stole my pajamas?! Do you think it turns him on when I call him big brother?! Bwig Bwother? OH! This is the best day of my life!"

It took Shelly a while to stop convulsing. Christie tried her best to ignore her, redipping her teabag sourly as Shelly rolled a circuit around the living room. Was this how she'd felt about Christie two minutes ago? Not that Christie disagreed, necessarily, but it still stung.

Eventually Shelly composed herself. She wiped her eyes, re-scrunchied her hair, and sat primly back on the couch. Taking up her cup, she appeared to examine Christie in detail.

"You may have gone a little overboard, Christie."

Wh—?

Christie gritted her teeth and covered her lap with a pillow. Stupid wispy fabric. "I'm. Not. Acting."

"So you are a teen baby?"

"I'M NOT A TEEN BABY."

"Oh, that's good. Well at least there's a silver lining to your, uh, problem."

"THERE'S NO SILVER LINING. NONE."

Shelly, apparently giving up on her genteel discussion over tea, pushed the saucer to the edge of the coffee table. "I'm confused," she admitted.

Christie took a deep breath. After that, she finally got the chance to explain. She talked about the conversation with Becky, about her Seduction Strategy, about how things went wrong. The t-r-u-th came out surprisingly easily, given the alternative. She didn't want Shelly believing she'd done this on purpose. By the end, Shelly looked rather disappointed.

"So Rob doesn't have a creepy fetish? Shucks. But then why would Becky send a text like this...?" She turned the cellphone around in her hands, as if looking for a secret message. Then she blinked. "Oh. Okay."

"Okay what?"

Shelly snorted, snapping the cellphone shut. "I'll talk to Becky about it," she said. "On to item number two, then..."

Shelly talked at length about what happened at her place after Christie left. Obviously, the group hadn't finished the SR latch — most of it was lying in a jumble by the front door. Instead they'd caved and decided on a simple project: hooking a lightbulb to a battery, basically. (Christie winced when Shelly described how they'd wired it. She suspected they were in for a surprise.) The presentation would be held in third block unless Mr. Andrews granted an extension.

As for human concerns, the group reacted about as Christie expected. Brook, useless in any kind of conflict, locked herself in the bathroom for an hour. Sam went nuclear. The rest of the group tried to finish the project in the kitchen, Mori playing peacekeeper; Sam, Ana, and Sarah ranting about what a snot-slash-drama-queen Christie was well into the night. For a while, Becky tried to keep everyone on task, but eventually she shrugged her shoulders and drove herself home. Shelly made no mention of what she'd been doing herself, but apparently she'd lied her head off to Mrs. Blanchette.

"If Mom asks about your aunt, the screening was a false positive. Also, Brook has a copper allergy. And Mr. Andrews says Becky isn't allowed to T.A. anymore." She looked up, thinking. "Yeah, I think that's everything."

Christie felt a glimmer of hope. "So no one noticed that I...?"

"Um. Well they definitely don't know the full extent of the situation. But you did leave a... trail. And they are, uh, very angry with you. Sam especially. I don't know what to do with Sam, she's furious. I think you really hit a nerve with her. She's taken to calling you 'Crispy'."

"Crispy?"

A moment of silence passed, tea steaming. Shelly smiled awkwardly. "Okay, so Sam's not the cleverest of girls... but we've been over that. Anyway. From how Sam talks, it sounds like she wants your tongue on a spike, like that Greek guy."

"Greek guy?"

"You know, the Greek guy from social studies."

"Cicero was Roman."

Shelly rolled her eyes. "I'm not the cleverest of girls either, Christie... well, whatevs. I can't imagine today will be very fun for you. At least you won't be executed, I think."

"Cicero was assassinated."

"That too." Shelly drained the rest of her tea, grumbling. "Do you have to do that?"

Christie started to apologize, but she caught herself. Something changed. Upstairs the showerhead clunked off, and the subdued roar of water, which had lent a light and domestic air to proceedings, abruptly stopped. The quiet got quieter. For a second time, Shelly stared at Christie with her knees folded to the side, eyes serious. Eventually, the bathroom sink started running.

"Item three," Shelly said. "I don't like you much either. You look down your nose at everyone. You're needy, but you act like a bitch twenty-four seven. You badmouth my friends, and I happen to like my friends — I'm not in the habit of letting terrible people be my friends. And you're a liar. You bring out the worst in everyone, then make them feel guilty for it, like they're awful for just existing. You make me feel like a nuisance in my own house. So basically, screw you too."

Christie felt surprisingly calm. "Okay."

Shelly huffed. "You're right, of course. Figures. We're not friends. Like Becky says, friends go on equal footing, and I have been con-des-cending to you. Did I pronounce that right? Con-des-cending? And pa-tro-nizing. Is that the worst crime in human history? Well I admit it. You're easy to con-des-cend. You did pee on my rug, literally right on it, but big whoop. You've been peeing on my rug for years. What am I supposed to do with you?"

Shelly's voice flared, but then lost heat just as quickly. In the end, she just sounded frustrated. She trailed off, brow furrowed, muttering wordlessly into her fist.

What was Shelly supposed to do? Christie thought. A few answers came to mind . Things Christie should say. Things Rob would want her to say. Soap opera stuff. But when it all came to mind, none of it felt right.

"Like I said," Christie decided. "Leave me alone."

Shelly rolled her eyes. "So you just don't care?"

"I didn't say that. We'd be happier. You and me both, that's the truth."

"Then why'd you ask—"

"I shouldn't have asked. I shouldn't have come. It was a mistake, all along I knew it, but I was being greedy. Sorry." Christie allowed herself the word.

"Greedy?"

Christie shook her head. How could she explain? She should've never allowed herself to go to Shelly's house in sixth grade. Rob wouldn't agree, but despite everything, Rob was naive. Rob had the luxury of believing things that felt good, because they felt like t-r-u-th to him, but in the end, Christie should've never put herself in a position to be pitied. It was just a slow poison. She grasped this truth easily and it cleared her throat like cold water.

"But aren't you lonely?" Shelly asked, frustrated.

Christie shrugged.

"Then why don't you want to be friends?"

"I'd just be lonelier if I were friends with you."

"What? That doesn't make any sense..."

Christie shook her head again. What did telling the truth mean, if they didn't even speak the same language? How could you explain what 'greedy' meant, 'lonely' meant? It was like explaining what 'red' meant. So Christie tried another tack.

"We can't be friends," Christie said, "because I hate you."

Shelly grimaced. "Why?"

"'Equal footing'... Becky's smart. It's not your fault. Friendship's not a gift, it's an swap, or something like that. Since I can't do anything, whatever you do, that's not friends. It's like being a parasite."

Shelly's face reddened. "Of course you have to make it a fucking philosophy essay."

"Shelly..."

"It's just the truth. What do you really mean?"

T-r-u-th. "You're painful."

"What?"

"You're painful. Everything about you is painful. You make me feel terrible when you're around. I'm always wishing I'd never met you. I don't like you at all. I don't like anyone. That's why we can't be friends." She looked away. "Does that make sense?"

Upstairs, the hot water tap was still running. Rob must be shaving, Christie thought, so she couldn't escape to the bathroom yet. Bad timing. Next to her, Shelly was rubbing her eyes angrily, and Christie pretended to look away, unsure what to do. It hurt, Christie could tell it hurt, but when she tried to sip tea, it didn't spill. She'd said the right thing. It still tasted like tree sap.

"So I'm supposed to leave you alone. Like this."

"That's what I want, yeah."

"In diapers."

"Yeah." Christie sighed, considering. "I'll get better the less I see you. Probably."

"But you're so... so... so..."

But Shelly never found the adjective. She just pressed her temples and kicked her legs, like a child in a too large chair. Silence. Eventually, Christie shrugged, collected the teacups, and carried them to the kitchen sink. She thought it was only fair to leave Shelly alone. She poured out some dishsoap and started to wash.

Inside, Christie felt a weight fall away. It was a weight she'd been carrying for so long. She'd told the truth now, and she wasn't running. Yes, she hadn't run. This was a choice, a choice she'd been refusing to make for years.

The warm water ran over her fingers, and by contrast it made her notice how clammy the diaper felt. As she washed, she started planning what clothes she'd wear today, thinking about how long brushing her teeth would take. Did she have time for a shower? She bet she could put on her own diaper, now that she wasn't sleep deprived and/or suffering a mental breakdown. She grabbed a towel and started drying the cups.

She'd always been such a coward, she realized. She'd spent so many years hiding behind scowls and rolled eyes. So much time with 'friend props', even as she despised them. So much effort trying not to look pathetic, just for the sake of appearances. She should have been true to herself. T-r-u-th.

As Christie was finishing with the pot, Shelly walked into kitchen, boots squeaking. "I don't believe you."

"What do you mean you don't believe me?"

"You're a liar. You're SUCH a liar."

Christie sighed and flapped the towel. "Shelly, I'm telling the truth. I hate your guts."

"Whatever, Christie."

"It's not fair, but I really hate you. You don't own my feelings, Shelly."

"You don't own mine."

"Oh please." Christie racked the dishes in the drying stand, then hung the towel on the fridge. She turned and headed for the bathroom, but Shelly stood in the way, holding her arms up. Christie ducked and proceeded through.

"So you're going to run away again?" Shelly called after her. "If you don't care, why are you always running away?"

"I'm not running, Shelly. I'm headed to the bathroom. We've got to go in, like, fifteen minutes."

"There she goes, running. Chicken! BOK BOK BOK BOK! What are you gonna do in the bathroom, cry?"

Christie gritted her teeth and turned back. "I'm not even close to crying. Do I look like I'm close to crying?"

"Are you using the bathroom for anything else these days?"

Christie snorted. "Do you have to treat me like I'm five?"

"Do you have to pee yourself?"

"Now you're just insulting me."

"Welcome to the club. Tell me, why do you always talk about things like they're complicated? Do you really think you have such special, complicated feelings? That I can't grasp your so-phi-sti-cation?"

"I don't," said Christie. "I didn't say anything like that."

"Liar.

"Okay, so you don't believe me. You think, deep down, I like you. FINE. How sweet. Is that what you want me to say?"

"Get a load of Miss Coolwhip, who pees herself because she's feeling lonely."

Flick.

Christie charged into Shelly, then tackled her to the ground. The two slammed into the tiles. There was a crash, scraping. They were rolling over each other, arms and legs tangling, hair everywhere. The impact knocked the wind out of Christie, but somehow she got on top, pinning Shelly's arms down. Then she started to scream.

"Why don't you get it?! I really, really, REALLY don't want to be your friend!"

Shelly wriggled, clawing, kneeing Christie in the back. "So, so, so... fake."

"Why are you this stubborn? Who asked YOU for help?"

"Whatever, fakey-fake. You said that last time, too."

"And I meant it!"

"Only because you're so STUPID and FAKE."

As Christie locked Shelly by the neck, a part of her was aghast. What was going on? What happened to tea? Shelly was seething, trying to get a hold. Christie's muscles were burning. What was she even trying to do? Kill Shelly?

"This is ridiculous," Christie hissed, "Being guilty didn't make you my friend. You'll have to make do with your ninety-four. Tough luck."

"Being guilty? Now is THAT it? You are a baby. Get off me!"

Shelly shoved Christie off in one furious thrust. Christie's grip slipped, the force knocking her back, tossing her so she landed on her backside with a wet plop. There was another crash, then a crack. Shattering. Dazed, Christie tried to clamber up, but she slipped and landed frog-legged. There were porcelain shards everywhere. Her head swam. She felt sticky.

Shelly got on her knees, breathing hard. "Do you to ruin... a pair of pajamas... EVERY morning. Geez."

Christie blinked. When she looked down, she saw some of Shelly's makeup smeared onto her fingers, along with strands of hair and red streaks. Red streaks? She was bleeding somewhere. There were dots of it on her sleeve. Her nightie was torn at the waist and side, but the fabric was clean.

"Where'd you get those cuts? The teacups? No... those bandages. You fight a cat or something?" Shelly snatched the dishtowel off the fridge and crawled forward, muttering.

"Stop it," said Christie, crawling back.

"Oh you stop it. I'm exhausted." Shelly pressed the dishcloth to Christie's fingers. It seemed like the gashes from last night had opened somehow, and the bandages were soaked with dishwater and leaking. They stung.

Christie felt suddenly bitter. "You should believe me when I'm telling the truth."

"There's where you're wrong, kiddo. Hold this, I've got some winged bandaids in my bag..." Then Shelly cursed her way out of the room.

Christie settled on the floor. Her fingers REALLY stung. Did soap seep in there? This hurt worse than when she broke her arm, somehow. Why did little cuts hurt this bad? Christie squeezed her fingers tight, rocking back and forth. It was important, very important, that she control herself now. If she got wet eyes, it would ruin everything.

When she returned with the messenger bag, fifty stinging seconds later, Shelly was still seething. There was something oddly frightening, Christie always thought, about seeing Shelly angry. It happened so rarely. She was straightening out her clothes and sniffing, kneeling down.

"Bleeding stop?"

"Yeah."

Shelly unwrapped the dishtowel and took a look. "You really ought to quit chewing your nails. They're such cute little fingers. Christie, do you trust me?"

"What?" Did she trust Shelly? Christie puzzled over the words. Why did Shelly have to change subjects mid-thought like that? "Trust you about what?"

"I'm just asking. You don't like me. I'm asking if you trust me."

A twinge of foreboding pricked her stomach. "I guess..." said Christie, even as she pulled her hand away, covering it.

"No guessing. Do you trust me?"

Hesitantly, Christie nodded.

"Kay. Your hand, please."

On her fingers the bandages were brown and grungy, the tips red and raw. Shelly produced a handful of bandaid wrappers and a tub of antiseptic wipes, then peeled the wax tabs off. Taking Christie firmly by the wrist, she stripped the old bandages one by one. Christie's fingers screamed.

"Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!"

"Don't be such a baby. It's getting old," Shelly said flatly. She dabbed an antiseptic wipe on the cuts, dried them, then wrapped the tips in double bandaids. Christie tried not to sniffle. "You don't want cuticle scars, do you? Those can be awful. I didn't invite you over because I felt guilty, Christie. That stopped years ago."

Great, another subject switch. "If you say so..."

"Look, Christie, you said you trusted me, so you've got to believe me."

"That's rather unfair."

"Oh shut up."

Christie squeezed her lips while, sighing, Shelly finished bandaging her hands. They were all nubby now. After it was done, Christie flexed her fingers but found they didn't close all they way, and they prickled when moved.

Thanks, Christie started to say, but as she pulled away, Shelly tugged her in closer, right up to her shoulder. Skin-to-skin. Oh boy.

"This feels nice, doesn't it?"

"Where?" Christie complained. Shelly had morning breath.

"Everywhere."

"My head's throbbing. My fingers kill." Christie struggled her cheek back from the skin.

"Oh, just relax, will you?"

Christie relaxed.

"Who would deal with you because they felt guilty, hm? What a dumb idea. I'd have to murder at least three members of your family. And steal your inheritance, too." Shelly stopped to giggle at her joke. "The truth is, I always wanted a little sister. My brother, well, he's such a cocky, self-serious jerk-slob. A little sister, though..."

Christie cringed a little. "You're a whopping two months older than me, Shelly."

"Two and a half. Lucky you're so cute."

Christie's skin hummed, and she felt gross, very gross. Where was Rob anyway? He should have finished shaving by now, and she'd have thought all the crashing and screaming would bring him downstairs. But the house was quiet. "What's so good about little sisters? Aren't they a pain?"

"Haha, what's not good about little sisters? You can hand down old clothes and teach them how to do makeup and show them old Disney movies and let them stay up late and tease them about boys and help them with math homework..."

"I get better grades than you."

"Sure. A small point against you."

Christie thought for a moment. "Well, it's not the creepiest hang-up discussed this morning," she said, then hated herself instantly for it. But Shelly didn't seem to notice. When she let go, Christie hurried to her feet, toeing gingerly around the pearl-white shards. The nightie was ruined, she saw, ripped here and there like thin tissue paper, blood stains on the right sleeve. And... damp patches on the back. Apparently the diaper's seventy-two ounce rating didn't apply to combat situations.

Shelly fished inside her messenger bag again. "'I really, really don't want to be your friend'... you have a weird fixation with that word, don't you? I was wondering why he had me bring this. Stupid thing..."

Christie held her breath. This would be awkward, killer awkward. She cringed again.

The magnet was about as she remembered it, chock full of old names written in colored sharpie. The ink was bleeding in places, and some of the letters had faded. My family, my friends, my pledge. The white backdrop was tanned with age. There was, to this day, a gap in the list of Shelly's friends.

"I refuse," Christie said. "Even if we were friends, I'd refuse. On principle. I'm allergic to stuff this tacky."

"Agreed," said Shelly, rolling her eyes. She took out a black marker and scribbled in the gap.

The tip squeaked as she filled it, all black. like a censor's bar.

"There, Christie. Like I was saying, you've got some this hang-up with the word 'friend'. So I won't force you."

"I correct people. It's my thing." Christie paused, then continued warily. "So let me get this straight. You like me because I'm small and incompetent?"

"Haha, I guess so."

"Then you don't like me. You like that I'm small and incompetent."

Shelly rolled her eyes again. "Why do you try to make things soooooo complicated, Christie?"

"I'm not, this is important. You like the parts of me I hate. And I hate being around you. That's not friends."

"Maybe. I don't have the energy to argue with you right now..." Shelly kicked some of the shards on the floor under the skirt of the counter, clearing a path for Christie. "Are you sure it's being around me you hate, not something else?"

That was too sharp an observation by far, so Christie didn't answer.

"So I was thinking, Christie, how'd you feel about signing here?"

Shelly pointed to the lonely line marked 'Family'. Christie winced and looked away, blushing. Impossibly, this was getting tackier by the second. Shelly and Christie may not be friends, but they definitely weren't family, she wanted to say — while inside, cursing herself. Why was she so cynical about something so sweet? Even if she refused... the line read 'Mom, Dad, Rob, Goldie'. Thinking about it, she felt like she was dancing around tripwires with her heart.

"No comments?"

"Well, it'd be honest, at least," Christie said, clearing the throat. "Siblings are allowed to hate each other."

"You have NO idea," said Shelly, with a sort of vicious glee. "You always dreamed of marrying Rob, didn't you? Well, this is what that'd mean. Sisters. Doesn't have to be equal footing neither. I can be a tyrant, boss you around, I can tease you all I want..."

"How comforting."

"Oh please. So what do you think? I'll take care of you, even when you're a twerp. You can even keep being fake. And I won't hurt you more than's normal... wait. What's normal? One time, Rob hit my in the face with a bat."

"He hit you with WHAT?"

"A plastic bat," Shelly admitted. "And he was eight. I didn't mean to smash it completely. Stupid toy. I thought he'd never forgive me after I wrecked that stupid... wait, why are you crying?"

Oh no, no no no no no. "Nothing," Christie managed, blinking it away. Then, in a weak voice: "And if I don't want to be a little sister?"

Shelly screwed up her lips and pondered the ceiling, giving Christie time to compose herself. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. It was wrong to want. She could never live up to those expectations, but she did want it, she did. T-r-u-th.

"I can't force you," Shelly decided. "What was it you said before, about friendship being a swap, not a gift? Personally, I'd say you want me to be nice, in whatever special, complicated way you want things. Well, you pay a price for any relationship... but now I'm sounding like Becky. Sign it or don't sign it, it's your call."

Christie didn't move. Shelly looked thoughtful.

"If I can say one more con-des-cending thing," Shelly said, wetting her lips, "what you're feeling right now... probably isn't pride. An icky, gnawing feeling, right? I used to think that was pride, too, before. I used to worry about it. Did you know, it was you taught me about that, the last time I offered you this magnet. That feeling's not pride, it's something else. I wasn't really proud in those days. Pride comes from inside, when you've been brave."

Shelly struggled a moment for words. "I wish you were one of those. A teen baby."

"What? Why?"

"Then you could like what you are."

Christie blushed. "Should I be offended by that?"

"If you want. You asked for the truth, right? Well, the truth is you're immature, in lots of different ways." Shelly shrugged. "You know, there are nice things about being immature. You make other people feel better, like little kids do. It doesn't have to be painful. And you can still grow up, eventually. On the other hand, it's so easy to be comfortably wrong, when you think you're mature."

Another few moments passed. Shelly shrugged. "I really hope you'll sign. I don't know what I'll do today, if you don't sign."

Slowly, quietly, neatly, and utterly defeated, Christie signed her name.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:12 PM
Content: Chapter 20: Changes

Shelly and Christie got ready for school. Things went smoothly after the fight, all things considered. Shelly zipped around the house like a honeybee, chattering nonstop, apparently thrilled with her new duties as a big sister. Christie, less thrilled, was at least determined not to make a fuss. She had literally signed up for this. Even if, really, she could do her own hair. Or makeup. Or if the clothes were a bit tacky.

Still, getting a kid in diapers out the door is no small feat. Shelly took thirty minutes wrangling with the details.

Right after the fight, Rob had come down with his jacket on, keys jingling in hand, expecting them to be ready apparently. He took one look at Shelly, one look at Christie, one look at the kitchen. He blinked. Then, pocketing the keys, he laughed his way up the stairs. Shelly giggled too. Christie felt offended, though she couldn't say why.

"Okay," said Shelly. "Let's get going."

The two girls spent a minute triaging. Shelly did most of the talking, as if to herself, and Christie nodded and told her where to find, for example, towels, plastic bags, her toothbrush, and clothes.

First up was getting clean — getting both of them clean, really, but mostly Christie. Her nightie had absorbed an impressive array of fluids by this point. Unfortunately they didn't have time to shower, and showering would wet Christie's bandages anyway. So, with the bathrooms closet-sized and the kitchen a war zone, Shelly found a secluded part of the living room behind the couch. She tossed Christie a diaper, some sanitary wipes, and a trash bag, then ran upstairs to fetch clothes, touch up her makeup, and threaten Rob.

It was awkward going with just her left hand. Christie worried she might let the diaper drop padding-first, leaving a stain on the carpet, so she sat down to tear the tapes. Squishy feeling. How did this go again? She used a few wipes under her arms before standing to clean underneath. Her hips felt noticeably lighter, standing, and the wet diaper sure looked heavy on the floor. It felt weird to clean with her offhand, like trying to pat her head while rubbing her stomach, but the wipes were refreshingly astringent.

Then came the tough part. Christie unfolded the clean diaper and laid it flush to the coach. Taking extra care to keep center, she planted herself. Seemed good. She lowered her shoulders, scooched up and down to match the top of the diaper to the small of her back, then, not breaking the tapes yet, she tugged the cover up, held it in place with her right palm, and lined the tapes one by one.

"Almost done?" Shelly called. A towel came flying over the couch, landing on Christie's face.

"J-just a sec!" Christie hurried to pop the tapes, then pin them. One, two, three, four. When she lifted her bum off the floor, the fit seemed snug. Christie felt an irrational surge of pride. She had changed her own diaper. Christie bagged the nightie and wet diaper, then wrapped herself in the towel and clambered up. "Done!"

It didn't fall off! Christie stood there, actually grinning. Shelly regarded her with a bundle of clothes to her chest, blinking. She examined the bottom of the towel.

"Christie, you ever do babysitting?"

"My cousin, a few times." What a strange question. Chris was ten now.

"That's nice." Shelly nodded to herself, biting her lip. "I mean, that's okay. That's just fine. It's not like I need to... but that... um... maybe if you could... I mean, you're still a tee... no. No. No no no. No!" A fire seemed to ignite in Shelly's eyes as she grabbed Christie by the shoulder. "New plan. Christie, am I your big sister?"

"Uh... yes?"

"So you're my little sister?"

"Logically speaking..."

"Logically smogically. You're my little sister. That means you've got to do what I say."

Christie shrank backwards. "Is that how little sisters work?"

"Of course!" said Shelly, though she was holding one hand behind her back.

Shelly set her jaw, laid Christie down, and fixed her diaper; and Christie set her jaw, lay down, and let her do it. Shelly even remembered to fetch baby powder and skin cream this time, which was a relief. After the weekend, her skin was all raw and chafed. The change was physically awkward, with Shelly tugging at her legs and realizing they were too heavy, and Christie trying to help and getting in the way. Both girls blushed. For Christie, though, this was only the sixth most humiliating event of the week. The change even felt cathartic, in a weird way.

After that, Shelly spot-treated the patch of carpet where Christie had sat down. (Bad decision.) Then, rushing, she helped Christie dress, which neither minded after riding out a diaper change. For clothes, Shelly had dug out a knitted sweater dress and star-patterned leggings — a little flashy for Christie's taste, but not as bad as she'd feared. With the bra Shelly'd also brought panties, stupidly.

The clothes combined to hide the bulk of her diaper pretty well, with the leggings compressing it and the sweater hanging loose around the hips, hem falling to the knees. Someone would have to inspect carefully from underneath to tell Christie was padded.

"I was worrying what clothes you'd pick," Christie admitted. "I thought you'd doll me up like Shirley Temple or something." She was brushing her teeth at the sink while Shelly sat indian-style at her feet tying her sneakers.

"Pfft. All that cute stuff would show your diaper. Only me and the guy you marry get to see your underwear. Aaaaand there." Shelly finished the laces. Inwardly, Christie wondered what kind of contract Shelly thought she'd signed. "Not that we're hiding this, exactly."

"Uh, we're not?"

"No," said Shelly. "I was thinking about it, and I don't think you should be keeping secrets for a while."

Christie nearly choked on toothpaste. "Y- *cough* YOU keep secrets all over the place! What are you talking about?! What about Rob?! What about Brook's copper allergy?! What about the P-L thing?!"

"That's different."

"How is it different?"

"Because I keep the right secrets, you keep the wrong secrets. Anyway, I'm the big sister, so I'm allowed to be unfair. Deal with it." She fiddled with the sneaker lip, then danced lightly to her feet. "Speaking of secrets..."

Shelly looked away, bunching her arms behind her back. There was dread on her face.

"You're not going to... you know. Not that I'd MIND, exactly. Well actually I'd mind, I'd mind a lot, but, um, don't take this the wrong way, since you're my sister no matter what... but..."

While Shelly was talking, Christie stopped brushing and met Shelly's eyes, toothpaste dripping down her chin. Shelly sighed. "Okay, I'll out and say it. You're not going to poop your pants, are you?"

The question hit Christie like a brick.

"I..." she said, "hope not?"

"You hope not."

"Well it's never happened before..."

Shelly eyed her suspiciously. "When'd you go last?" she asked.

"Now that you mention it... Saturday afternoon..."

Shelly pressed a smile, then took Christie by the arm. "Why don't you give it a try, sweetie?"

"Uh, sure."

Shelly lead Christie to the downstairs bathroom. After tugging down the star-patterned leggings and undoing the tapes, as if for moral support, she left Christie to do her business. Things went normally, thank god. The whole time Christie worried that Shelly was planning to check the toilet bowl. Luckily, her sisterly impulses didn't extend that far.

Once Christie had flushed and sprayed some air freshener, Shelly helped wash her left hand. Christie had rinsed it, but she couldn't scrub without soaking her right hand. Shelly volunteered, much more enthusiastically than any other part of the process. Christie just held out her hand, letting Shelly sud it up. Somehow she felt even more useless than during the diaper change.

After washing her face, Shelly had Christie hike up her dress and lie down on a towel; then changed her into her third diaper of the last twenty minutes. The old tapes wouldn't re-stick, so they had to use a fresh pair. Shelly was muttering something about landfills. Christie made a mental note not to mention the half dozen unused diapers in trash cans around the house. Did those count as a secret?

The whole thing was less awkward this time around. Shelly just asked for her to tuck her legs up, and Christie diligently kept her hands to her side. The diaper felt really snug this time, like a glove for your waist. It was weirdly convenient, Christie thought, that you could get your diaper changed without taking off your shoes or pants. Replacing panties was always a pain.

Shelly patted her bum on the way up. "Geez. I was thinking you'd put up more of a fight. Why are you being so cooperative?"

"I made a promise," said Christie, without thinking.

Shelly nodded, as if that explained everything.

After that, Shelly left her to brush her hair at the mirror — quickly, please — while she packed up and gave Rob the clear. Working, Christie heard their voices upstairs, and it sounded like they were exchanging pretend insults again. She smiled, hurrying her hands. She was trying to brush as quickly and thoroughly as she could, and her body felt light somehow. Maybe it was that extra seventy-two ounces lying in a trash bag.

There was a part of her, she admitted, that gloried in not being believed. Even as she'd yelled, as she'd grappled with Shelly, a part of her was glad to be called a fake. It was the same part of her that liked when Rob forced her to eat omelettes, or having her hair braided by Mori. Fake. She comforted herself that she'd presented herself honestly, that they'd just decided not to believe her. She hadn't kept a secret; they were just refusing to see.

Another part of her knew the real score. That Christie was hiding the truth in plain sight, a lie behind the truth behind a lie. She doubted Shelly would be so nice if she actually understood — Christie didn't like people like Shelly and Rob liked people. But Christie found herself willing to let them be deceived. For a while, at least.

Eventually, Shelly scrambled in and zoomed through braiding Christie's hair. She wove a simple headband, with locks stitching into the upper loops. She narrated the process, as if Christie didn't know how this worked, seeming to enjoy herself immensely. Outside, Rob's car was puttering, warming up in the cold. When it honked, Shelly ignored it.

Shelly took out her makeup case.

"We won't use foundation today, and we won't thicken your lashes. That's great for boys, but when you're apologizing, it's best if you look ruddy, a little out of sorts..."

Then why even wear makeup? Christie wanted to say, but the word 'apologize' was setting alarm bells ringing in her throat. Shelly continued, oblivious.

"... but here's a trick. You can use skin tone pencil to make your eyes seem bigger. See? Don't the whites look huge? And we'll use lip gloss... not lip STICK, Christie, lip GLOSS. You can't look too refined, but you need juicy lips. Nice, juicy, kissable lips, good for pouting. That'll work on Sam, I think..."

"I'm not looking for Sam to kiss me, Shelly."

Shelly giggled. "You'd be surprised how these things work. Girls go all soppy for glossy lips, especially pushed out like THIS. Mmmmmm! It worked on you, at least!"

Apparently, Shelly thought Christie had accepted her as an older sister due to the expert application of shiny lip gloss.

Shelly finished the makeup, then fooled with the braids some more. Christie watched herself and her glossy lips in the mirror, trying not to complain. She would endure this. She would 'relax', like Shelly wanted. She would even try, honestly try, to let her walls down, though it was hopeless. She would let Shelly be deceived. It was the least such a sweet, wonderful, naive person deserved.

"NOW you look pretty. Ugh, if only we had time for a waterfall braid... but Rob would kill me. Okay, we've got to split. Go on, I have a few last things to find. I left your backpack by the door, so remember to grab it. I love you, Christie!"

Christie felt her stomach shrivel.

The wind made it nippy outside. Luckily, Shelly had messed with Christie's hair long enough that the car got toasty. The two girls both sat in the back this time, though Shelly had to run inside three more times for something she forgot, or to pee, much to Rob's ribbing. Christie waited there, rubbing her hands together. Her sweater didn't have pockets. Up front, the dash clock read 9:20am.

"Your mom gets home this afternoon, right? I'll clean the kitchen before I crash somewhere," he said. Then, holding his hands over the vent: "You won't be able to hide this from her, you know."

Christie knew.

"Good job," said Rob, more lightly, adjusting the rear-view mirror. "Shelly never gets over spats like this unless they completely blow up. She'd have pretended to forget, but she never world. She'd have dragged it on and on and on..."

"Yeah. All part of my calculated plan," Christie watched herself opening and closing her fingers in the car window, sulking. She still hadn't gotten over Rob setting an ambush for her.

"Don't be like that. It's just I knew you'd be fine," said Rob, "after you said you were lonely. The rest just had to play out."

Christie nodded, watching Shelly huff as she booked across the wet driveway, backpack and messenger bag flapping in the wind. For someone like Shelly, that would be enough. Just I'm lonely. Once she cleared the sidewalk, Shelly leapt into the car, clicked her seatbelt, and ordered Rob to gas it. He rolled his eyes and backed slowly out of the driveway.

Still breathing hard, Shelly pulled a gray sports bottle from her messenger... or rather, diaper bag... and tossed it in Christie's lap.

Christie sputtered. "You... this... Do you WANT to change me or something?"

"Your diapers? Course not. We can take bathroom breaks between classes, but Rob said you weren't drinking—"

"I'm drinking plenty. I'm way past my eight glasses a day. This is RIDICULOUS."

"Okay, okay. Hand it over. Geez." Waving downward, Shelly stowed the bottle back in the bag.

Christie took a deep breath. Well at least Shelly wasn't going to pull the big sister card for everything. As the car turned onto Route 149, rush hour had reached its full force, and they made slow progress. Up in front, Rob turned on the radio, and 93.6 was playing that Beyonce song again. Shelly started mouthing the lyrics. Christie kept sulking, still peevish.

"Oh, I forgot!" said Shelly, once the song ended, "Christie's my little sister now."

"Oh? That's nice."

"I mean it, Rob. It's very official."

"Sure," said Rob. He clicked on the turn signal. "It's cool there's a game you both like. So Christie's my little sister too, then?"

"It's not a game. Also, ewwwwwww. Don't be GROSS."

Shelly went back to karaokeing lyrics. Rob, visibly tired, just drove. The Fray was playing next.

The ride dragged on. Christie felt herself tense again, something gnawing beneath her skin. The bobbing of the suspension made her nauseous. A game they both liked... It hadn't occurred to her, but Shelly intended to tell people, didn't she? About her 'little sister'. Somehow, Christie had assumed this would stay between Shelly and her. But Christie wasn't allowed to keep secrets, was she?

Christie caught herself trying to chew her nails again. She pulled them away. Stupid.

How would people see this? she wondered. What would Ana say? Being hated was one thing. Being looked down on was one thing. But Christie was letting Shelly dress her, take her to the bathroom, because she felt lonely. That was more than pathetic, it was sick. And they'd see it plain as day. Christie couldn't be seen like this. Why was Shelly doing this to her?

Shelly leaned over, cupping her hand to Christie's ear. "I see you're worrying. Don't worry. Things aren't like they were. Things were never like they were."

That last bit didn't inspire confidence. And it was easy for her to say.

Rob, maybe sensing the slump in mood, lowered the volume. "Did I hear something about Shelly changing diapers? You okay, Christie? She didn't put it on backwards, did she?"

Shelly hissed. "That was YEARS ago. I was in seventh grade, GOD."

"Sure, sis. Cool there's someone happy to give you practice..."

Christie felt like this would be a good time to intrude. "Rob, about that teen baby stuff—"

But Shelly stuffed a hand over Christie's mouth. "Shhhhhhhhhhhhh.... Don't say anything!"

"Bwy vmot?" tried Christie, struggling.

"My brother has a white knight complex like crazy. It'll actually help if he thinks you're messed up mentally. This diaper stuff's not ideal, but we can work it. For now, try to act the part."

Christie glowered. What happened to not keeping secrets? What happened to not being fake? And why was Shelly STILL thinking about this dating stuff? Didn't she have better problems to worry over?

"Look, I HAD to change Christie, Rob. She just kept staying in her night diaper, like she didn't notice, and then it leaked. And she won't change them right on her own."

"Yeah, she did that for me too," said Rob. He chuckled. "She notices, probably. I think she wants the extra attention."

Silence.

"What?" said Rob, snorting. "Come on, Christie. You'd just worry if I didn't say it out loud."

Christie grew bright red as they turned onto the school boulevard. Next to her, Shelly's eyes were darting from Rob to Christie and Christie to Rob. The car pulled into the high school parking lot.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait. You mean you changed Chr—" Shelly covered her mouth. Then she got purple-faced. Then she squeezed Christie's hand. Then her jaw started twitching.

Then Shelly exploded.

There was a line at the front office when they were finally buzzed in. The secretary had given them grief at the door — Do you know what time it is? Where's your parent's note? etcetera. But Shelly couldn't leave well enough alone. So the secretary and Shelly snipped at each other for a few minutes while Christie blew into her hands and stamped her feet by the intercom.

Maybe Shelly was still hot from telling off Rob. She'd left a dent in his rear-passenger door, and there'd been a lot of screaming. It seemed like Shelly considered a diaper change a pretty serious breach of trust.

The secretary did eventually write them tardy slips, plus two-thirty detention for Shelly's trouble. They had to wait in line first. Second block had already started — Shelly and Christie both had Civilizations — but the line moved quickly enough. Most of the students were just delivering attendance lists. They were all chatting and dragging their feet.

Ana was there.

Christie tried to look inconspicuous, but of course Ana eventually noticed them.

"Figures you'd be together," she said dryly. "So that's where Shelly was... It must be nice to have someone like you unconditionally, even when you're a disgusting, hateful bitch."

Ana dropped off the attendance sheet and returned to class.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:12 PM
Content: Chapter 21: Truth

Christie spent most of block two wondering how big her butt looked. Was it vast, immense, gargantuan, or just huge? Ms. Beauchamp was having them copy slides on the five good emperors, but Christie hardly heard a word. Just click, scribble, click, scribble. She could have used the distraction. After twenty agonizing minutes, longing for regular underwear and the Julio-Claudian dynasty, Christie rolled up her sweater dress and stole a peek at bulging stars beneath her desk.

It didn't look THAT big, she decided.

She fixed her sweater, relieved. Everyone was staring when she walked into class. Christie had panicked, almost dropping her books, moving to cover her waist, realizing how suspicious that looked, then jerking them back, looking even more suspicious, and she ended up slapping a textbook to her shoulder. Even Shelly stared then. Klutz. Were Christie's clothes that weird? She must have checked herself in the window a dozen times.

No one looked at Shelly, and you could have heard a pin drop. But now there were no pins, just click, scribble, click, scribble. There was whispering from time to time, but not about Christie, she hoped. And crinkling. Stupid crinkling every time she shifted positions. Inside her leggings, the bunching made her painfully aware what she was wearing.

The diaper felt dry at least, so it couldn't be the smell. With only five hours left, her diaper would probably last the school day. Another relief. Christie didn't relish taking Shelly into a stall with her — what would people say about THAT? — and Shelly didn't seem to trust Christie to tape it on herself. In real life, Christie doubted school nurses would be so blithe and accommodating. Oh, you're incontinent now? Hop up on the table! Christie had made do with pullups in sixth grade...

Great. Now Christie was worrying about two things at once.

Christie allowed herself a glare at Shelly, though to her credit she felt guilty about it. Shelly was sitting like a produce sack two rows up, chin on desk, holding a pencil in her lip, obviously bored out of her skull. Outside of Shelly, Christie didn't know many kids in this block. Brook was there, though, sitting knightwise to her forward left — the only member of Shelly's gaggle in class.

Amazingly, Brook seemed even more jittery than Christie. She'd started reviewing her notes when Christie walked in. She'd kept reviewing them as everyone stared, kept reviewing as Christie walked past her desk. Midway through class, Christie caught Brook glancing backwards, but before their eyes met she gave out a little meep and snapped her neck forward.

What was up with her? Christie recalled saying something about Brook 'making her want to puke', so maybe that made sense. Still. Sometimes Christie wondered how Brook made it through life...

They COULDN'T smell, could they? Diapers were made of plastic!

Christie tried to focus on Marcus Aurelius. Whatever it was, she imagined she'd find out next block, courtesy of Sam belting it out. Christie could count on Sam to insult her.

"Questions?" said Ms. Beauchamp after closing the last slide. "Okay. Into groups, please, teams of three or four. Take a timeline packet, one per person. You can use your textbooks..."

The classroom filled with the sound of papers rustling and chairs squeaking. Here and there, kids were yawning and stretching. Christie grimaced. She hated it when teachers did this. In these situations, her policy was to start the packet and wait for someone to complain. This minimized awkwardness for everyone. If a group was offered her, she'd say working on her own was faster, which was true, even if it wasn't t-r-u-th.

Of course, that policy wouldn't fly today.

By the time Christie had lined up for her packet, the classroom's silence had lifted and the room was babbling with the typical teenager nonsense. Bad jokes. Anecdotes. Gossip. At least it masked the crinkling. Christie glued her eyes to the whiteboard, trying to look stiff and unapproachable, but no such luck. Some of the more confrontational ones talked to her anyway.

Why was Christie late anyway? With Shelly, too. Christie never got to class late. Crazy night partying? Oh come on, Rose. Christie'd rather swallow nails than skip, wouldn't she? I mean, the principate, how could you miss the principate?

"I overslept."

Unexpected cleanup? Oh, don't be hideous JD. That's just a rumor. Isn't that right, Christie? I mean, be real. Wait, Lis, you didn't go to Central? Back then...

"I don't know the rumor, so I couldn't say."

Did you, like, wet the bed at Shelly's place? Then throw a fit and wreck their science project? But no, that was years ago, wasn't it? Sam seems SUPER pissed. She must be exaggerating or something, right?

"Is that the rumor. It's true. I don't see how it's your business, though."

Oh, really. Woooow. Jesus Christ, JD. So you've made up with Shelly? Shelly really makes nice with anyone, doesn't she? Lay off, Lex. I'm sure she blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

And so on and so on. In these sorts of situations, kids tended to divide into three camps. There were the prodders, who enjoyed jokes and pot-shots; the baskers, who enjoyed stories and sympathy; and the watchers, who just watched. Christie couldn't say which camp she hated more. Shelly aside, she didn't see how they felt they deserved to take what they did from her.

Christie managed to avoid snapping. Snapping might drive the baskers away, but it would let the prodders feel self-righteous in tormenting her. Always a mistake. So she handled it. She didn't care about anyone here, anyway.

Eventually Christie succeeded in being uninteresting enough that kids sorted into their groups. The class devolved into a loose mix of banter, next block's homework, and history. Girl groups were thumbing lackadasically through the textbook, reviewing the weekend's gossip, while boy groups mostly joked about Hadrian being gay.

Snots. All snots. Of course, Christie was a snot too. They were just happy snots.

Only a good person can be happy, Rob said. Sure, Christie thought, just look at all these wonderful people. She smoldered at them.

After sitting down, Christie squeezed her legs and found her diaper still dry. Nice surprise. She'd like to count that as progress, but really, she'd probably reached the limits of human biology. You couldn't keep peeing yourself forever. Christie glanced over to Shelly, who was chatting with a cluster of kids by the window.

Someone who likes you, even when you're a disgusting, hateful bitch. Was that how Ana put it? As if Christie didn't already know.

Christie looked up from page one to find a boy staring. Again. Christie knew him a bit, a quiet type with terrible acne and messy hair. The other boys in his group were flicking folded papers at each other. He was a watcher, if she had to classify him.

"What?" she snapped.

"Uh... nothing," he said, sounding surprised. He looked down and flipped forward in the packet. "You look kinda different today, is all."

Great, so Christie did look weird. Just wonderful.

She ground her teeth. Do you only smile when using people? Or do you smile at other times? Christie had succeeded in wiping Ana's smile away, but now it seemed a hollow prize.

A minute later, a frazzled-looking Shelly slid into the desk to Christie's left. Of course. Christie sighed, straightening her packet. She should have expected this. Shelly had tugged Brook along, now sitting there with the expression of a dog being dragged by a chain lead.

"Sorry, got tangled up," said Shelly. "Did you know the one with the beard was gay?"

"Oh really. Who knew." Christie considered fighting this, but decided it was pointless. "Did either of you find number six?"

Brook visibly relaxed. "Um... that's the invasion of P—"

"Number six? Who cares about number six? It's just busy work." Shelly huffed, incredulous. "We need to talk about Ana."

Christie pursed her lips. "What's there to talk about?"

"Well I'm not going to just let Ana and my sister start a blood feud. Be real. Isn't that right, Brook?"

"Um..." Brook licked her lips. "You had a sister, Shelly?"

"Geez, I keep forgetting. Brook, this is my sister, her name's Christie. She turned fifteen last June, if you can believe it. She's kind of a pain, but don't let her rile you."

"Pleased to meet you," said Christie dryly.

Brook looked lost. She fiddled with her fingers, even now avoiding Christie's eyes.

"Anyway," said Shelly, "I want to smooth things over with Ana, and judging from this morning, Christie apologizing won't be enough."

Christie's penciltip pressed hard onto Emperor Hadrian's throat. Brook stuttered a bit. Apologize? Christie thought, her mind scattering into a million places. What had Christie said to Ana, again? I hate you? You're a gossip with no personality? You don't think of other people's feelings?

"Christie wants to... apologize?"

"No," said Christie. "No no no no no no, that's not happening." Her pencil tore a chunk off the paper.

Shelly blinked. "What?

"You heard me. I'm not going to apologize."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't."

"Well of course you can. Don't be ridiculous. Brook, you're tight with Ana, aren't you? Can you—?"

"I'm not doing it," said Christie, setting her lip.

"I think... I think..." Brook fumbled, eyes wandering toward Christie and pulling away. "I think this... maybe... isn't really... something that has anything to do with me. I moved here six months ago. Right? Can I work on my packet, please?"

"No," said Shelly.

Brook looked stricken.

But Christie was thinking of Ana again. Ana Bailey, with tennis balls on her desk. Ana Bailey, who alphabetical order had placed next to Christie for most of grade school. Christie sieved through her memories. Ana Bailey, chewing on a lock of hair, sitting with friends. Eyes eager, waiting to hop in between lines. Ana 'Not A Cruel Bone In Her Body' Bailey. Leaning forward, talking breathlessly. Smiling.

Ana speaking up. Ana in cute suspenders, Ana with hair ribbons. Ana telling a story. So eager to please. Smiling that unrestrained smile. Ana delighting her friends. Ana thinking of a clever name. Ana with a funny story. Ana who copied what everyone else was doing.

Christie tried to think three-dimensionally, four-dimensionally, five-dimensionally. She tried to change her perspective. She tried to think of Ana like Rob thought of her. Normal. But the answers didn't change.

Ana had no personality. Ana was a gossip. Ana didn't think of other's people's feelings. And Christie hated her.

These were truths, clear as a still lake on a crisp autumn morning.

Somewhere, Brook was talking. "Shelly, I... why can't we just let this go? It's not a blood... a blood food? If Christie doesn't want to hang out, okay. Fine! Why should she? I even see how she feels... We shouldn't force things. I mean, I don't think so. Yesterday I... thought I was doing a good thing, standing up to Sam. It just seemed so terrible... but I was just assuming. It only made everything worse.

Brook's eyes finally set sheepishly on Christie, then darted away. "If Christie and Ana don't like each other, why not just let it be? It doesn't need to be a... blood food? Just going separate ways. It's the same with Becky... how is it right to force things, if Christie hates her so much? Acting like we know best..." Brook trailed off.

Shelly snorted. "Oh, don't worry. I'm the BIG sister, actually, so I'm allowed to force her."

"Then I'm the little sister," said Christie, slowly "and I'm allowed to be willful. I'm not doing it."

"Of course you are."

"But I'm not."

"But you are."

"I'm not."

"Are."

"And what are you going to do if I don't, exactly?"

Shelly ignored her. Christie turned and glowered out the window.

Inside, Christie quailed. Rob and Shelly expected something from her: to be a jagged rock with a hot, gooey core. They thought that, if pressed, she would crack and spill out. But they had misjudged her. Inside, Christie was actually quite cool and solid, and it was because she was cool and solid that she couldn't apologize. They never imagined that Christie's insides could be even more jagged than her outside.

Next to Shelly, a boy group was shuttling quarters across their desks. Schlick schlick schlick. Ms. Beauchamp was absorbed in correcting papers, so the room had grown gradually more unruly. There was laughter, there was schlick schlick schlick. Christie felt each flick of a quarter like it was pounding into her forehead.

Snots. Happy snots. Prodders and baskers and watchers. And the miserable snot, who knew the truth. Because how couldn't she. They'd taught her everything they never knew.

Shelly and Brook were still talking.

"... don't think Ana's angry, really, not like Sam at least. She just doesn't see how she's done anything wrong. To her, Christie's just toxic. I tried talking to her yesterday. Basically, she just asked a Truth-or-dare question and Christie flew off on her. Ana didn't even say anything in the kitchen, and even if Becky and Sam did, that was just even stevens, since Christie is always so cross..."

"Do you think my sister's toxic, Brook?"

Brook looked away, face twitching. "Why'd you have to PUT it like that? I just don't see why we can't split up peaceful-like. We can do the presentation next block, and that's that. No hard feelings! Christie doesn't want to be there, and Ana doesn't want Christie there, and that's just FINE. What's the problem?"

"She's my sister."

"She...?" Brook shook her head, looking baffled. "Then why don't you respect what she wants?"

Shelly sighed. "Yeah. The thing is, you can't take Christie at her word for this stuff. Like, she kinda erupts from time to time. Then she'll hole herself up, pretend like you don't exist for a while. And so on and such. I don't get it, but you can't take it personal. She wants to come back eventually, if you coax her."

Christie glared at the Mediterranean trade data chart. She dribbled a little, not enough for it to pool.

Shelly shrugged. "Usually, there isn't this much mayhem..."

"Christie...? You still..." Brook tested each word like a suspicious foreign cuisine, "still want to be friends with everyone?"

Christie choked. "Still? Still?" Christie almost gagged. "Did you think I was YOUR friend?"

Brook winced, and Christie felt her stomach shrivel again. Why did she have to be Christie, of all people? She took a deep breath. T-r-u-th. Bravery. "I..." Yes. No. A little. Anything but that. "... wish I could wish I could wish that."

"C-come again?"

"Brook, I meant what I said. So I can't apologize."

That was one reason, at least.

Christie hated Ana, like she'd never stopped hating Ana. To this day, she dreamed of smashing Ana's teeth with a brick. She couldn't help it. The others she hated less, not having known them then. She hated Sam with her sandpaper attitude, Mori with her privileged ditziness, Becky with her superiority complex, and even Brook, the weak-willed mouse. Christie was always imagining ways for them to be humiliated, proven hypocrites. Christie gloried the day Mori got dumped, the time Sam got sent to the dean.

Christie had seen her 'friends' with all their flaws: lazy, self-absorbed, stupid, shallow, manipulative, and attention-seeking. Often she'd tried to think more charitably of them, to like them, but she'd found herself long ago incapable of it.

Sam, Mori, Becky, and Brook weren't alone: Christie was surrounded by the people she hated. In this class, for instance. All happy snots. And her family. Judgmental, selfish. Come to think of it, Christie would probably have kept hating Rob, too, if she'd kept thinking of him as a real person. Christie hated real people. How could she feel otherwise? She'd been forced to think long and hard about it. She was convinced beyond doubt her analysis of them was right.

"I'd rather die alone than live a lie."

The words tasted juvenile in her mouth, affected, like something out of a terrible emo poem, but when Christie spoke she found them to be true.

Something had changed... what had changed? Her decision hadn't, but her reasons felt different now. When had they changed?

Shelly just rolled her eyes. Brook looked astonished, like Christie had quoted some obscure, dead philosopher. Around them, the cackling riot continued.

"Don't even ask, Brook," advised Shelly. "I'm out of bandaids."

Christie noticed her skin humming. All of a sudden, she felt tired, awfully tired. No, Christie felt sleepy, like her nerves had, after three hours on edge, completely run out of gas. She wanted to put her cheek on the desk. "I want to sleep," she said, without really meaning to. A strange thing to say.

But Shelly just sighed. "You ever hear of napping during lectures? What do you think I was doing?"

"Shouldn't you be paying attention?"

"Whatever." Shelly glanced at the clock. "Go ahead, grab twenty minutes, Ms. B's wrapped up in grading papers, so I don't think she'll notice. Or care. I'll wake you if the bell doesn't."

Christie blinked. "Sleep? Here?"

"No, in the hallway. Of course here, silly."

"Maybe next block," Christie muttered, rubbing her eyes.

"We have a presentation."

"Uh, on second thought..."

Shelly leaned over and pressed a finger to Christie's glossy lips. And that was that.

Brook looked anxious, but Shelly smiled and waved her expression away without explaining. A small blessing. Christie felt bashful to put her head down in a crowded room, but after accidentally asking to she saw no graceful exit. The bags under her eyes weighed down like they were made of liquid cement. Christie lowered her head to her arm, the world fuzzing up around her. She felt wet somehow, but it wasn't her diaper.

Lids half-closed, Christie noticed Brook eyeing her with an odd expression.

"What are you looking at?" Christie's eyes snapped open.

"Uh... y-you were..." Blushing.

"Christie, it's twenty minutes. Just go to sleep, girl."

But Shelly didn't need to say that. The hatred had passed over Christie like a wave, and it left her only empty, sleepy. She felt like a stone settling into deep water.

Like I was saying. She goes off like that, but it doesn't mean anything. Hates looking weak. Easy to embarrass, I guess.

After a long pause, Brook seemed to giggle. You know, my little brother... she said, and then Christie heard no more.

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:13 PM
Content: Chapter 22: T-r-u-th

The world felt warm, groggy, sticky, and clanging. In some corner Christie sensed motion. Irritated, she tried to swat it away, since she couldn't be distracted now, she hadn't finished yet. But the hand kept prodding.

"I'm awake," Christie admitted. She wiped a line of drool on her sleeve.

"Morning, sis. Have a nice nap?"

"Terrible." Christie cleared the gunk from her eyes and sighed into her desk. She'd been dreaming about coming to school in pajamas again. Why always pajamas? Why not naked, or in underwear, like a normal person?

This time she'd been wearing those sleepover PJs, the footed ones with wings that she couldn't take off by herself. They didn't really hide her diapers, so everyone knew about that. In class, she'd been sketching something with colored pencils while the teacher talked, but she couldn't remember what.

In the real world, Ms. Beauchamp was calling out due dates as kids grabbed bags and stuffed papers into folders. Christie yawned, wondering where Brook had gone. Her chair was empty. Had she evaporated? Shelly was still sitting by Christie's elbow, smiling indulgently.

"You weren't... touching me in my sleep, were you?" asked Christie.

"Hm? Just an eensy bit, sorry. Did it wake you? You kinda kept putting your fingers in your mouth, and it looked cute, but I really am out of bandaids, so..."

Christie blushed. "Not THAT. I thought you were touching, like, my stomach and thighs and stuff."

"Your thighs?" said Shelly. "Ooooooh. Spicy. What kind of dream was that? Did it feel nice?"

"Terrible," said Christie again. "Maybe."

Most kids had already filtered into the hallway, leaving the classroom quiet and strangely intimate. Even with the extra passing time this block, they always hurried. Why bother? Christie wondered. Another wave of drowsiness tugged her, but she blinked it away. Integrated science would start in fifteen minute, and she needed her wits to confront them all. Christie felt a sinking sensation.

"Christie, can you tell if you need to go?" Shelly asked. Wow. Christie thought that must be the least discreet phrasing possible. The room wasn't totally empty yet, geez.

"Uh..." Nope. A little. Don't be so nosy. Could you stop bothering me? "Do we have to?"

"That's what I'm asking Christie..."

Outside the hallway bustled, and Christie could imagine the line outside the girls' bathroom. Christie resisted the urge to check herself. "I kinda don't want to go right now."

"What's that supposed to mean? You either need to go or you don't, stupid."

"I just... because they'll be watching..." Christie buried her head back in her hands. Blushing did wonders to wake you, didn't it? "It's okay, I don't need to anymore. It was just a little bit..."

"Drat!" said Shelly, and she smiled for some reason. "We should try anyway, don't you think?"

"Uh..." Christie cringed. What was Shelly planning to do? Take Christie into the stall with her? Have her go in the middle of a change? Throw the used diaper in the trash can? In public? Christie cleared her throat. "S... s-sure."

Christie had hoped Shelly would appreciate her bravery, but Shelly didn't seem to notice. "Your throat okay? Are you coming down with something?"

"Just thirsty, is all," Christie lied without thinking. Damn.

Shelly nodded absently and reached for her messenger bag. Before Christie could stop her, Shelly had opened the flap and a tidy white stack was poking out, along with baby powder and a change of clothes. Christie's breath caught. Fortunately no one was watching. Eventually Shelly fished out a pink sports bottle and tossed it over.

Christie grimaced. Shelly REALLY didn't plan on being discreet, did she?

"Come on, drink up! And don't say you aren't thirsty anymore, 'cause that's super heavy to lug around."

"Shelly, you don't need to lug this around. We don't live in Cambodia. There are water fountains in the hall, sinks in the bathroom—"

"Hm, I don't think so," said Shelly, denying the existence of tap water. "Anyway, it's apple juice. Don't you like apple juice?"

"Well I do, but..."

Christie stared down at her lap. Shelly wanted to monitor Christie's liquids, didn't she? She used to pull this stuff in sixth grade, even if she'd never say it out loud, finding excuses to watch her drink. Christie had hated that. But now Shelly had permission, and she didn't even trust Christie to drink from a water fountain. Christie seethed, then felt guilty. The two sensations dissolved into a warm ticklish feeling.

The class had emptied. Oh well, Christie thought.

The juice tasted watery and lukewarm, but still sweet. Christie took a sip, then another for good measure, but Shelly just kept looking. Sighing, Christie closed her eyes, raised the bottle above the level of her nose. Fine. Shelly better not complain about having to change her. It DID taste good. Feeling oddly defiant, Christie started to gulp the juice down.

Did the dream feel nice? Shelly had asked. Christie wondered about that, sucking on the bottle, thinking of Shelly's fingers on her belly. Did it feel nice to have Shelly make her drink apple juice, fix her bandaids, wash her hands, change her diaper? Did it feel nice to be dependent? It felt terrible... maybe, Christie had said, but that didn't capture the feeling. The nice parts felt terrible, and the terrible parts felt nice, and everything was all mixed up. It was like dying of thirst while drowning.

In apple juice.

Three quarters through the bottle, Christie opened her eyes and saw Becky standing by the door. A mouthful of apple juice shot down the wrong pipe. Christie coughed it up, choking. Becky was studying her, hand on the door frame, eyes neutral. Two kids from next block had already arrived and were watching too. Christie blushed, handing the bottle back to Shelly. What were they staring at? She'd just been drinking...

How Becky looked then was hard to describe. It was hard to describe because Christie couldn't look at Becky; something was forcing her eyes away. Had she turned into Brook? Last night, Christie hadn't worried about Becky like she'd worried about Shelly or Sam or Ana, but now sitting here felt like sitting in the Sahara. Trying to look at Becky was like trying to look at the sun.

Light footsteps. A cheery voice.

"Hey Shelly!" said Becky.

"Hey Becky! I thought you had pre-calc."

"I do have pre-calc. Wow, do you memorize everyone's schedule like that? Amazing. Anyway, I just heard Christie came in, and I had some stuff to chat about. Could you spare her a sec?"

"Stuff? What kind of stuff?"

"Oh, you know. Stuff."

Shelly paused, pitching her cheek with her tongue. "Um, okay. Can we make a pit stop first? Let me go pack up my things..."

Becky seemed to smile. How could Christie feel Becky smile? "Her and just her is fine, Shelly. I've already chatted with you lots, right?"

The words seemed to have a physical effect on Shelly, like a warbling high-pitched sound, but judging from her expression Becky was still smiling. So Shelly smiled back.

"Is this about last night, Becky? Can't we talk about this later, all of us together?"

"Oh, you've got the wrong idea. There's no all of us, Shelly. Just me and Christie, it's a little thing between us, you see. No biggie."

"If... you say so. How about after lunch? Our circuit presentation next block—"

"—doesn't matter. Colleges don't care about ninth grade. You can't keep protecting her forever, sweety."

Under the desk, Shelly's hand squeezed Christie's knee. Christie nodded, then stood up.

As Christie followed Becky out of the classroom, Shelly bit her lip and waved, like a young mother to a schoolbus carrying her preschooler away. Shelly was worried, Christie realized, and her stomach shriveled. She still felt like she was drowning.

Walking down the hall, Christie finally got a good look at Becky — her back at least — while she cut a path through the crowd. She was wearing shades of green, stylish but understated, and her backpack shifted smoothly from shoulder to shoulder, showing no tension or anger or awkwardness. Or anything, really. Becky called out to at least a dozen kids. She laughed and greeted by name. Christie just toddled invisibly in her wake.

"What's with the getup?" Becky asked, not looking back.

"G-getup?"

"You never dress like that, sweety. You're always choosing such drab colors, those faded denims and grey blouses and such, never anything fun. Those pink and purple stars on your pants are cutesy... but the sweater balances it out! Very lovely. Adorable. From Shelly's description, your idea of dressing cute sounded like rainbow vomit in a skittle hurricane. No offense, of course."

Christie mumbled something noncommittal, but she didn't technically lie. Stupid Shelly — that was for Rob. Luckily Becky didn't press for an explanation, and Christie tried not to think about her Friday little girl outfit. Her Monday one was bad enough. Christie watched her sneakers shuffle over the hall tiles.

"Becky. This will sound weird, but I wanted to ask..."

"Hm?" Becky waved to a group of seniors. The roar of the hall had swallowed her voice.

"Nothing. Where are we going?"

"The hyperbaric torture chamber," said Becky. "Loosen up, will you Christie?"

They passed from the crowded hall into a lonely stairwell by the quad. Christie often came here for peace and quiet, but she found none of it today. Her worries echoed louder and louder. Christie had a knack for reading people, she thought, but couldn't read Becky. Who was Becky? Christie couldn't even tell what she wanted.

Becky wanted Rob, obviously. She'd had a crush on him for... six years maybe? Even if Rob somehow missed the hints. Did Becky want to talk about Rob? But she already had. Or talk about her lie? She HAD. Was this about Christie's flameout last night? Becky had made it clear what she thought of Christie — this wire doesn't go here, basically. Nothing Christie said should have surprised her.

Come to think of it, if Becky liked Rob so much, why hadn't she ever made a move? Asked him out, flirted, or something? Christie knew for a fact Becky had dated guys. And what, really, did Becky have to do with Rob's dead girlfriend? The question haunted Christie.

At first, hearing Rob's story, Christie thought Becky must have been sabotaging his girlfriend. Hadn't she sabotaged Christie? But the more Christie thought about it, the less anything made sense. Becky had tried to steer Rob away from the girl, yes, but once they were dating, she spoke kindly of her in a strange, clinical way. She gave good advice. She never goaded on Rob's frustrations. "Bitter chocolate", she'd said. There was a strange mix of affection and cruelty in the words.

Becky even seemed to try to save Rob's ex, in the end, when the whole world was against her. You'll regret this, she told Rob. Was that cynical pretending? Trying to appear nice, once the relationship was doomed? But no, Becky had made Rob HATE her by telling the truth afterwards, saying his girlfriend deserved it. Becky could have easily comforted Rob, then dated him on the rebound. But she didn't do it.

It threw Christie's entire impression of Becky into confusion.

As they descended the staircase, Becky's smoothly-sliding back refused to reveal her secrets. They turned left at the bottom into a recess by the janitorial closet. Christie ate lunch here sometimes: a cool, dry spot, perfect for thinking. Becky stopped by the vending machine.

"I interrupted you back there. Sorry. You looked thirsty, so let me buy you something."

"I'm fine."

Becky waved dismissively, taking out five quarters. "I insist. What do you usually drink, Christie?"

"Diet coke," Christie started, then bit her lip. Coward. Was she going to lie about that too? "Snapple. The raspberry kind."

Becky chuckled, then funneled her quarters into the coin slot. A 16oz Snapple bottle clunked into the beverage tray. Christie regarded it glumly. Was this some kind of conspiracy? Who benefited from making Christie drink her weight in juice every day? Judging from how it felt to walk, Christie's breakfast bottle had already found its way into her diaper while she napped.

"Aren't you going to grab that?" Becky asked.

The Snapple was sitting in the beverage tray.

"Um." Christie eyed Becky.

"Well?"

Christie toyed with the bottom of her sweater dress. She was being paranoid, right? The skirt came down to her knees, and what was Becky going to do, crouch? Taking a deep breath, Christie bent down. She reached, resisting the urge to guard her back.

In one smooth motion, Becky pressed a palm down on Christie, flipped up her skirt, and tugged out the waistband of her leggings. For the third time today, someone checked her diaper without permission. Christie nearly screamed.

"Uh-huh. Well that answers that." Becky snapped the stretchy sides a bit.

"You... crazy... BITCH!" Christie forced her sweater down, pressing back against the vending machine. "What are DOING?"

"Sorry, hun, I had to check something. Unbelievable. Absolutely crazy. Could you lower your voice a tad?"

"You could have ASKED. I would have TOLD you!"

"Told me what?"

"What I was wearing!"

"Really?" Becky raised an eyebrow. "Gosh, Christie, I wouldn't need to pull down your pants to see you've got a diaper on. Please. With you drinking so much, it was either this or a catheter. I guessed diapers seemed more ironic... you haven't started sucking your thumb, have you? Plus, the way you keep minding your skirt. And squeezing your legs together. And walking weird. And generally looking like a little kid who wears diapers."

Christie gritted her teeth. "How do you notice this stuff?"

Becky shrugged. "It must be because I'm, oh, let's see, a dark, hateful person who is obsessed with people's underbellies? Or under-clothes. Christie, this may be a shock, but you aren't exactly the smoothest operator in school, and it's not like Central elementary was a million years ago."

Christie shook. "Did you want to talk, or did you just want to harass me?"

"I'm not harassing you. Relax, sweety. Like I said, I had to check something, given those clothes," said Becky. "I used to give Shelly babysitting tips, you know. Not many people do the diaper tapes like that..."

Christie pressed her mouth shut. Her eyes sunk to her shoelaces.

"So. Is this really what it looks like?"

Christie's throat locked. Truth. "...... yeah."

Somehow, Christie had expected the secret to last longer than two hours. Hopefully forever. Christie couldn't imagine Shelly putting up with changing her for long. Christie shouldn't keep secrets, Shelly said. But why shouldn't this be a secret? What right did people have to know Christie was this pathetic? Did Christie really need to be so exposed, just not to live a lie?

Becky was examining her again, looking at her hair, her cheeks, her shoelaces. Christie got the sense Becky was piecing together the morning from her clothes, like a forensic detective at the scene of a crime. She nodded at each evidence of Shelly's care. Eventually Becky's eyes settled on the bandaids wrapped around Christie's fingers, and her expression went cold. An emotion Christie couldn't identify welled in her eyes, something furious, sour-sweet, and intense.

"Shelly and Rob won't leave you alone," said Becky.

Christie nodded.

"You've decided to let them not leave you alone."

Christie cringed, but nodded. That was the gist of it.

"You've decided to be a parasite."

The words were strangely empty of judgment. Christie didn't nod, but she didn't shake her head either. It would feel nice to pee her pants now, she thought. But Becky didn't seem to care how she answered.

"Christie, do you know what people think of you?"

"They hate me," said Christie slowly, "because I hate all of them."

Becky looked surprised, but then laughed. "Don't be stupid, sweety. People hate people for themselves. Coddle someone's self-image, and they'll love you; prove it wrong, they'll despise you. That's how love and hate work, oh do I know. So yeah, Sam and Ana hate you, because you make them dumb, pushy, and lazy. On the other hand, Shelly loves you, and why not? when you make her into a little saint. From what I gather, everyone used to 'love' you in Central, after a fashion. You put a stop to that — a decision I can respect."

Christie sighed. "What's your point?"

"I don't hate you, Christie. I think your situation is lovely and sad, and probably not even your fault. But I have no intention of letting you hurt my friends."

It was a very straightforward declaration of war.

Christie toyed with the Snapple bottle. "So you're playing like you're selfless? You're doing it for 'them'?"

"No," said Becky.

Christie waited, but Becky wouldn't expand on that answer. "And what are you going to do exactly? Blackmail me?"

"Gosh no. What's the world like to you?"

"What, then?"

Becky didn't answer right away, but threaded her fingers into Christie's hair. "Shelly's trying to fix things up for you, sweety. She wants to make things like they were, as if how things were was worth preserving. It seems she's fine cleaning up all your messes... but she can't force things by herself, not this time. Shelly's friends have to agree, and they're all quite ready to disown you. With Shelly, if it comes down to it."

Becky paused, as if expecting Christie to comment. Christie just played with her sweater.

"It's not impossible, of course. They're all different, and so much more sensitive than Shelly. If I had to guess, Sam needs to think you're as bad as her. Brook needs to think you're lying. Ana needs to think you're hurt. And Mori needs to think you're worth the trouble. But none that matters, because I won't agree, no matter what. I'm telling you in advance."

The bell rang. Christie sulked, watched the backlight of the vending machine flicker.

"Isn't it Shelly's decision if she wants to be hurt?"

"She's made that clear to me. So I'm talking to you. It's your decision how this goes." Becky leaned back against the brickwork. "Christie, do you think you'll be happy?"

"It doesn't matter. I made a promise."

Becky smiled. "Sweety, Shelly's been trying to make this work for years. What could possibly be different this time? How do you think this ends? You won't get anything out of it. They'll say sorry, you'll say sorry, and we'll all pretend to forget, but in two months you'll be scowling in the corner again, and they'll be venting behind your back, and Shelly will be trying to keep things together. Eventually, you'll make Shelly and Rob cry again. Life isn't a storybook. People don't change just because they're loved."

Christie's stomach shriveled. Loved. Nothing Becky had said was news to her. Did she think she was revealing some amazing wisdom? Christie had signed Shelly's magnet, become her little sister, but she knew she could never give Shelly what she really wanted.

"I made a promise," she said again.

"Isn't that just an excuse?"

"What's the worst you think I'm gonna do?" Christie muttered. "Kill myself?"

Becky's eyes narrowed. The hall seemed to grow darker.

"So he told you about her, did he? Well now. Isn't today full of surprises? I wasn't thinking about that little squirrel. Of course you won't, because you're not nearly so dramatic as her — but since we're here, why not? Let me set the story straight for you, sweety.

"I'm guessing Rob told you about it a certain way? Like he was selfish, insensitive or something? That he drove her to it? Is that what he said? Oh Christie, it's such bull. He was a prince, probably the sweetest person in her life. He gave and gave and gave, and she took and took and took, but of course it never made her happier. Being happy wasn't her priority. The world is full of sad stories. The end."

Becky took the Snapple from the floor and shoved it into Christie's hands. Then, muttering to herself, she straightened her bag. Christie gripped the Snapple tight to her chest. She had to ask, she had to.

"Becky, did she love Rob?"

"Of course not. She just depended on him." Becky huffed, then rolled her eyes. "Jesus Christ, how am I STILL talking about her? God. Enough. I've said enough, more than enough about that girl, enough for my whole life. Love? Ha. Love. Love! Christie, everyone thought it was such a tragedy back then — the hypocrites — but you should know, shouldn't you? There are plenty of ways to die while you're still alive."

After she finished drinking, Christie found her way to science class: late, but in time for the group project. The presentation went better than expected, since nothing caught on fire.

By the ten-minute mark, the classroom reeked of melted plastic and the wires were hissing; no one having thought to add resistors. Even so, the class listened politely. The project was, itself, pathetic — a lightbulb hooked to a twelve-volt battery. But things went okay. Christie leaned on the whiteboard as Sam and Ana struggled to fill the dead air, Brook staring catatonically out. In the closing statement, Shelly managed a questionably accurate explanation of Ohm's law. Okay.

"Well there's a D if I ever saw one," said Sam afterwards, once Mr. Andrews had gone to run off worksheets. "Maybe an F for Crispy, if you count participation."

Christie ignored that, reviewing her notes. Sam had yet to speak to her directly. She was leaning the other way and talking to a group of girls, but speaking extra loud so Christie could hear. How subtle. Ana joined in. Mori, the peacemaker, didn't participate, but she didn't make peace either.

"When's the last time Crispy got a bad grade?" Sam wondered aloud. "Algebra, right? A C- on a quiz? She won't cry this time, will she?"

Ana giggled. "Think we'll need a mop?"

Christie rolled her eyes. She'd never got so much as misty-eyed, let alone peed her pants over a grade. But of course the audience wouldn't know that. Across the room Brook mumbled something inaudible, and Shelly was giving Christie prompting glances, but Christie kept her hands folded. The girls kept talking.

When Christie first entered the classroom, she'd gotten cold stares from the group, but mostly chuckling. Of course. Everyone would think she'd shown up late to avoid facing them. A coward. Christie had succeeded in making them hate her last night, pointing out all their flaws. But after spending the morning telling stories about her, throwing tantrums, hiding in the bathroom, sulking, getting so upset she peed her pants, they were starting to transmute that hatred into a more comfortable position of contempt.

Christie spun her pencil around. If only Christie hadn't cried, she thought. If only she hadn't wet herself, things would've been easier. They would've seen her as an ice queen and hated her. But now they saw her as pathetic, and could roll their eyes. Being hated was so much better than being held in contempt.

Eventually Mr. Andrews returned, and Christie settled into the worksheets. From across the room, Shelly shot a disapproving glare, but Christie ignored her again, she felt numb to it all. No group work today, thank god.

Or should she thank god? If god existed, he must be a cruel god, because he denied Christie anything like dignity. She seemed created to be as pathetic as possible. God had made her clumsy and weepy and short, incompetent, full of cravings. God made her pee her pants and cry when she needed to be impenetrable. Christie envied people without secrets. It was so easy for them not to live a lie.

Christie lowered her head to her notebook, but her eyes refused to feel heavy. The teacher's voice droned. Christie's hatred ached.

People hate people for themselves.

All today, Christie had tried not to lie. That was her promise to Rob. She'd been mostly successful, as far as words went. But the problem was, Christie herself was a lie.

Christie hated them: that was true. Christie had given her analysis of people: also true. It was true Shelly's friends were lazy, self-absorbed, stupid, shallow, manipulative, and attention-seeking. But Christie, the person, was not true — she was a fictional character.

How much easier were things, if Christie hated them? Hatred was useful. It was how she survived.

She'd been afraid of being seen, once. But that was stupid. There had never been a chance of Christie being seen, because Christie wasn't real. Christie had been constructed to play a role after the original person had gone. There was the public Christie, which she acted for others; and then the private Christie, which she acted for herself. Once, her lies had been protecting someone. But, telling the truth, she realized the force field had been hiding an empty vacuum for years.

As for who Christie-Christie had been, she couldn't say. All that was left was this inferior remnant. Had Christie-Christie been a proud person? Had she liked romance novels? Had she tried hard in school? Had she been careful with her clothes? Christie didn't know. She'd killed her years ago and buried her under two thousand carefully written names.

Only one thing remained: she couldn't be rejected by them again.

She would make herself perfect, unapproachable. She would hate them, make herself hated. She wouldn't let them have anything of her, wouldn't like them, would refuse the humiliation of liking them. That was how Christie-Christie had decided to die.

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:14 PM
Content: Chapter 23: What if

Shelly's group ate together for fourth period lunch. Once the bell rang, the time that had been worrying Christie — 12:36 — ticked out its last seconds.

As the classroom emptied, Shelly was fussing over Christie again. She asked if Christie needed the bathroom, and Christie said no. She went to fix Christie's hair, and Christie let her. She asked if Christie had a sore throat, and Christie shook her head. She asked, euphemistically, how badly Christie's diaper needed changing. But Christie played dumb. Even when Shelly asked more directly, Christie played dumb. After what Becky said, she didn't have the energy to tell the truth.

Christie let a stream trickle out into her diaper. With her weight on it, she wondered if it would leak. Let Shelly figure it out, she thought, sitting in the cool quiet classroom, letting Shelly fuss.

For breakfast, Christie had eaten a small bowl of oatmeal, but since then it had been nothing but juice for her. Even so her stomach felt dead. She dreaded the cafeteria, and left on her own she'd go down to the vending machine by the quad, but of course she wouldn't be left alone. Shelly would make her go. Her best option was to drag this out.

She wondered if Shelly would physically check her, pinch the front of her skirt. But she didn't. Was Shelly respecting her privacy? Christie wondered. That would be new. Or maybe she was just getting sick of Christie already.

There had been five free minutes at the end of integrated science, but Christie hadn't talked to anyone, had ignored Shelly's looks. Sam kept shooting potshots. Mori looked coolly. Ana snorted on the way out. Still putting on airs, they probably thought. Too good to talk to them. Christie had tried to ignore everything for those last few minutes, even when Sam addressed her directly. She was fake and she wouldn't apologize, and she wouldn't even say when her diaper was wet. It's natural that Shelly would start to get sick of her.

Guessing that Christie needed a change, Shelly took her to a faculty bathroom in the left wing. Christie hadn't thought of those. They were private, spacious, nicer-smelling than students bathrooms, with the toilet bowls bleached regularly. School rules prohibited students from using faculty bathrooms – probably to prevent sex more than diaper changes – but stuff like that never bothered Shelly. After a minute of Christie walking as slowly as she could, Shelly took her by the hand and tugged her forcibly down the hall. Most kids were either in the cafeteria or still in class, but a few saw Christie stumbling along behind Shelly. Oh well. Let them see.

While Christie was sitting on the toilet lid, having her diaper changed, a strange thought crossed her mind. A very strange thought. She tried to lock it in her throat while she half-listened to Shelly scold her.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I wasn't that wet," Christie mumbled. "Landfills..."

"Not THAT. Why didn't you say anything to your friends? You hurt their feelings. The longer you wait, the messier this gets..."

This was the first wet diaper Shelly had changed, so the process took longer than this morning. Christie guessed she hadn't changed a baby in the sitting position before. After pulling the diaper away, Shelly placed a box of wipes in Christie's lap, but Christie didn't make a move to clean herself. After a moment, Shelly played along.

"I can't live a lie," said Christie, flinching from the cold wipes. She'd lied seven times in the last ten minutes.

Shelly sighed. "Christie, what are you talking about? I know Sam should say sorry too. For egging you on. Making fun of you, and stuff. But what about Ana and Mori and Brook? This is just manners. How is saying you're sorry living a lie?"

"It just is."

"Christie, this isn't as big a deal as you think. Friends fight all the time. We'll go down and apologize, and then everything will go back to normal. Trust me."

As Shelly applied baby powder, tears of frustration welled in Christie's eyes. Back to normal. Was that what she wanted? She didn't feel upset, not really, but the tears were useful to her, so she let them fall. It was difficult to process.

Seeming mollified, Shelly didn't press further. She pulled out a clean diaper. Halfway through unfolding it, she remembered that Christie was nominally toilet trained. So she stood Christie up, opened the toilet lid, sat Christie back down, and then slipped out to the hallway, telling Christie to hurry so they could get down to the lunch.

Christie stared down into the porcelain bowl. After thirty seconds, she flushed.

"Did you manage to go much?" asked Shelly, locking the door behind her.

"No, I didn't try," said Christie. "I flushed so you'd think I was trying."

Christie focused on Shelly's face. Surprisingly, Shelly smiled, continuing the diaper change without comment. Did she think Christie had been joking?

"Shelly..." Christie leaned back as Shelly tightened the flaps.

"What, Christie?"

"Would you still be my sister if I pooped my pants?"

Shelly, about to fasten the last tape, winced. She lifted Christie's legs a bit, sniffing. After a second, she realized Christie wasn't talking about this diaper.

"Um. I'd super, super prefer you didn't... but yeah."

Christie shook her head. Shelly had said as much earlier. "What if I did it on purpose?"

"Why would you poop your pants on purpose?"

"I dunno."

Shelly looked flabbergasted. "Um. If you wanted to poop your pants... I'm guessing you'd have an important reason. You'd still be my sister, yeah."

"And what if I didn't have an important reason? What if I just did it?"

"You'd have to have an important reason. I mean... come on. Like, who poops their pants for no reason?" Shelly finished up the tapes. The extra tightness made the fit snug and secure.

Christie lifted her thighs so Shelly could pull up her pants. She supposed Shelly's response was logical: who did poop their pants for no reason? But it didn't really answer her question. How else could she phrase it?

She tried holding her arms up.

Shelly smiled. "Yeah, that's not happening. You weigh like ninety pounds, lazy-butt."

"And what if I won't get up by myself?"

"You won't get up...?" The last residue of irritation faded from Shelly's face. "That's kind of a problem. What's with all the what-ifs, sweety? Are you feeling okay?"

"Don't call me sweety," said Christie, hips tightening. "What if I won't get up?"

"You have to get up..."

"But what if I won't."

"You have to, Christie. It's the faculty bathroom."

"But what if I won't."

"Then you'll be sitting, I guess..." Shelly brushed a finger through Christie's stupid, fake hair. "Christie, if you're going to poop in your diaper, now would be a good time. Is it a lot? I have the supplies out, after all..."

Christie bit her lip. "If I poop in my diaper, do we have to go to the cafeteria?"

"We have to go." Shelly's tone brooked no argument.

Christie nodded, miserable, and got up.

Sighing, Shelly collected the changing supplies and packed them in her messenger bag. The wet diaper, rolled into a ball, was buried in the trash. Stray baby powder was wiped from the toilet and floor. The line of conversation seemed disposed along with them.

Shelly turned to the sink to wash her hands under the warm tap, then she helped Christie. Christie didn't see the point. She'd flushed with her bandaged right hand, but her left hand hadn't touched anything in the bathroom. Going in your underwear and having someone else clean up was surprisingly hygienic. Even so, she cooperated. The skin between her fingers tickled at the scrubbing.

"Shelly..."

"More questions?" Shelly unrolled some paper towels and dried their hands.

"What if I'm not a good person. Am I still your sister?"

"That's an interesting question." Shelly smiled to herself. "Are you sure you aren't a teen baby, Christie? Little Stacey never gives me this much trouble..."

"If I'm a teen baby, am I still your sister?"

"ARE you a teen baby?"

"What if I pretend to be one, to get what I want? What then?"

"What if, what if, what if... Christie, I love you. I want you to be happy. We'll figure this out."

Christie bit her tongue. If Shelly loved her, why was she making her go to the cafeteria?

"What if I don't love you? What if I'm not trying to make you happy?"

"More what ifs. Christie, we've been over this..."

"So you love me no matter what? I can do anything? ANYTHING?"

"Of course not, silly. What if you turned out to be Hitler or something?" Shelly made a motion for the door. "A very short, moody Hitler..."

"So I'm your sister if I don't kill millions of people?"

"Don't kill anyone, please."

"And what if I don't apologize? What if I stay here?"

"You have to apologize, Christie."

"But what if I don't?"

"Well..." Shelly shrugged. "What do you want me to say?"

Christie blinked. What did she want Shelly to say? What would Rob think if he saw Christie acting like this? She had tried to tell the truth, be brave, but she was just getting greedier and greedier. It was too much. She didn't think she could keep going.

Shelly sighed. "Come here, Christie."

She folded Christie in her arms. Hanging there, body limp, Christie felt tears come again even though she wasn't upset. Which Christie was crying? Her face pressed into Shelly's shoulder, trembling. It felt like she was having a seizure. Shelly accepted her weight.

"Why can't you be like this for everyone else? Christie. If you were like this to Sam and everyone, do you think they could still be mad at you?"

"I'm so afraid," Christie whispered. "Don't make me go."

"Christie..."

But Christie-Christie kept crying. "I'm not strong. Do I look strong? That was just pretending. I stay awake every night afraid. I barely get dressed in the morning. I haven't talked to Mom since I was nine. I can act weak, how weak do I need to act? I'm not proud. If I cry enough, do I need to go? If I yell at you, do I need to go? If I hate you, do I need to go? Don't make me go. Don't give me to them. I can be anything, what do you need me to be? You promised not to hurt me. You promised not to hurt me. I can't do this, I can't let them do it again. Why are you hurting me?"

Shelly didn't answer for a long time.

"If you stay here," she said, "you'll be hurting me instead."

Christie wiped her nose on Shelly's fleece. "And what if I don't care about that?"

"What if, what if... I don't know. Christie, you have to decide."

With half of fourth lunch period left, Shelly and Christie went down to the cafeteria.

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:14 PM
Content: Chapter 24: Hate you, hate you, hate you, hate you (continued)

Christie entered the cafeteria a mess, not quite managing a straight line. To her side, Shelly held her hand.

Inside the cafeteria there were crowds and fluorescent lights and yelling and spork packets scattered on the floor. Shelly's group, sitting at the far wall, could be seen in flashes. Was Christie walking weird? she started to wonder. Halfway down the aisle, a pair of roughhousing boys jostled into Christie, and she had to swallow a yelp. Everyone was laughing. So many lights.

Christie needed to be brave. Was saying sorry brave? Faking an apology, just because Shelly and Rob wanted her to? Or was not saying sorry brave? Not papering things over, even if it disappointed them? Or was that making excuses?

Christie needed to tell the truth, they said. But what was her truth? Was she lying if she stayed Shelly's sister and hurt her, or if she pushed Shelly away, hurting herself? Christie mustn't say selfish things, but she shouldn't keep secrets, and she shouldn't lie. If Christie's feelings were selfish, how could she NOT lie? It was impossible.

In the first place, what did being brave or telling the truth even mean? Christie was fake. Could a girl who peed in a diaper because she was afraid of people have integrity?

Ten minutes into the period, the lunch line had dwindled to nothing. Now, at the last second, Christie was thinking faster and faster about everything at once. She wouldn't have time, not in the minute it took to grab a tray and pay for lunch. But Shelly didn't even turn at the stanchions, making straight for the table at the far wall. Christie's sneakers squeaked as they skidded broadside towards Shelly's friends.

They came to the table at the far wall where the group sat. The noise of the cafeteria seemed to soften, the acoustic ceiling and brick wall soaking voices up. The table was, like Becky had said Thursday, the perfect place for a tête-à-tête. But there were more than two people today.

Christie squeezed Shelly's hand. That, at least, wasn't a lie.

Around the table, the girls were absorbed in their favorite pastimes. Mori was tidying everyone's trash on her tray. Ana was chatting to Sarah. Sam was flicking her spork like a trebuchet. Brook, eyes down, poked at leftover chop suey. As they approached, Becky made an odd expression, unreadable; but when Shelly pulled out a chair, she nodded that nod secretaries make, as if to acknowledge expected procedure.

Christie took a deep breath. How bad could this possibly go?

Sam's spork snapped in two. "You are NOT welcome here."

Christie smiled.

"Oh-okay-then-thatsashame-let-me-get-my-things-i'll-see-you-later-shelly."

But Shelly was gripping her by the wrist, so Christie couldn't worm out. Sam had gone red-faced in two seconds flat, while most of the table was leaning back with 'Oh my god, can you believe this?' type looks. Mori twisted her lips like she'd sipped two-week old milk.

"Shelly. Oh, Shelly," said Mori at last, sweetly enough, "We all had our chance to speak, didn't we? And we all agreed. Don't you see you're being stubborn?"

"If Crispy wants a group, maybe she can sit with the bedwetters club," said Sam. "Is there one? Maybe she could be club prez."

"I think Eddy in the special ed room wears diapers," said Ana. "Hopefully he lives up to Christie's standards."

Christie would be thrilled to join Eddy immediately, but unfortunately Shelly wouldn't let go.

"The resource room kids don't eat in the cafeteria," said Shelly softly. "Christie doesn't have any friends, so I can't let her sit alone."

This sympathy play failed. Ana and Sam sniggered. Sarah, always a good sport in these things, sniggered too. "You two can still sit together. It's a free country."

"She's my little sister."

"Little sister, huh?" Sam rapped the table. "Oh yeah... yeah! Brook said something like that. Very cool, Crispy. So you've got someone to play with and clean you up and protect you from all us meanies. Is that how it'll work? Mmmmmm, I don't see how you need us anymore." Sam gestured languidly to Brook, who looked like she wanted to sink deep into the lithosphere.

Christie paled. What had Brook told them? Across the table, Ana was leaning over, grinning and whispering in Sarah's ear. Brook met Christie's eyes with nausea.

A terrible moment passed.

"You're going too far, Sam" said Becky, finally. "She didn't come here to insult you."

Sam scowled, ripping styrofoam chunks off her tray.

"Christie has something to say?" said Mori. She nodded with obvious fatigue. "It's only fair, I suppose, since everyone else got a chance to speak. Would you like to sit, Christie, so we can get this out of the way?"

Christie hesitated. Everyone was waiting. The chair seemed somehow bigger than usual, but Christie gulped and sat down. As she tucked herself in, Sam and Ana were setting their shoulders in a way that made it particularly obvious that they disagreed with Mori, and Sarah was copying them. Christie tried to smile. But she couldn't. Once her chair was tucked, Shelly let go of her hand. Christie rubbed it under the table.

The chair DID feel big. Maybe it was the extra padding, but her heels didn't quite plant. They hung just barely off the floor.

Looking around the table, Christie felt very vividly that she didn't belong.

"So?" said Sam.

Christie tried shifting her diaper forward. Though this fixed her feet, the position left her leaning back like she was ducking a limbo stick. So Christie tried the opposite, scooting all the way to the backrest. Her feet lifted clear off the floor. They dangled there. Even from above the table, she must have looked ridiculous.

"So?"

Christie tried to speak, but the voice came out wet and indistinct.

"Does our big little visitor have something to say?"

"Sam," said Becky.

"What?" snapped Sam, while, under the table, Christie was rather frantically fixing her clothes. "It's obvious Shelly's carted her out to say she's sowwy."

Christie squeezed her legs together. She was struck again by the notion that she was not herself. Christie should be angry, Christie should be arguing, but she couldn't. Her teeth itched for her fingers. She forced herself to keep her hands under the table.

"Well?"

"Sam, she—"

"Crispy can speak for herself, Shelly. If she wants to say sorry, she can say sorry. For whatever it's worth."

Christie made another indistinct noise, hopefully conciliatory.

"I don't know, Sam," said Ana, smiling. "if Christie really wants to apologize, it's not like we couldn't consider forgiving her." Christie found herself staring into those terrible white teeth again.

"I th-think we should forgive her too!" stuttered Brook. "I'm mean, I'm sure she didn't mean it deep down. It was so heated last night, I mean, we all said things we didn't mean to say. I think it's all—"

Ana shot a fiery glare at Brook, who quickly resumed picking at her chop suey.

"Ha." Sam jabbed her half-spork out. "Suuuure, Brook. She didn't 'mean' it. Who cares? So she trashes all my friends last night. She's a total bitch every night, ESPECIALLY to Ana. Month after month. And now she comes holding Shelly's hand, dressed up all cute, ready to say she's sowwy, and we're all supposed to nod and say sorry back? Please." Then Sam turned to Christie. "Well?"

Christie cringed. In her desperation, she remembered the shiny lip gloss. Christie pushed out her mouth as far as she could.

"What are you DOING?"

Christie unpouted her lips immediately.

"Sam, she—"

"Quiet, Shelly. Well, Crispy, are you gonna say sowwy? Cat got your tongue? Come on, it'll be fun hearing how you didn't mean it, so Shelly can force you on us for another few months. Like ALWAYS. Did you think anyone else ever wanted you there?"

The room seemed to spin slightly. Becky and Mori had blank faces that told everything, while Ana was whispering to Sarah, and Shelly and Brook looked on with soft daggers in their eyes. Christie sat on her hands. This couldn't be happening again.

"Please be nice, Sam," said Mori, eventually. "You're exaggerating. Brook and Shelly both seem fond of Christie. I'm not angry, really, and Ana wants to hear what she has to say. Can you be nice, Sam?"

"Fine. Be manipulated." Sam folded her arms and sulked.

The group resettled into their chairs.

"Christie, you had something to say?"

The pounding in Christie's chest slowed to a patter-patter. When she looked around at Shelly's friends, she saw that everything had been set up for her. Was it during her nap? Shelly had prepped Brook, and Brook had prepped the table, and despite Sam's provocations, an apology would be well received. Brook had apparently forgiven her. Ana would respond to a good groveling. Mori would go with whatever resolved the crisis. And of course Sarah would fall in line.

"G-good morning," said Christie.

It was nearly one in the afternoon. The group waited.

"How are you feeling today? I'm feeling okay." Christie licked her lips. "Um. About last night. I said lots of... things about... stuff. It was because of... complicated situation. On top of that, there were many... things... I did, and I didn't have a chance to... well, I did have a chance, but... things... happened. So I wanted to say, uh..."

"Things? Stuff?"

"Sam. Please."

Eyes squeezed Christie like a hydraulic press. Shelly nodded encouragingly from the side, probably thinking how easy she'd made this. There were only two things Christie needed to say: that she was sorry and that she wouldn't do it again. Once, Christie had refused to say them in this situation, to Laura Fisher's group in fifth grade. But since then, Shelly had been there. Christie had always folded. Christie knew what happened if she folded.

"I'm..."

How could she put this? Christie wondered. I'm sorry your feelings were hurt? No, that was shifting the blame so blatantly even Sam would notice. I didn't mean it? No, Christie shouldn't lie. I didn't mean to say that?

"I didn't mean to s..."

The words caught in her throat. What was the point of slithering into these little snake holes? If she was going to lie, she should just lie.

"I wanted to say how s..."

And why shouldn't Christie fold? Didn't Shelly deserve for Christie to lie to her?

"I'm very s..."

Everyone would have to deal with Christie there again. But so what. They all acted selfish themselves. They all used people. A few of Shelly's friends were, by any standards, bad people. If they didn't prod her, she just sat in the corner.

"I'm s... I didn't m..."

The room seemed to spin much more violently. Christie remembered the moment she'd walked up to the table. She'd seen it again, that moment when she first arrived at the group. Snots. Happy snots. Even Shelly looked happiest when Christie was just arriving.

"I..."

Christie drew in an uneven breath.

"I can't," she said.

Mori blinked "Excuse me?"

"I can't. They'd be disappointed."

"You can't what? Who'd be disappointed?"

"I can't say sorry if I'm not convinced."

This decision, reached just as Christie opened her lips to say sorry, was received like a wet sneeze. Christie had been stuttering for over a minute, only to babble some nonsense, then say she wouldn't apologize. For a while, no one knew what to say. Ana huffed, disgusted. Sam snorted. Shelly looked devastated, like Christie expected — Christie had needed to disappoint Shelly to avoid disappointing Shelly.

"Well get a load of this," said Sam. "So you're not sorry, Crispy?"

Christie shook her head, resigned.

"Wow." said Sam flatly, then turned away. "So now are you FINALLY gonna get it, Shelly? You've taken the bag for her, lied for her, and she doesn't even care enough to pretend she's sorry."

Shelly didn't answer.

"I'm sure she WANTS to apologize," Brook burst in. "She just can't because she's... she's sensitive, or something! Didn't you see how sensitive she was last night?!"

"Oh, how sensitive," said Ana.

Sam rolled her eyes again. "Yeah, so Crispy's a crybaby, sure. Stuck-up snots are usually crybabies. Most don't leak all over the floor, though, so excuse me if I don't think she's worth the trouble of convincing."

Mori patted Brook's shoulder. "Brook sweety, it's nice of you, but why do you think what Christie means matters?"

Brook turned, hopeless. "Christie. You want to say sorry, don't you?"

I wish I could wish I could wish that, Christie started to say, but the words caught in her throat again. What was the point of slithering into these snake holes?

"Sometimes when I was little, and being bad," said Christie, clearing her throat, "my dad used to say, an apology's just lying, if you're gonna be bad again. You need to change."

"And?" said Sam.

"I can't change."

Christie couldn't change.

One would think, Christie guessed, that learning you were fake, immature, and wrong would be life-changing. But not so. Christie had always wondered, in a way, in quiet moments, thinking how things would be better if she were different. If she didn't see how terrible everyone was. But what did knowing matter? Even if an actor learns new lines, does it change them? Whether she pretended to be Christie, Rob's girlfriend, or Shelly's little sister, she didn't feel that way underneath. On Tuesday she'd still be the same person.

Christie watched blank faces. Yup, she thought. This means nothing to them. Becky reacted, just barely, a flash of cold loathing in her eyes. Christie shivered.

Sam rolled her eyes. "So, basically, you know you're a bitch, you're going to keep being a bitch, and this is supposed to impress us... how?"

"Brook asked me to explain."

"Well you didn't. So you said that to make things confusing? Tell us more things that are new."

"Doesn't everyone say things for themselves?"

"Oh goody, Crispy has more smart things to say."

"Why are you so mean?" Christie whispered. "You've already got what you wanted."

Sam heard her. "Oh, sorry. You're sensitive. Please don't make a puddle."

"I'm mostly dry," Christie mumbled.

"Mostly?"

Ana butted in. "I think she's talking about her diaper."

Christie stared at her fingers. Apparently this was news, because Sam guffawed. "I was wondering why she didn't sign out during science. She always takes so many breaks... does Crispy always do this when she's upset?" Sam pushed herself up and took a look. Panicking, Christie pressed her palms down on her skirt. "Oh my god. This is UNBELIEVABLY gross. She hasn't been to the bathroom today, has she?"

Ana was whispering to Sarah again. "So in Central..."

"So are the paras in charge of cleaning Crispy up, like Eddy? Or is big sis taking care of things?"

Christie jumped. "O-of course n... "Of course n... of course n..."

Christie's teeth chattered to a stop. Horrified, she realized she couldn't say it. She stared down at the perforation in her bandaids.

A long silence opened — or rather, the crowd noise could be heard again. Christie didn't look up to see anyone's reaction.

"Christie's having a hard time today," Shelly said quietly.

"Oh my god," said Sam. "I mean, literally? LITERALLY? She's getting her DIAPER CHANGED? Is she still putting on her own clothes? Are you feeding her? Breastfeeding her? Bathing her? Is she four years old?" Sam's voice muddled as she cupped her hands over her face to laugh. "This is SO messed up... is what I want to say, but really, it's so right! Little miss perfect! Oh, I couldn't even dream up something like this! Wow!"

"Sam," said Becky. "Keep it together."

Sam continued to giggle quietly into her hands.

"Christie," said Mori, like a grandmother asking a child about their day at school, "have you been having these problems for a long time?"

Christie couldn't bring herself to answer in words. She nodded, wincing. When she raised her neck, everyone except Sam was looking at her like you look at... well, kids in the resource room. Even Ana's whispering was more subdued. Then Brook tried to play the hero again.

"Hey! It's not like she's doing it on purpose!" said Brook, then paused. "Um, and, uh, even if she is! It's not like that's a bad thing! Or... well, maybe for the environment..." She trailed off, looking around as if expecting someone to clarify her point. Christie cringed.

"Do you mean to say that it's a personal problem, Brook?" said Mori, helpfully.

"I mean, my little brother..." Brook mumbled too low to hear under the the yelling and squeaking chairs.

Sam giggled. "You're not gonna say he makes you wipe, are you?"

"Sam, for god's sake..."

Brook looked lost. "He's... having trouble with long subtraction, lately. But the teacher, she's already moved on to fractions in class. When I help him with homework, he gets very naughty. He'll be angry and yell, and hide his worksheets, and say he hates me, and try to run away, sometimes then he'll pretend he can't do any math at all. But I have to remember, it must be hard."

Christie couldn't say she appreciated her motivations being explained in terms of a seven-year-old. Across the table, Sam seemed equally irritated by the example. Christie suspected Sam hadn't been good at long subtraction either.

"And what?" said Sam.

"And..." Brook seemed to struggle, trying to communicate with gestures. She eyed Ana nervously. But in the end, her fingers spoke less clearly than she did. She was forced to say it. "and Christie got b-b-bullied for it in elementary school, and last night was hard, and she's like this, and... I think we could be understanding."

Ana sat straight. "Oh, and you're the one to 'understand', Brook? You moved here in November. How do YOU know what Christie's been like?"

Brook jumped. She returned to poking chop suey.

Until now, Ana had interacted with the conversation only indirectly. She sat between Sarah and Sam, playing with her hair, whispering a running commentary. Anytime she wanted to be heard, she made a loud aside to one of them. But now she spoke directly.

"Be understanding," Ana said. "What's that supposed to mean? Let her glare at us and spit in our face when we talk to her? When she doesn't even feel SORRY about it? Well excuse me for not being Shelly."

Brook mumbled something incoherent.

Becky, adjusting her eyelashes with a compact mirror, smiled distantly. "Brook, why should Ana have to care about that? It doesn't matter what Christie means. Those feelings are just yours."

Brook nodded dumbly.

Ana's eyes seared Christie. "Why'd you even come to our sleepovers, if you hated us like that?"

It took Christie a moment to realize she'd been asked a question. Did they expect her to advocate for herself?

Touching up with powder, Becky sighed. "Christie has a crush on Rob. She was planning to ask him out, I think."

Around the table, everyone smiled that specific smile. Becky seemed tired, but Sam giggled and wished Christie the very best of luck. Shelly tried to speak, but was silenced again. Several were opening their cellphones to check the time. No one seemed angry, but the room was spinning again.

Ana huffed. "Who CARES about that? I meant when we were twelve!" She shook her head bitterly. "After Halloween, it was like you wanted to kill us — even though we had nothing to do with it. And then, out of the blue, you just show up at Shelly's house with a sleeping bag. And of course Shelly wouldn't leave well enough alone. Why, why, why, why? Why did you do that to us?"

Christie mumbled something.

Sam rested her chin on her fist. "Come on, I'm curious. Why would Miss Leaky Shorts be interested in sleepovers? It must have been rough, hiding a gross secret like that. I'm guessing someone had to change you then too..."

Christie tried to dislodge a knot in her throat.

"WE. CAN'T. HEAR. WHAT YOU'RE SAYING."

Christie kicked her legs in the air. "Pokemon."

"What?"

"Pokemon."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time Christie. What about them?"

Christie's face got hot. You would have thought she'd been blushing for five straight minutes, but she only blushed now. Why did she have to say this? It was so cringy it made her squirm. "You know that cartoon everyone watched in grade school?"

"Third grade, yeah. What does that have to do with the price of huggies in candyland?"

"In sixth grade, I got really into the show."

The group wormed their lips. Christie had to rather fight her way through each word.

"So you liked pokemon. And?"

"They aired it right after school, and it's not like I had anything better to do. I didn't mean to, but it was on. I mean, sometimes still..."

Sam smiled. "Sure that show's not a little mature for you?

Christie ground her teeth. "Around that time, I, uh... well there was an episode... that I kind of watched... five or six times..."

"Sleepovers, Crispy. Sleepovers."

Christie felt herself go dead inside.

"So at the top of Mount Moon, they've got this special kind of Clefairy...

"It only comes out once for the blue moon, every three years. Clefairies are moon pokemon that... never mind. Anyway, they're shy and only show up to kids who are dreaming. But even if kids are dreaming, it needs to be the right kind of dream. I forget the details.

"So Ash and Brock are passing by Pewter City — it's kinda a rough town — and it turns out the blue moon's tomorrow. They hurry and get the help of some Pewter City kids who know the mountains. They're hoping to sleep at the peak under the full moon, dream, and catch one of the special Clefairies.

Christie paused for Sam to insert a jab, but everyone was listening quietly.

"But Ash and Brock and them don't get along. They don't bring enough sleeping bags or lunch boxes, so the five are up fighting all night. They really hate each other. It seems like one of them might pull a fast one on the others, so they post watches. But none of them can get to sleep, and they keep accusing each other of scaring the Clefairies off.

"Anyway, the kids from Pewter City are real jerks, and Ash and Brock act mean right back. But it turns out they all have their reasons. One of them's dad died, and stuff. Another really needs a Clefairy to cure his sick sister. Eventually, they make up and they... they become fr-fr-fr-fr-fr-fr-" Christie gritted her teeth. "friends! Just before dawn! And the Clefaries sense their friendship, and come out!"

Christie gripped the edge of the table.

"They dance and dance and dance! And the theme song plays! And it's all so exciting! And the next day Shelly came up to me, again, for the eight hundred millionth time, and she said to me, Christie, do you want to come over on Friday, we're having a sleepover, and I said, I said, I said... I said yes!"

Awkward glances were exchanged around the table. Sam didn't quite manage to keep a straight face. "So you, uh, went to sleepovers because you wanted to catch pokemon?"

"Sure! Why not!"

"Because they don't exist?"

"So what! I'd never slept over, or gone on a trip, or gone trick-or-treating with friends, and so why shouldn't I dream about that? It's just a story! And we duel pokemon, and go on adventures, and on the way there are exciting things, and romance, and we discover secrets, and fight evil, and stuff! And I've drawn it over and over and over again! And why shouldn't I? And what's YOUR problem?"

By this point, Sam had largely collapsed into her tray. In between giggles she made a charming impression of pikachu noises. Everyone waited politely, and after twenty seconds, Sam emerged with tomato sauce on her forehead, wiping away tears.

"Sure, why not? I wouldn't mind playing friends with Christie. I guess I didn't realize she was a third-grader..." Sam went back to giggling in her tray.

Christie lowered her chin into her arms, trembling. The story had lightened the table's mood considerably — Brook looked especially delighted — but there were two exceptions. Ana glared at Sam, and Becky had her eyes locked on Christie, cool and unreadable.

"That's a cute story," said Becky. "A cute moral for cute third graders. But you still hate us, don't you?"

"Ah whatever," said Sam, licking sauce off her palm. "The kids I babysit hate me too. It's because I'm the boss."

"Ah, whatever?" said Ana. "She's a viper! Have you seen the way she looks at me?"

"Well, yeah..."

Christie muttered. "I wasn't asking to be your friend. It's just a story to explain."

"Sure thing, small crisp," said Sam. "But Ana, come on, we did go a little overboard last night."

Small crisp? Small crisp?

"I'm sure she'll be a fun toy for you and Shelly to play with," said Ana, fuming. "How are you forgetting? She won't apologize. She hates me, and she hates you, and she won't change that! Or are you going to go back on that now, Christie?" Ana turned.

"I..." After a moment, Christie shook her head.

"See! She hates us! Even though we've done nothing wrong. What's so special about her? There are tons of loners in school, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred they're loners for a reason. Christie throws a fit every month! How are you supposed to 'play friends' with that?"

Sam scratched her chin and sighed, as if Ana were being very tiresome. Becky kept her gaze locked on Christie.

"How can you say that?" said Brook, quietly. "Say you've done nothing wrong?"

Ana turned, surprised. "I never have. What're you talking about?"

"You never did anything three years ago?"

"Three years ago?" said Ana, thinking. "First off, that was three years ago. Second off, you weren't there. And third off, no. I thought all that stuff was terrible. I never laid a finger on her, never wrote a note, never put anything in her cubby. Nothing."

"You never talked about Christie?"

"Talk? Everyone talked about Christie," said Ana, rolling her eyes. "Is it a crime to talk about news?"

"You never joked? Is it true you called her Christie Wetsy?"

"Sure, in private. She was hideous to everyone, at least as hideous as they were to her. Why shouldn't people joke about it?"

Brook raised her voice. She squeaked. "One h-h-hideous girl versus many! So she was p-p-peeing her pants and staying home from s-school, and you were having f-fun with that?"

Ana raised her voice right back. "It was just in private, and she deserved it plenty. And anyway, it was THREE YEARS AGO."

"It's not three years ago! You're always gossiping about other girls! About c-c-crushes and grades and stuff! Or or or... what about those jokes about that terrible singer lady!"

"You're blaming me for joking about American IDOL?" said Ana, incredulous.

"I'm blaming you for joking about Christie!"

"Three years ago!"

"Last night!"

"She deserved it!"

"Oh, such a b-bad girl. She hurt your feelings. She's messed up and doesn't have friends and pees her pants because she's upset, and you have fun with her because she deserves it. Are you that much of a coward?" Brook had stood up with hands driving into the table, trembling with fear. It made a memorable sight.

Ana swallowed her response and searched the table for support. When she looked, she found only studious faces.

"You do talk a lot," Sam offered. "Behind people's backs, I mean."

Mori smiled gently.

Becky shrugged. "It's a common flaw. You're a gossip, sure."

"I'm allowed to speak?" said Shelly, pointing to herself. "Ana, maybe you get over-eager... you try too hard to have something interesting to say!"

Ana's mouth fell open. "So you're coming after me, now? Me? I've never..." Ana turned to Brook in a rage. "Tell me, was CHRISTIE your friend when you moved here? Or was it me?"

"She's just saying, Ana," said Sarah, evasively.

Ana blinked. Around the table, everyone's expressions had hardened. Ana shouldn't have gone after Brook.

Ana drew in a deep breath. "You're blaming me? Me? I... when have I ever said something mean? When have I hurt anyone? Never. Never. I've just tried to be a good friend. And she says such terrible things every time we see her. She makes fun of people who read Twilight, for god's sakes. When she watches baby cartoons! But it's ME you're focusing on. I'm the monster? Is that what you all think? You're going to gang up on me, just for making some stupid jokes when I was twelve? You'd rather deal with her than deal with me? Well feel FREE. Have fun changing Miss Clefairy and giving her babas!"

Ana grabbed her bag and stormed from the table. Sarah held out her hand, as if to give chase. But she let her hand drop. When the cafeteria double doors swung shut behind Ana, Brook collapsed back into her seat.

"Oh dear," said Mori. "Things keep getting messier. Why won't anyone be calm?"

"She's just being dramatic," said Sam, shrugging. "Mori, do you HAVE to speak like that? It's like the Queen of Britain is reffing us."

Chuckling politely, Mori took a sip of water. After she capped the bottle, she said, "We seem to be going one at a time... Sarah, did you have something?"

Sarah shook her head. "I dunno. Ana's mad... Brook's mad... whatever you all decide is fine."

"Becky?"

Becky spun her compact on the table. "I'll talk last."

"I suppose it's my turn then," said Mori. "Good afternoon, Christie! Are you feeling a little better?"

Christie nodded. The exchange between Ana and Brook left a pit in her stomach, but she no longer wanted her fingers so desperately. Her diaper had wicked everything away. Shelly had been pulling at her right elbow during the fight.

"You mustn't worry about Ana. She'll be back tomorrow, I'm sure." Mori slipped a hand over Brook's. "But, ah, as to Ana's point. She's very right, I'm sorry to say. Sam can be so impulsive, but it really is quite impossible for us to be friends — even play friends. We've been trying for a while..."

Christie nodded, barely listening. Sam grumbled something under her breath.

Mori smiled sadly. "I see that you have very serious problems, Christie, and I'm so glad you shared it with us. It's very sweet. I wouldn't blame you for your feelings. But those feelings are real... and they mean something. Sam won't be able to play lacrosse anymore, with that grade. Did you know that? And how you always act, I'm afraid that it's had... other consequences."

Mori turned to Brook, smiling.

"You say you can't change. Thank you for being honest. I really do hope you get better, and find friends one day. But, the truth is you're terrible trouble, especially to Shelly. Oh, don't say anything Shelly, I know the truth. Christie, I understand you want someone to be nice and take care of you. But if you can't be nice or take care of anyone else, how does that solve anything? You're always disturbing the group. We can't solve your problems for you."

By the end of the speech, Shelly was holding down her elbow again. Why? Christie thought. Why did she have to say that out loud?

Sam balled a napkin and threw it at Christie's face. Christie flinched.

"Jesus Christ, it's just paper," said Sam, and threw another one. "Say something already. Geez, you're pathetic."

Say something? What could she say? She closed her eyes.

"There used to be this poster..." Christie said, at random. "It was by the world map on the wall by my desk. I was always looking at it in sixth grade, when I couldn't look at anything else. Like coming back from the nurse's office. It was... Dr. Seuss, I think. 'A person's a person, not matter how small', it said. I thought it was a sick joke.

She trembled a bit, remembering. "I did bad things, yes. But I was one small person, and they were so big. I thought, they got so much more out of me than I took."

Christie wasn't sure why she was talking about this, but Mori smiled. "You think people have a debt to you?"

Christie didn't answer.

"Okay. Let's suppose you're right. Let's say what happened then evens out the score, now, and you're allowed to be bad. We start back at zero. Wouldn't you like to start back at zero?"

Christie nodded.

"So, from zero, why should we be your friends?"

"Why...?"

Mori smiled. "Christie, friends are give-and-take. I thought you knew... but oh, Christie. You need so much. You need people to be nice, even if you're not nice. You need Shelly to hold your hand to the lunchroom, Brook and Sam to prod you, and... certain people... to look after you. You're making Shelly change your clothes, even. You take and take and take. What do you have to give?"

Christie had a dry mouth.

"Why do people have babies?" she asked.

"Hm?" Mori said. "Well, to reproduce I guess. And also, um..."

Sam laughed. "Don't go telling third graders about that, Mori."

"I'm always thinking," said Christie. She shook her head. "Kids don't give anything to the family. They're nothing but trouble. But people have kids, to be happy. Why would trouble make anyone happy? Someone said... you need to be good to be happy. I think people have babies to practice being good."

Sam hissed. "My god, she's back in diapers and practically sucking her thumb. Is she really STILL gonna talk like that?"

Christie pulled her hand back guiltily. "I don't know how else to explain..."

But Mori nodded. Christie couldn't tell if her words had any effect, or if Mori had simply decided she couldn't expect a straight answer from Christie. After looking over to Becky, who shrugged, Mori called for everyone's opinion.

"I think we should let Christie come back," said Brook. "She's a sweet person deep down."

"I think Christie should come back," said Sam. "Why not? Sounds fun. By the way, she has to listen to me."

"Um, I'm fine if Christie comes back" said Sarah. "Why not? She looks sorry enough, and it seems like you've all decided..."

Whatever Ana thought, she wasn't present.

"I think we should let Christie come back," said Mori. "It's the right thing to do."

"I think we should let Christie come back," said Shelly. "She's super cute."

Just like that, they'd all decided. All except for one.

At the end of the table, Becky was whirring her compact around. Whir, flick, whir, flick. She was leaning lazily, arm over the back of her chair, the very picture of comfort, but her eyes were hot. The bell would ring soon. Even as everyone waited, she seemed in no hurry to speak. Christie felt Becky's eyes sucking her into another world.

"So let me get this straight," Becky said at last. She stopped the compact with her fingernail.

"Christie hates all of you. She doesn't want to be your friend, and in reality, she's been using you all to get a guy. Though she won't speak straight, she'll never explain herself. She can't take care of herself, always causes problems, glowers at everyone, and is possibly mentally ill. She doesn't plan on changing any of this.

Becky examined her fingernails.

"Her one promise is: she'll act like a brat, giving us all the opportunity to learn to tolerate brats. Christie can't carry a conversation. If you make a joke about her, she'll blow up, then cry, if not worse. She is, quote unquote, gross. She has nothing in common with us. She thinks the world owes her something because of things that happened when she was twelve. She wants to use you as props in her, what was it? 'Pokemon'... adventures? And after hearing this, you all want to be Christie's little babysitters."

Becky sighed. "No one ever listens to me, do they?"

Becky's compact clicked shut. Standing in a tired way, she slid the compact into her bag, then made her way around the table to Christie. Becky came to the very side of Christie's chair. Then even closer. Christie wondered if Becky wanted her to stand, but she was blocking the way.

"You," said Becky.

Christie looked up. Molten eyes burned down.

"You really piss me off."

Christie blinked.

"What about you pisses me off? Oh, let's start with everything. Everything about you pisses me off."

Becky snatched Christie by the collar and pulled her to her feet. The chair clattered away. Christie started to fight. Instantly, she realized she couldn't. Sneakers stumbling into the aisle, she struggled to hold her skirt down, eyes darting everywhere. From the side, Shelly's friends watched impassively.

"Oh look. She wants Shelly to save her, huh? How cute."

Becky shoved Christie to the ground.

Around the aisle, other tables were turning to watch. Christie landed, then lay frozen in a tangle. Becky surveyed her from above. "And she's not going to fight back. Good." Becky kicked her in the ribs, hard. Christie yelped. Sides ringing, she curled up into a ball. "What is it about you!" Becky hissed, kicking again. In that moment Christie was convinced Becky would beat her very badly.

Becky pulled her up again. She was much stronger than Shelly, and didn't struggle with ninety-six pounds. Christie started babbling something about not meaning to be forgiven, and how it was quite natural for her to piss Becky off. Becky didn't seem to hear it.

Becky grabbed her by the cheek and pulled hard. "You little idiot. Do you have any idea how much trouble you cause for people?"

Christie nodded vigorously.

"For such a little smartypants, you do keep parroting what the last person said, don't you? That drama queen crap. Oh poor me. I have it so rough. I can't change. If you thought that, you shouldn't be here, you useless little hypocrite."

Becky grabbed Christie by her braids and strung her up. Christie's scalp screamed. She was vaguely aware of laughter.

"Look here! Fifteen-years-old and already figured things out, huh? You can't change. Yeah, that's what I said, and you'd better listen, because I'm right. But even though I'm right, that's not for you to decide. Not if you're going to be here, wasting space. Listening to you, it pisses me off. Is that your idea of an excuse?"

Christie shook her head.

"Liar. Are you gonna cry? Come on, you're wearing a diaper anyway. Make a show."

Christie trembled.

Becky pinched her cheek harder. "You little idiot. Are you even trying?"

Christie nodded.

"Are you really?"

Christie nodded harder.

Becky gritted her teeth. "You try real hard, little idiot."

Christie nodded as hard as she could.

In the end, Becky released her hair. Christie sunk back to the floor clutching her cheek. Around the aisle, people were talking, but Christie didn't hear any of it, her head was ringing so loud. Shelly appeared from somewhere to pull her from of the aisle, maybe worrying Christie would be trampled.

Becky wiped her blouse off like it was covered in filth. Then, checking her wristwatch, she returned to her seat. Shelly was still tending to Christie on the tile floor. Brook stood hesitantly up.

"Don't bully Christie..." said Brook.

"Whatever."

"Becky, don't you think—?"

Becky turned from her bag, furious. "Ana's not voting, so why should I? I imagine she's waiting for someone to chase her, like always. You've all decided, so whatever," she said. "I hate being wrong."

Christie's head swam, rising to her feet with Shelly's help. Her colorful clothes were covered in dust. Becky eyed her sharply.

"You. Idiot. Do you have something to say?"

Christie looked around. Shelly, Brook, Sam, Sarah, and Mori looked back. "I'm... sorry?"

"Good enough," said Becky. "Go chase Ana, idiot. She'll be in the music room."

"Me?" Christie pointed to herself.

"Yes. You. Go."

At 1:09pm, with two minutes left in fourth period lunch, Christie fled the cafeteria. She tripped on a spork packet on the way out. She heard Sam laugh as she stumbled off. The world was buzzing and full of strange sensations.

Christie could hardly breathe when she reached the top of the staircase. The bell was still clanging. Usually stairs didn't bother her, even jogging, but she felt like she'd been running for miles. The afternoon sun poured greenly through the filtered skylights.

It was frustrating to run in a diaper, her legs not spinning in their usual circuits. She'd look very clumsy were there anyone to see. But there was no one. As she hurried down the empty arts wing, she didn't think about how she looked, or about where she was going, or why. Something had happened, but she didn't understand. The moment seemed swallowed in the belly of a great whale.

Christie overshot the music room, stumbling, and had to wheel around for the door. It clicked open. Inside the room was unoccupied but well lit, with instrument cases piled by the door. It was full of a great sterile silence.

She found Ana sitting among all the music stands between a pair of timpanis. She was sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest, staring out the windows into the courtyard. Christie looked, but there was nothing there but dead grass and bare trees with their still, dark fingers.

Ana was crying. That should have been obvious, Christie realized later. But it didn't seem so at the time.

Eventually footsteps were echoing in the hallway. Ana nodded and, not even wiping her face, unfastened her legs, picked up her bag, and hurried out. She left the door open behind her. For the first time in nearly two full days, Christie was alone.

Some time later, when the halls got quiet, Sam poked her head in.

"Oh, there you are. Playing hooky?" She skipped through the door in an exaggerated fashion. "What'cha looking at?"

"Trees."

"Yup. Those are some trees out there," she said. "I saw Ana going down the hall. You're not very good at this, are you?"

Christie nodded.

"Rob, huh?" Sam eyed her devilishly. "You better ask Shelly to dress you different. You're allowed to make requests, right?"

"Rob. He..." Christie couldn't find the words. "It's complicated."

Sam looked at Christie, then the window, then Christie again. She giggled. "You're a real piece of work, you know that small crisp? But no sweat. I'm an expert in boys, the potty, and not driving young girls out of the room crying."

Christie snorted. She wondered who issued the certifications.

Maybe reading Christie's thoughts, Sam twisted her lips. "Well, I DO know cellphones can all text each other, stupid. Bet you didn't know that, huh. Yours is 'incompatible'? Really? Why'd you lie about that anyways? Come on, take yours out..."

Christie and Sam exchanged numbers. After a few dumb texts, they left the music room and headed to fifth block, which passed uneventfully except for all the questions. It seemed Christie had no secrets anymore. At the end of the schoolday, Christie took detention with Shelly, which was relaxing; and at three fifteen Becky drove them home.

############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:15 PM
Content: Chapter 25: A drawing of a winter landscape

Later that evening, Christie regretted giving Sam her cellphone number.

It was exciting, yes. It was touching, yes. Linguistically and anthropologically, it was like stumbling on an undiscovered tribe in the Amazon basin, barely out of the stone age, and being invited to study their culture. By five o'clock, the experience was wearing thin.

[CHAT]
HAHAHA LRA 86D HERSELF FACE DODGE
WHO EATS O&H LAYS CMON MOM
OMG B/C U TOUCH YOURSELF AT NITE SLAYED
TRIED 1 >_>
2 <_<
33333333333
BRB
BACK
<3<3<3ZAC EFRON<3<3<3
PIZZA PIZZA PIZZA PIZZA PIZZA
[/CHAT]
And so on and so on. Earlier, Shelly had explained this stream of nonsense to be a "group text", but Christie didn't see the "group" part. The messages came from Sam. If anything, Christie felt sorry for the girl, since she seemed to be screaming into some kind of digital void.

Christie tried answering once, after the lack of replies got unbearable. She typed "Personally, I like Olive Oil and Herbs Lays." Then, reconsidering, she removed the capitals and punctuation. That seemed like the right thing to do.

A response chirped back.

[CHAT]
HAHA WOW RING THE FREAK SHOW ROFL
[/CHAT]
Christie glared at the screen. She did not belong in the freak show. At least not for that...

More chirping.

[CHAT]
dont bully christie QQ
BULLY CHRISTIE BULLY CHRISTIE!!!1
this could get old
ur old
Hey Christie wanna go cruisin for pokemon? ;-D
[/CHAT]
Christie slapped the cellphone shut and thrust it into the deepest recesses of her bookbag.

Outside, footsteps were thudding excitedly down the hall, so Christie sighed, rolled over, and braced herself. The door burst open. Shelly swept in like a hurricane.

"Shower's open! Brook's out, drying her hair. No leaks? Dinner at six, lasagna, no Rob! Come on, up up up! Okay, this? No, not this. Not this or this or this or this. This? No, nononono. NOT this."

Shelly had slid barefoot over the carpet and was sitting froglegged by the corner dresser throwing pajamas in the air. Stripes and polka dots fluttering, Shelly rejected each in turn. Christie sat up and yawned.

Christie was at Shelly's again, lying in Shelly's bed in Shelly's room. After detention, Christie had admitted she didn't want to go home, to face Mom about... changes.... in her life, and Shelly had agreed for whatever reason. Maybe she thought there had been enough dramatic encounters for the day. Shelly called her dad, okayed Christie sleeping over. Christie texted her Mom, the same.

Christie stared at the screen for a long time before Sam's barrage set in. I've got stuff I want to talk about, she'd typed. The words shone dimly in Shelly's dark room with the shades drawn.

But that was for tomorrow. Tonight, she would just sleep. Since lunch, Christie had felt more-or-less at peace with being Shelly's little sister, fake, an idiot, a resource room kid, and the baby of the group. She didn't mind. If Shelly accepted her, things weren't all bad. Christie wasn't having accidents anymore, but kept using her diapers anyway. Somehow that felt right. Shelly didn't seem to care, and if anything she was being especially gentle with her. She had invited Brook over, almost absentminedly, because it would be 'lonely' with just the two of them.

Christie had eaten toast with jam for a snack, so she wasn't starving. She'd borrowed a toothbrush, brushed. She was still wearing her clothes from this morning. (For tomorrow, Shelly said she'd pull old clothes from storage.) Christie had been lightly napping in bed, fiddling with her cellphone, when Shelly stormed in.

"How about the light blue ones?" suggested Christie hopefully. "The ones with the drawstrings?"

"Overruled," said Shelly. "Ugh. You have NO taste. Anyway, my house, my call."

"You're looking for cute ones?"

"Duh."

"Footed?"

"MOST cute pajamas are footed, Christie."

"Do they have to be? They're so babyish," Christie grumbled.

Shelly giggled. "Don't be silly, silly, I wear footed pajamas all the time in the winter, and am I babyish? It's too bad you're not my size.... Plus. DIAPERS are babyish, Christie. Footed pajamas are just practical, fashionable, and adorable."

Christie couldn't argue with that.

Since three-thirty, Christie had settled into the Blanchette's like a hot bath — wincing at first, but then soaking comfortably. For the ride there, she'd been studying the cupholder, avoiding Becky's eyes in the rearview mirror. And greeting Shelly's mom had been hair-raising. But now she felt calm. She didn't feel stiff in Shelly's room, didn't worry about smelling like pee. Brook seeing inside the messenger bag didn't bother her. She was even feeling less awkward about Mr. and Mrs. Blanchette knowing... well, everything, almost.

Shelly's parents had taken Christie's return to diapers in stride, what with the puddle she'd left on their floor last night. Shelly'd told them right out of the gate. Christie's face had gone to tabasco sauce apologizing for running over the carpet. But Mrs. Blanchette just nodded. A ninth-grader wetting her pants didn't seem that much more bizarre than a sixth-grader wetting them. And perhaps it was easy to forget that Christie was in ninth grade.

Everything else was written off as hormones. The fight, of course. And when Shelly said, Mom, Mom, Christie's my sister, Mrs. Blanchette said, Oh, that's very nice dear. And when Shelly cuddled Christie on the couch, Mr. Blanchette just smiled nostalgically. In society, Christie reflected, only tiny children, lovers, and teenage girls are permitted physical affection.

The most uncomfortable thing was going without a shower so long. Shelly had been putting off changing her diaper until then, which was reasonable. Unfortunately, Brook had managed to explode a pen in her jacket pocket, meaning she had to shower first. Christie's diaper was getting all swollen and mushy.

Shelly raked her hair. "No good, I can't find ANYTHING in your size. With Petrie's gone...!" She fumed. "I gotta check the attic. Christie, can you avoid feeling lonely walking down the hall?"

"Depends. What's in the hall?"

"Well, floors and windows and stuff. I mean, it's a normal hallway. You've been down it a thousand t—"

Shelly grew stern. Christie smiled bashfully to the floor.

"Smart aleck. Come over here."

Christie made her chase a little. But eventually she shimmied to the edge of the bed, rolled up her sweater dress, and let Shelly check her. Shelly stuck a finger to the leggings inseam, noting dampness, but nothing unusual for active wear. Shelly stripped them. She left the diaper on, fixing the dress and sending Christie bare-legged off to the bathroom.

"Just roll it up in the trash, okay? And use some of the cream before you rinse."

"Oh, so I'm bathing myself?"

"I think you'll be fine, sis."

Christie stuck her tongue out, then went down the hall and showered. Brook waved at the door.

Yes, Christie was feeling calm. There were bursts of giddiness. But mostly there was a strange philosophical feeling. Pensive, like. It took her in the oddest moments. Like wiping fog off the mirror, or peeing in front of the toilet, or watching soap suds collect between her toes.

What did Christie want, exactly?

Shelly's friends had forgiven her. She didn't understand why, exactly. And then there was Shelly.

For now, the game Christie played with Shelly felt natural. Shelly didn't let it feel unnatural, even though it was. In the car they'd talked a little about the future. Shelly guessed the old diapers would last four weeks, if Christie could make do with pullups at home. She'd brainstormed better solutions for changing Christie at school: would the nurse let them borrow a space? But the most obvious topics — teaching Christie to change herself, or getting her out of diapers — didn't come up. Christie stopped herself from mentioning them. When Shelly was trying so hard to make things natural, stating the obvious felt like betrayal.

And so Christie thought. And so Christie thought.

Her big sister, who put up with so much to dress Christie in footed pajamas. Christie supposed she should be babyish in the way Shelly wanted, if Shelly let her be babyish in other ways. But how?

Christie wrapped her hair in a towel, then dried herself and wrapped her torso. She hesitated at the door. This would be the first time since Saturday she'd gone without protection, and it honestly worried her. How lonely could she get walking down the hall? What if she was developing a habit? Even so Christie stepped boldly out, like Lance Armstrong onto the surface of the moon. She left wet footprints on the floorboards.

Brook was waiting by the banister in light blue pajamas. No taste either, apparently.

"Hey Christie! Did you get my text? I heard that Sam—"

"Hm, could you not talk to me right now?"

"Why not?"

"Ah, sorry. I'm trying to prevent a chain reaction that potentially ends with me peeing on the floor."

Brook covered her mouth, then sealed it with a zipping motion. Christie blushed, toddling towards the attic hatch. There were the sounds of cardboard flaps being opened and shuffled about. Christie climbed up the stairs.

"Find anything?" she asked.

"Yup!" Shelly sat huddled among storage containers. "You'll love em. I was just about to head down, but I got distracted with all this old stuff... AHHHHHHHH this was so cute!"

Shelly had been browsing through old family photos. Surprisingly, she had a picture of Rob, smiling in a green elf costume, all of twelve years old; and Becky, eleven, dressed like a reindeer. His stage makeup was all smeared. The two were holding hands in a long chain of children bowing. Christie gulped. She felt a strange vertigo, that one you feel from seeing someone who's always been old to you as young.

Other photos lay jumbled on the floor. Holiday parties, baptisms, graduations. Middle school Rob was peeking from underneath, and Christie felt the urge to search the pile, but she stopped herself. It didn't feel fair. Besides, Christie doubted she'd find her there.

Shelly reboxed the pictures. "Okay! Lay out the towel and lay down, sis."

"It's 'lie down'."

"That so? Okay, lie out the towel and lie down."

"No, that one's 'lay'. 'Lay out the towel and lie down'. Except in the past tense, in which case it's 'Christie laid out the towel and lay down.'"

Christie laid out the towel and lay down.

Shelly didn't comment on the mysteries of English grammar, but hummed as she did up Christie's diaper. She sprinkled what must have been half a cup of baby powder. Christie sneezed. She wasn't paying attention to the change, just staring at the ceiling, reflecting on how amazingly quick these things could become routine. But when the flaps tightened, Christie noticed the diaper felt weird. Pinched, like, and there was no space in the back. She smelled something lilac-y under the baby powder.

"Oh, these? They're pampers... uh, cruisers? Remember that pack Mom never used?"

Christie did remember. What a nightmare. When Christie first slept over, Mrs. Blanchette had run out and, not knowing about Goodnites, bought the biggest size baby diaper they sold at the grocery store. That first diaper change had been mortifying, and Christie had had to wake her up at 1am because they were almost leaking.

"I figured you'd need another change before bedtime. The heavy-duty ones felt like a waste. Aren't they cute?"

Christie craned her neck forward and saw Elmo and the ABCs dancing down from her belly button. The diaper seemed not to fit, but when she wiggled her hips, the sides stretched just fine. Really? she thought. Literal baby diapers?

Shelly tickled her. "Don't make that face!"

Christie stopped making that face.

After Shelly finished, she unfolded a set of pajamas. They weren't footed, but a Hello Kitty! two-piece, purple and pink with patterned bottoms. Christie couldn't remember Shelly ever wearing them, but they were classic Shelly. Christie stood up and began dressing herself before Shelly did.

"Why these?" asked Christie, tugging up the waistband.

"You like Pokemon, don't you?"

"Hm..."

Hello Kitty! wasn't a Pokemon, Christie started to say, but she wouldn't want to be caught dead in Pokemon pajamas, so why not. The outfit seemed to please Shelly. Christie's butt looked just a tad lumpy, and her belly showed when she raised her hands.

"Try saying meow!"

"Meow."

"More energy!"

"Meow!"

Shelly held up her hands. "That's just angry. How about some enthusiasm!"

"Meow."

Christie tried a few more meows, but she never managed to meow to Shelly's satisfaction. Eventually they went downstairs and ate lasagna with Brook and Mrs. Blanchette. Dinnertime had lots of embarrassing questions about Christie's 'aunt', which she answered honestly, to Shelly's annoyance. The lasagna had a lot of spinach for Christie's taste, but Shelly gave her the evil eye, so she cleared her plate.

Once they washed the dishes, Shelly, Brook, and Christie got to the serious business of goofing off. They played twister, bottle toss. They did each other's makeup, thick as geisha, and tried different hairstyles while half-watching Pirates of the Caribbean in the living room. For a while Brook tried, with none of Shelly's subtlety, but tried, to be inclusive of Christie in conversations. (She'd also tried not to react to Christie's pajamas, to similar success.) But eventually she forgot, and was chatting quite unselfconsciously with Shelly about a dozen subjects.

By eight o'clock the group had checked into the morgue of any sleepover: Hasbro's Monopoly. They laid out the board on the living room carpet and played for two hours. But Christie, quickly bankrupted in railway and utility speculation, watched half the game from the sideline. Her pampers still felt dry.

".... and we were going to D.C. for Christmas vacation, because they had this big zoo! But that was the year Hsing-Hsing died. We'd already packed to go. I cried!"

"I remember, I remember!" Brook nodded. "We made cards in third grade when we were learning about addresses. We mailed them to the zookeeper."

Shelly sighed. "They had polar bears, at least, but it wasn't the same. I wanted to see a panda so bad!" She bought two houses from the bank. "Christie, did you ever go anywhere?"

Christie shook her head. She hadn't, not since Dad anyway. After that, Brook talked about a trip she'd taken to upstate New York with friends from her last school, and a tiny trickle entered Christie's diaper.

".... then I saw him picking his nose, and I was like, what did I ever see in him? Nowadays he hangs out with potheads. It's a super shame, 'cause he DOES have a cute face."

"Really? He doesn't seem that bad! In eighth grade I dated a boy who smoked too. N-not pot! Just cigarettes... I pretended I smoked too, but they made me cough so bad!" Brook fanned invisible smoke. Then, remembering: "Christie, do you have a type? Besides, uh, you know!"

Christie shook her head.

"Really?"

Really, Christie said. She explained that she didn't know a lot of boys, never went out before, and she'd never wanted to date someone she didn't think she'd marry.

"Oh, that's kinda nice," said Brook.

Brook talked about her breakup with the smoker boyfriend, even getting misty-eyed. Shelly egged her on, but Brook insisted over and over again to be over him. Another trickle entered Christie's diaper.

Shelly and Brook steadily filled the board. They'd gotten locked in a wicked standoff where Shelly had hotels on Boardwalk and Brook was developing New York Avenue and Marvin Gardins. Both had a reserve of properties to sell in case of disaster. They kept talking about old crushes and experiences with friends, and Christie kept watching and shaking her head and trickling in her diaper.

Christie felt so hopelessly far away.

".... used to doodle cartoons in class. Hey Christie, don't you draw?"

"Draw?"

Brook nodded. "You said something about it at lunch. That you 'drew it over and over and over again'? Something about Pokemon. Do you draw a lot? Are you any good?"

"I guess." Christie squirmed. The Monopoly game had been winding down for half an hour and, bored, Brook had remembered Christie. She'd been forced to sell her orange properties, and at this point Shelly was just stringing her along. Christie rolled the thimble in her fingers.

"What kind of stuff do you draw?"

"I dunno. People. places. Fanart, sometimes. Personal stuff."

"Per-son-al, huh?" Shelly giggled. "I bet she draws lots of steamy pictures of a certain someone."

"Geez!" said Brook, scandalized.

Christie shook her head. "No. Never."

Christie never drew pictures of Christie being happy.

Shelly regarded her skeptically, but shrugged, buying another utility at four hundred percent markup. "I wouldn't mind seeing your per-son-al drawings sometime. Sounds fun. Would you show me?"

"Maybe, sometime..." Christie glanced to the clock, rounding nine-thirty. How long could this game drag on?

With the events of lunch brought up, Shelly and Brook talked about Ana again. She hadn't answered their texts. Sam had been hammering her between rants about potato chips, apparently. They were wondering if Ana would come to lunch tomorrow.

"It must feel rotten, having everyone gang up on you like that," said Brook. "And out of nowhere..."

"Eh. You doing it was the crazy part. Sam or Becky could gang up on her all day, but for you to join in... all stuttering and everything! You looked like you were gonna cry! It's like if you're fighting a bunch of wolves, and then out of nowhere, a puppy starts biting your heel."

"Geez!"

"Oh no, she's getting self-conscious!"

"I was just a little nervous!"

"Yeah, yeah, just a little." Shelly slid Brook eight-hundred dollars and squeezed her shoulder. "You were so brave!"

Christie shuddered. A surge of jealousy throbbed through her. It was overpowering.

Shelly glanced over. "Oops. I'm gonna need that money back. Sorry, I'm calling in the loan... I think Christie needs a change."

Christie buried her face in her hands.

"Really? How can you tell?" Brook sounded just a tad awkward.

"Oh, I dunno. You get a hang of it. You see it in her eyebrows mostly, and hips. I think we might have been ignoring her a little. Come on, Christie."

Brook set to sorting the money and bagging the pieces, but Christie didn't look as Shelly guided her from the room. Her skin was still tingling. She tasted spinach.

This time Shelly didn't go through the song and dance of taking Christie to the toilet. She laid her down on the bedspread, lowered the waistband, and changed her into a night diaper. Christie sunk limp into the mattress. She tried to help with the wipes this time, but Shelly shook her head, smiling.

"You ought to do this yourself, I know," said Shelly. "But you don't need to, just now."

"I'm sorry."

Shelly frowned. "That's fine, I guess."

"For now?

"For now." Shelly toed the package back under her bed. "I wasn't doing it 'cause I wanted your guilt, Christie."

When they returned, Brook had packed up the board and was lying on the couch watching the Daily Show. Mrs. Blanchette had warmed some milk on the stove. There were two glasses and a sippy cup on the coffee table. (Apparently, Shelly had not inherited tact from her mother's side.) Shelly took the side of the couch opposite Brook, and Christie went to sit on the easy chair, but Shelly pulled her in close.

Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow.

"Does it feel that good?" asked Brook.

"What?" Christie wiped milk from her lip.

"Diaper changes."

"What?"

"I dunno. It's just you look really relaxed, all of a sudden."

"I g-guess? Does it matter?"

"I was curious, is all."

Christie sucked milk furiously, and Shelly deflected the followup questions. For the next half hour, Christie kept trying to meow, but she couldn't meow right, because she wasn't a cat. Eventually she nodded off. At ten thirty, Rob got home.

A car rumbled into the driveway just as the world was settling into the dead quiet of Monday night. Some part of Christie heard. She fixed her ears to the sound, drifting, dreaming, sketching a castle with a pencil the color of memories. There were voices outside, muffled and familiar. A boy voice. Why a boy voice?

When Christie understood, her eyes shot open. What time was it? She untangled herself from the arms around her and tumbled to the floor. Where was she? Shelly's? Yes, this must be Shelly's. Shelly and Brook lay on the couch, rubbing their eyes. Christie tried to smooth her pajamas, but the night diapers were so much bulkier than pampers, and it looked comical. Her hair was a mess, and this stupid geisha makeup...

But who was she kidding?

Christie hurried for the entranceway, sippy cup in hand, her night diaper poking out of the waistband. Shoes scuffed in the mudroom. The door opened, and Christie held her breath.

"Huh. You're still awake," said Rob at last. "In my house, no less. How was school?"

"I took naps. Terrible-Good."

"It's past bedtime for oxymorons..."

'You're an oxymoron,' called Shelly in a drowse from the living room.

Rob chuckled.

"It went okay," said Christie. "Shelly figured things out."

Rob nodded. He climbed from the mudroom with his jacket tied around his waist, body bathed in sweat. Why so much sweat? She tingled. He was dressed for a heat wave in July, in running shorts and a sleeveness v-neck soaked down the front. The smell made Christie dizzy, and her senses didn't recover until a tall, goofy-looking junior ducked through the door behind him.

Christie winced.

"Oh. This is Sneezy. You can ignore him if he bothers you."

'You CAN ignore him,' called Shelly.

Christie blinked up at the colossus by the doorway. The boy, if something so tall could even be called that, had to bend his neck so his head didn't hit the ceiling fan. A permanent half-smile painted his face. He was almost as sweaty as Rob. Christie clutched the sippy cup to her chest. "H-hi. I'm, I'm, I'm Crispy."

"Hey there. You must be Robert's younger girlfriend." He paused. "She's a touch younger than I expected."

"Don't say confusing things, dwarf."

"Touchy touchy."

Rob snorted, then kicked his sneakers off. "I'm gonna rush a shower. Don't harass short stuff too much. My sister will put arsenic in the coffee tomorrow."

'Sneezy's NOT staying over. I'll put arsenic in your THROAT.

The cold air from outside bit at Christie's bare feet. Christie wondered: If Sneezy was a dwarf, what did that make her, a pixie? Rob chuckled to himself, hanging his car keys. "You know, Christie, Shelly used to have a crush on this lug. P-L stands for... well, whatever. We'll be out of here soon. I'll sleep at his place again."

Shelly stumbled to the entranceway, blanket shawled over her shoulders. "Rob, you—ohmygod wipe yourself off, you're dripping! You STINK."

"I ran."

"It's thirty degrees outside!"

"I ran a lot."

"You played hookie, and you RAN?"

"Yeah. Keeps my mind clear."

Rob made his way upstairs before Shelly could think of new ways to harangue him. But Shelly followed, haranguing, leaving Christie and Sneezy awkwardly alone. Christie tugged her pajama pants up, to little effect. She hadn't been expecting visitors, and especially not boys. Sneezy was examining her with interest.

"The mistress had her way with you, didn't she?"

"Nothing I didn't agree to..." Christie wriggled.

"Noted." Sneezy scratched his head good-naturedly. "I lied. I remember you just fine, little whiskers. You still have your fluffy white tail even. Do you remember me?"

Christie shook her head. Fluffy white tail? She wrinkled her nose.

"I was a zombie," he confided.

"The brain-eating kind?"

"The candy-eating kind. I was with Robert a few years ago roving the streets, causing aneurysms for the local district authorities. We met you at the ditch. Now that was a night, wasn't it?"

"I'd rather not remember."

"Fair enough," said Sneezy. "Could you stop worrying Robert, little whiskers? He runs me ragged when he's distracted, and I'm a basketeer, not a marathonist."

"Mm."

Christie's self-consciousness faded. Sneezy was obviously a silly sort of person. She hadn't imagined any of Rob's dwarves would speak like this. Upstairs the shower roared on, and Sneezy sauntered to the kitchen. Christie followed. She pushed herself up onto a stool. Sneezy poured himself a glass of water and then, gesturing, rinsed and refilled Christie's sippy cup. He had hardly reacted to her appearance.

This was bizarre.

"I heard Rebecca garrotted you."

"I lived."

"Apparently." Sneezy sat crouching on a footstool by the refrigerator. "You needn't have worried. Rebecca puts on the gray eminence, but she's of surprisingly tender heart. It's the reverse of Miss Blanchette. In general, I am of the wish that nubile young women would be more straightforward, especially attractive single ones, but alas, that is not the world."

"Mm."

Brook stumbled in. There were white powder fingerprints by her buttons. She yawned. "Hi Sneezy. What's new bayell mean?"

"I wonder. But I would rather not upset friends in earshot." He downed his glass in three astounding gulps. "You're looking well, Brooklyn. How is it with Analiese?"

"We're fighting..."

Sneezy chuckled.

For a time, Christie was forgotten. Brook and Sneezy sat and talked in the kitchen, Sneezy asking after Brook's various friend and classes. She answered in a characteristically open but illogical manner. It struck Christie as bizarre Sneezy knew her so well. Eventually Brook had woken sufficiently to notice the mess on her shirt, and she retreated blushing to the bathroom. Christie examined her Hello Kitty! pajamas and wondered what Shelly would do if she got makeup on them.

"So how are you doing, little whiskers? I heard from Robert you're having troubles again, and you've got your fluffy white tail, but it doesn't seem to be bothering you much."

"Everyone already knows."

"An admirable mindset."

Christie shook her sippy cup. "I don't fit into the place they've set for me."

Sneezy remained quiet.

"What?"

"I don't understand your comment. But Rebecca is always telling me girls don't want advice when they speak anyway." He beamed at his own insight and tact. "Brooklyn said something similar, when Robert and Rebecca took an interest some months ago. Both of you seem rather small to me. Who knows? Maybe you'll grow into the position."

Upstairs the shower turned off. Sneezy took her sippy cup and put it in the sink. "Do stop worrying Robert, little whiskers."

Later, when Brook was upstairs, changing pajamas; and Shelly was in the bathroom, rinsing off her makeup; and Mr. and Mrs. Blanchette were in their bedroom, asleep; Christie caught Rob by the front door. Caught him literally, by the shirt. He had been heading out to the car, backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Shouldn't you be doing important things?" she asked.

"What kind of things?"

"Important, good person things." she said, struggling. "Like, in Africa."

"Africa?"

"You helped me. So why not?"

"I don't think I could drive someone home to Africa. Do they eat omlettes?"

"You could, like, dig wells, or something." Christie shrugged. This wasn't going well.

Rob snorted.

"I know it's stupid..."

"Don't take it like that. I'm just surprised my sister's little sister is trying to ship me to a foreign continent. Well, Africa's at least eight thousand miles away, and I'm not going. Why don't YOU go to Africa?"

Christie thought of the river leeches and violin spiders she'd seen on nature documentaries last night, and she must have made a dreadful face, because Rob laughed.

Christie shrugged. "I'm not a good person. I don't do good person things."

"You should try. Why don't you do something nice for Shelly? It doesn't have to be a big thing."

Christie nodded, though she had no idea what she could do.

"I dunno. I think it's fine if you can just be nice to yourself, for a while. That's what I've been doing, these past few years..."

Christie couldn't breathe.

The car horn honked, and Rob headed out. "It's bedtime. Don't make a fuss for your sister, okay?"

Unable to think of anything else, Christie set to drawing a picture before bed. Shelly wanted to see her per-son-al drawings. Well, Christie could do that. As Brook got ready for bed, Christie asked after plain paper and uncovered an arts and crafts bin in the attic. While it was frustrating not to have her own materials, Christie did find a Bristol pad and some decent pencils. She lay on the floor of Shelly's room and started to draw.

What made a good person? Christie wondered, scaffolding the sketch. If a person did nice things, did they become good? You could meow all day long and never become a cat. And Christie could pee in diapers and drink from a sippy cup, but she wasn't really a baby, and wouldn't be given a baby's excuses. As for goodness, Christie had met so many people whose nice actions struck her as a weapon, and other people, stabbed by it, resented it. What made Shelly and Rob different?

Trying to get into the groove, Christie drew a winter landscape and a solitary maiden standing in the snow. The idea came to Christie in fits and starts, and her hand moved heavily at first. The maiden was making a pilgrimage to a northern kingdom and the shrine of a dead god. Halfway through hatching the cobblestones of a mountain path, Christie frowned and erased it all. This was hard. Deciding to draw something personal was like trying to breathe. The moment you tried, all intuition and spontaneity were lost.

Christie reflected on the past few days. When she reviewed events, she couldn't see anything she'd done that had made an impact. She'd acted, pretending to be hard or soft. She thought she'd pee her pants, she wouldn't pee her pants, she wouldn't ask for Rob's help, she wouldn't let Rob stay, she wouldn't sleep, she'd say goodbye to Shelly, she wouldn't apologize. And a hundred other things. Every plan she'd set had failed. Every decision she'd made had been contradicted. Recently, she'd tried to be brave and tell the truth, but that hardly seemed to matter. Shelly and her friends had decided to forgive her on their own. Where was Christie's role in this story?

Brook came back to the bedroom wearing Little Mermaid pajamas. She blushed. Christie reveled for a moment in the majestic principle of human equality, then returned to drawing. Shelly leaned in to look over her shoulder, but Christie shooed her away.

Christie drew the hills and forests again. This time, settling in, she produced a winterscape of exacting technical skill. The pencil strokes fell in streaks, one after the other, striking clean lines of vivid variation of tone. Even in a winter, the scene emanated a furious heat. The glistened snow moaned of the sun. The maiden's shoulders sagged. You could feel the desolation, the perfection, the weight. The collapsed trees and rime-crusted barrows called to an ineffable disaffectation of spirit, one Christie had tried but never managed before.

Christie held the Bristol pad to the light. It was the best picture she'd ever drawn.

She erased it again.

According to Rob, everyone dreamed of living life again. Since lunch, she'd felt calm, at peace, set back to zero: erased, as it were. She might as well be eleven. If she held a blank canvas, in theory she had infinite freedom to change. But what guarantee was there she wouldn't draw the same picture again? People always imagined they'd do better if they could live life again. But Christie doubted people so easily became wise; given the chance, they would make the same mistakes again.

Everyone used people. Actions alone didn't make a person good, and Christie couldn't think of a way to change her feelings.

She finished her drawing and handed it to Shelly.

"Wow. Is that Hsing-Hsing?"

"Yeah."

The drawing was of Shelly ice skating with a panda. Snowflakes and ice chips swirled around them. There were furry skaters on the rink, drawn in the style of a storybook: cats and rabbits spinning, deer racing, a moose playing hockey. A family of squirrels sat on the sidelines, drinking hot chocolate.

Shelly cooed a bit, then stuck the drawing to the fridge.

"Thanks for always changing me," said Christie.

"Don't worry your head, little sis. I'm just doing like I want."

The house only had one sleeping bag — Shelly's. So Shelly slept on the floor while Brook and Christie lay in her bed. Brook made an admirable effort to curl in close, despite the obvious dangers.

"I wish I could draw like that," she whispered.

"It's just practice."

"You're so talented."

"Practice." Outside, the clouds were clearing. Christie looked past Brook to the stars. "How long did Shelly take picking those out."

"These?" Brook pointed to Ariel on her pajamas. "I picked them out."

Christie resettled into her pillow. She felt herself a very petty human being.

"How were you so brave?" Christie asked.

"You're making fun of me!"

"I'm not making fun of you."

"It was nothing special," said Brook, sighing. "I just thought I couldn't be happy if I didn't say the right things."

The bed was very soft, and the house was quiet except for Shelly's snoring. Christie smelled lilacs and baby powder and l'oreal shampoo and, faintly, the memory of Rob's sweat. It rode the cool night air.

"I wish I could be like you," said Christie, falling asleep.

Brook blinked. She looked as if that were the most astounding thing she'd ever heard.

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:16 PM
Content: Chapter 26: Clefairies

Christie dreamed of a castle the color of memories.

She dreamed she was twelve again. Or maybe not twelve. Dreaming, Christie had no age, only feeling.

She dreamed she was having breakfast with Dad on a Sunday morning. He had his apron on and was frying apple pancakes on the griddle. Christie had just graduated, and he was talking about his time in middle school. He was asking her about a boy.

She dreamed of singing in the forest in the evening. She sang with her toes dipped in the pond past the stone wall behind her house. Lightbugs flitted over the surface.

She dreamed of reading Holes again for summer reading. Tara Cook came over on labor day to ask for help on the homework questions, like always. Christie gave in, but teased her. She couldn't understand why Tara hated reading so much.

She dreamed of herself, wearing Petrie at a sleepover. She was flapping her wings, pretending to fly, and Shelly was laughing.

She dreamed Ms. Harper scolded her for skipping rocks at recess. She had thought Christie was better than the rest of them.

She dreamed of herself in fourth grade. She was sitting with Laura Fischer's group, sharing secrets.

She dreamed of a large family. Dad lived with Mom. Her cousins looked up to her.

She dreamed of summer and canoeing with Ana at D.A.R.E camp. Ana hid a frog under the bench, trying to scare her, but Christie picked it up and pretended to talk to it. Ribbit-ribbit. Later, they took out flashlights and talked under the covers so the counselors wouldn't catch them.

She dreamed she was trick-or-treating. They circled the neighborhood, doubling back on the forgetful old lady who handed out full chocolate bars. Her feet hurt.

She dreamed of sunrises.

She dreamed of the beach. A long beach, with footprints in the sand.

She dreamed she'd never written a single word in her life. She couldn't write. She could read and draw, but couldn't form a single letter. Somehow this didn't interfere with school.

She dreamed of coloring crayons a large poster project. A boy in the group touched her elbow, and she giggled. Everyone giggled. The project had to do with fire, and Christie drew a charizard on the fringes.

And then Christie dreamed another dream. A familiar dream, but she did not see it from the usual perspective. The sky turned dark and miserable.

She dreamed it was Halloween and she was in the ditch again. There were jack-o'-lanterns grinning their toothy malice, an orange-yellow glow, and voices, voices, voices. A winter landscape in October. And it was so cold. But she did not see the scene from her own eyes.

Rob looked down on the small girl in the ditch. It made for a pathetic sight. She gazed hideously up.

Suddenly, impossibly, Christie found what she'd been looking for.

Christie woke in the still of night. She was huddled against a warm body, Brook's. Outside the sky was cloudless and bathing the room in moonlight, and the clock was ticking dryly. Tick tick tick. Two-fifty, it read. Christie pulled from Brook and slipped out of the sheets, her bare feet on the carpet.

She padded over to Shelly, hurrying. She had to talk now, before she forgot. She could never forget. Christie knelt at Shelly's sleeping bag, shaking her.

"Christie?" Shelly rubbed her eyes.

Christie opened her mouth.

"What is it? What time is it?"

"I want..."

"What do you want? Are you thirsty?"

"I want... I want... I want..."

Christie clutched Shelly's shoulders. But she couldn't decide. There were so many things, an overpowering number, and they burned inside. It was frightening how much she wanted. Christie gripped Shelly's shoulders harder and harder, but she couldn't decide. She had dreamed a dream of forever and ever, a dream of happiness. An all-consuming flame that overwhelmed every other candle she could see.

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:18 PM
Content: Epilogue — Forever and Ever

Five months later

For her sixteenth birthday, Rob was driving Christie and her friends to the beach.

The details of the trip had stayed hazy for weeks. What to pack, food, money, meetup times. Which beach, even. The trip followed the usual pattern of a Shelly idea, dreamed up and adopted in an instant, with just a smile and a raised fingertip, and the whole group hopped along. Christie's objections were fondly ignored. After many blessed years of a birthday hidden deep in summer vacation, Christie had to grin and bear this jar of fuss being opened in her honor.

But the trip was tomorrow, and the details did have to be decided. So Christie texted Shelly, sprayed on sunscreen, and made the familiar bike ride across town. Her improving balance let her go faster lately, and she even rode standing most of the way. She raced under drooping leaves, warm breeze brushing her face.

As a rule, Christie hated hot weather. She sweated easily. She couldn't swim. There was no AC at home. And these light summer clothes barely hid her pullups. Even as she lowered to the seat, she wondered if she was flashing pink at the back of her shorts. But it was hard to hate hot weather today. Rumbling over parched gravel, the sky seemed bigger and brighter than usual. She passed Grumpy on Elm street, walking eleven yapping dogs by leash, waving as she rang by.

Christie reached Shelly's house at eleven and dropped her bike on the lawn.

Inside, Christie's friends were already sitting around the living room carpet with their cellphones out, ooh-ing and ah-ing over the new Apple phone*Mori's parents had bought her. Sam was making grinch fingers. Christie supposed it must be nice to have rich parents, but she couldn't imagine texting without a keypad. She wiggled out of her sneakers and climbed into the den.

The laughter paused when everyone noticed her.

“Oh, hey Crispy!” said Sam. "Still rocking the O.G. look?"

"Yup."

Christie jingled her pokeball beltchain, then showed off her mew trainer tee. Brook and Mori cooed.

The clothes were Shelly's, as usual. Since June alone she'd lent Christie a mountain of attic hand-me-downs — "lent", as if Shelly planned to shrink to a juniors size three again — and she'd long since purged Christie's original wardrobe. The chain was an early birthday present. Christie mostly picked her own outfits these days, but she tried to match Shelly's tastes, with lots of sharp colors and graphics, the kind cutesy stuff Shelly couldn't wear anymore. She enjoyed getting a reaction, making Shelly smile. Besides, it was funner with Rob this way.

Christie unloaded her backpack and went to sit in her usual place.

"Helmet hair," whispered Shelly.

"Later?"

"I'm the one who has to look at it..."

"Pretty please?"

Shelly nodded, so Christie wormed between her knees, tugging up her shorts. As Mori showed everyone the map program, Shelly fixed the worst of it with her fingers. Christie inserted a few comments, then, sighing, leaned back. This part never got easier, she thought.

Since March, Shelly insisted Christie sit here, between her knees. Everyone else sat at comfortable gaps, but Shelly liked to keep Christie close, like a pet rabbit who might bolt for the door. She was forever touching. The group never said a word about the seating arrangement, even Sam, so it must have been discussed beforehand. Shelly would wrap her arms around Christie, tickle, explore ribs and forearms. In the early days she'd even checked her diaper. It's not like Christie didn't understand what Shelly was doing, but it made her sulky and embarrassed.

Christie relaxed her muscles. The tough part wasn't sitting here, she thought. It would be easy to 'tolerate' sitting here, to make this a chore, to lean back with a sarcastic look on her face. She could 'tolerate' the clothes, too. But after a few weeks, Christie realized that was just another form of cowardice. She had to keep trying.

Breathing, relaxing, she let her body sink back, and eventually she forgot why she was even here.

The group was talking about celebrities again.

"... new album isn't as good. Hey Christie, have you finished with Young and Hopeless yet?"

Christie blinked herself awake. "Uh..."

"Oops. Cuddle coma?"

"Not yet," said Christie, recovering. "Sorry, Sarah! I ended up listening to Let Go on loop again, so..."

"Again?"

"Again."

Sarah glared at Sam, who was giggling. Christie looked away sheepishly. Sarah had been trying to get her into fashionable music for months, with Good Charlotte being the latest, desperate attempt on the fringes of respectability. None of it stuck. Christie would listen to each of Sarah's albums, then politely return it. Mostly they reminded her of stuff she'd liked in junior high, which she ended up listening to instead. Sing-song, moody stuff. Sam always laughed.

"Just give in," said Becky. "The girl has her own style. It's not like it's a crime to like Avril Lavigne."

"No no no!" Christie shook her head. "Thanks for the CDs, Sarah. They're great. They make me feel special."

Sarah smiled faintly. Shelly's arms squeezed, and Christie tingled with pleasure.

"Are you excited for the new Twilight, Christie?" asked Mori.

Christie fought with herself for a bit.

"I guess. The reviews say it's be a love triangle between Edward and Jake. One's a vampire, one's a werewolf."

"Aren't these books all love triangles?"

"Not really. I hate love triangles. They're... depressing. I like stories where one girl meets one boy, and it all builds up to true love, and everyone can have a happy ending forever and ever. Destiny-type stories."

Deeeeeeessssssstiny! went Sam in the background.

Mori smiled. "Just because one character gets turned down doesn't mean they can't have a happy ending too. Couldn't they find someone else to love?"

"Sexy side characters..." said Becky.

Christie shook her head. "Those are fake happy endings. If a story's about love, what happens after the book, years later doesn't matter. One character gets happy, and the other doesn't. One gets happy because the other doesn't. That's what I hate about love triangles."

Christie liked stories about friendship, where the economics of happiness were less obvious, but she struggled to find them. Most were written for tiny children. When she did find one, they would invariably have the sugar-sweet endings that Christie craved. But even in friendship stories, the truth about happiness would often intrude itself.

Sam balanced a pillow on her foot. "I guess we can look forward to Crispy moping about stuff that happened in a BOOK again. 'Poor Bella, she's so lonely, she doesn't have her guy, she's emotionally fragile.' Blah."

"Don't bully Christie," said Brook.

"Don't bully Christie, don't bully Christie." Sam acted it with her hand.

Christie giggled.

If Christie had to be honest, Sam was her favorite. Everyone treated her differently since March, and in the case of Christie's friends, very nicely. They even wrote it off when she got frustrated. But only Sam refused to treat her like a porcelain doll.

After getting suspended from lacrosse, Sam had spent most March and April afternoons hanging out with Christie, "hanging out" meaning copying homework, bragging about herself, and verbal abuse. Sam lived eight minutes away, and she gloried in Christie's mom never being around. Christie almost had a heart attack when Sam, say, sledded down the staircase; but she enjoyed obliquely teaching Sam algebra. "The answer here is ±2x. Isn't it interesting square roots always yield a double answer?"

Sam, for her part, was scandalized that Christie couldn't ride a bike. Christie owned one, an old Christmas present from Dad in the garage, but she'd never learned. April turned out miserable. Sam tried to teach her — "teach" her — and Christie got so many scrapes, the school nurse pulled her aside and asked if she was being physically abused. Sam kept yelling to pump faster, pump faster, but Christie didn't want to go faster, she wanted to go slower. The neighbors kept looking out their windows. Christie's friends, and even Sneezy dropped by to watch once. After a week of this public humiliation, Christie swallowed her pride and asked for training wheels.

"Yeah, no. Just pump the pedals already. You can save the toddler crap for Shelly."

Christie got the trick eventually.

In the present, Mori gave Sam a stern look. "I'm sure the books are very sad," she said.

Ana nodded. "Definitely. You'd see if you read them."

Christie frowned. By contrast, her relationship with the others often felt stilted. They didn't mean to exclude her, but she got the sense they were holding back, not making jokes, restricting their normal social vocabulary. Christie was different, she was sensitive, she was Shelly's 'little sister'. It was one of the many prices Christie paid.

After Ana shared her thoughts on Twilight, Christie remembered her business. She karate-chopped her palm. "The beach!"

"The beach?" said Ana.

"The beach!"

Brook fanned her face. "Oh yeah, that was tomorrow, wasn't it? I need to pick out a bathing suit... Are you excited, Christie?"

"Um, kinda." Christie shrunk back into Shelly. "But I was worrying, because we haven't decided anything yet."

"Planning. Great." Sam rolled her eyes.

Becky shrugged. "What's there to decide? It's all sand and salt water, sweety. We ride there, put on sunblock, then lie down. Just pick out a time with Rob, and I can have my dad's car ready whenever."

The rest of the group agreed with this effort-saving motion. Sam started making alien voices in the rotating fan. When Christie tried to argue, Shelly tickled her sides. "I'm sure everything will work out wonderful!"

Christie glowered. Why did everyone insist on improvising everything? What if they ran out of towels or something?

"Sixteen, huh?" said Sam. "Wow. Mega-wow. Seems like last month she was running around in diapers... or was it two months?"

"Three, I think."

"Sweet sixteen and never been kissed," sung Ana.

"Poor Christie," said Mori.

"I think it's nice," said Brook. "It'll be exciting when it happens. She's pure, or something."

"Yeah!" said Shelly.

"Maybe tomorrow." Sam grinned.

Christie felt her shorts grow warm. She squirmed, fighting it. Everyone enjoyed how they were embarrassing her. Christie squeezed, offering herself up. Shelly patted her thigh meaningfully. "Speak of the devil..."

A car rumbled into the driveway. The engine was cut, and the parking break was cranked, some boots scuffed in the mudroom. Christie wished she could sink into the floor.

“Rob!” Shelly called, “I thought I said I was having friends over. And Christie.”

“Damn, I keep forgetting about those fire codes...” Rob climbed into the living room, a great sweaty marvel. To his side, Sneezy wiped his forehead and bowed. Rob surveyed the room, and seeing Christie, he smiled more warmly.

Becky cupped a hand to Christie's ear. "This is the part where you get up."

Christie nodded, untangling herself. She fixed her clothes, padded forward, and, in a surge of pluck, gave Rob a hug. The smell, the feeling was otherworldly. The group made smooching sounds. Rob accepted the hug with just a little discomfort.

"Hey there," said her boyfriend. "Excited for tomorrow?"

"Robby Robby Robby, they won't plan anything!"

"I'm sure it'll all work out, worrypants."

Not Rob too, Christie thought, aghast. Her friends aside, shouldn't her boyfriend pay attention to her?

"So I was thinking we'd leave at eight..."

"Eight's a time." Rob nodded.

"... and we'll have sandwiches for lunch, with chips and trailmix. I can make chicken salad with pickles, but not everyone likes chicken salad, and Ana's on a diet, so I need to ask what other kinds to bring..."

"Sounds delicious."

"... and if we have a cooler, we can bring cokes, but otherwise we'll need money for concessions. Probably five dollars each, to be safe? But we're better off saving the money, because there's an arcade by the pier with carnival games, and if people get hot, they've got AC inside. There are changing stalls on the boardwalk. For activities, Sam can bring her bocce set..."

"So you've picked a beach already?" Rob smiled sideways.

Christie frowned, shaking his hand out of her hair. He wasn't taking her seriously. She told Rob the name of the town, how they offered free parking to student ID holders on weekdays. Rob looked at her curiously. "That'll be... fine. Just fine..." He shook his head, disturbed, then smiled. "I'm glad you're excited, Christie. Happy birthday."

Christie wrung his shirt. When had she said she was excited?

"It's not my birthday yet..."

"Happy afternoon?"

"It's eleven thirty."

"Happy Wednesday."

"It is a Wednesday."

During the exchange, Christie noticed Rob's posture had tensed, so she withdrew. She'd hugged him too long again. Or too tight, maybe? She folded her arms behind her back, sighing.

Rob and Christie had been dating for two months, but she still didn't know how to touch him. He liked listening to her, so she would talk and talk, but even after lots of practice, he seemed uncomfortable at her touch. His body would tense, his smile tighten. Christie guessed she must be doing something wrong, but she couldn't tell what. In books, romance went so naturally. In real life, Christie didn't know how to move. Even dating, they'd barely held hands.

"And for my warm welcome?" asked Sneezy, holding his arms out.

"At your grandmother's house, maybe?" said Becky. But she laughed and got up, and she gave Sneezy an elegant kiss on the cheek. Christie watched carefully.

Sneezy had only asked Becky out last week. Christie used to look down on casual dating, thinking it unromantic to kiss someone you didn't truly love. But if you only kissed your true love, wouldn't that kiss be an incompetent first try? Rob had dated girls, and he knew how this worked, and he'd be commuting to college at the end of next month. What if she lost Rob because she didn't know how to date him?

She looked up at Rob's cheek hesitantly.

Shelly came to collect her. "You're sweating on my sister. If you don't mind, I'm taking Christie for a brush and a change. Maybe you could use one too?"

Rob smiled without energy. Behind, Christie's friends giggled. Christie was whisked away before she could decide.

In the bathroom, Shelly fetched Christie's changes down from the high cupboard. Why the changes had to be in the high cupboard, Christie couldn't say. Maybe Shelly needed an excuse to be here. When would she decide she'd proven it enough? Christie wondered.

Christie peeled off her shorts, tore open the pullup, and changed while Shelly ran a brush through her hair. They worked in silence, with practiced efficiency. Christie sighed, relaxing her muscles, trying, trying.

She had to admit these pullups were cute. Shelly hated the medical ones, but all the training pants they'd tried had leaked, and Goodnites were hopeless. After a bad spill at the movie theater, Shelly had found these online. The pullups came from a foreign brand, and their absorbancy was better. (Apparently foreign bedwetters didn't mind cartoon animals.) Shelly had wheedled her parents into buying them, which helped Christie's mom, and Christie wore them gladly even if they rode a little high. Everyone knew anyway.

Christie still felt guilty about the money. She supposed she was wearing her Apple phone around her waist, month by month.

Finishing up, Christie rolled the soggy pullup from hand to hand. Had she pressed it against him? Was that what ruined the hug? Rob insisted he didn't mind her 'problem', but everyone said that — even Sam, as if Christie couldn't remember. 'So gross'. Last week, Christie had tried calling Rob "daddy" in private, and he claimed he didn't mind that either, but Christie could still remember Shelly rolling on the floor, laughing at Cynthia for it.

Christie had promised to give her pride away. Her 'pride'. All in all, she was glad to have done so, but she still felt jealous. Rob and Shelly could bring Christie happiness by being themselves; but Christie had to be pathetic, adorable, 'tolerated'.

Christie took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts away.

While Christie washed her hands, Shelly stood on tiptoes to stow the pullups away. "You really did a number on those. Did you go twice?"

Christie shrugged.

"Words, please! Is that a 'sorry' shrug or an 'i dunno' shrug?"

"Dunno shrug."

Shelly put her hands on her hips. "And here I thought we had a big sixteen-year-old, ready for her big birthday girl panties."

Christie giggled.

"Oh, it's funny now, missy? If I didn't know better, I'd say you were doing it on purpose..."

"Like I'd need to!"

In a surge, Christie seized Shelly by the waist. It felt good. She could tell Shelly felt good, so it felt good. Christie sighed, wondering why it couldn't be like this with Rob.

Shelly rubbed the small of her back. "For real though, how's it going? This makes three days in a row. You were still getting better a month ago..."

Christie thought of lying. But she smiled. "I love you, Shelly, and I'm happy. But I was right about you, so right. I feel lonelier every day."

Christie felt painfully lucky. Her luck ached at night when she lay in bed.

Most people wouldn't believe her, she guessed, if she told them her life could be so happy and so painful. Her daily routine of biking to Shelly's house, listening to her friends talk, playing little girl with Rob, daydreaming in Shelly's arms. But the paradox didn't surprise her. Before, she'd done everything to avoid pain — she'd lied to avoid pain, told the truth to avoid pain, stayed alone to avoid pain, clung to Shelly to avoid pain. She'd hated and been proud to avoid pain. Even when she'd done something to be happy, she'd really done it because she was afraid. So it made sense that now, chasing happiness, her life should have become more painful.

For example.

In May, Rob went to prom with Becky. "As a friend", he said. The month before passed day by day in daggers, with Christie marking dates on her calendar, healing scrapes on her elbows and knees, tagging along to watch Becky get fitted for a cocktail dress. Christie had told Becky her plans, thinking it only fair, but if Becky appreciated this, it didn't show. Even as the group warmed to Christie in the spring, Becky cold-shouldered her throughout May. Christie could do whatever she liked, Becky said. But Christie knew she was upsetting a delicate social ecosystem.

Rob already knew her feelings. Everyone knew. Even so, he'd never said a word, and everyone would pretend. He kept calling her "my sister's little sister", messing up her hair. Christie got different advice from her friends, with Sam saying she needed "guts", and Mori saying to be "practical", and Brook offering cliches about "leaving no regrets". Shelly fretted over what the fallout might be. But in the end, Christie asked him out because she wanted to.

She wanted to be with Rob, to make Rob smile for her. She wanted to prove Rob right. Whether it was possible, whether her feelings qualified as love, didn't matter. She wanted. Wanting ruled her life now.

At eleven o'clock, there was a tradition for couples to stroll by the lakeside before heading home. School administrators tolerated the practice, with all its quaint romanticism. Christie waited under a sycamore tree outside the banquet hall, checking her watch until quarter past, giving Becky a chance to say whatever she wanted to say. She played with Shelly's waterfall braids.

She told Rob lots of things that night. Things she'd never told anyone. Everything. Mostly, she talked about things she wanted, about the future, about her hot place. Rob smiled in obvious discomfort as she talked. He kept putting his hand on her shoulder, but she kept talking, kept talking.

Eventually, impossibly, he nodded.

At eleven fifty, Becky was waiting at the promontory rail, green dress curling in the breeze, plucking petals from her bouquet and letting them flutter to the water. She regarded Christie philosophically. "I told you what kind of girl he liked."

Of course, not everything was a fairy tale.

Outside Shelly and Rob's bubble, the world around Christie was often cruel. Christie could hardly speak in class without jokes, whether about her diapers, her drawings, about Shelly, about pokemon. In general, many were kind. But people talked. For those who disliked her, the fall of an arrogant know-it-all to Shelly's crybaby sister must have seemed like divine justice. And maybe it was. But they didn't look down at her because they were just, no more than Christie had looked down at them because she'd been superior.

Christie let herself be used.

This, too, was a price Christie paid.

People said Christie had gotten kinder since March. This confused her, because she thought she lived a very selfish life these days. She was always chasing that hot spot two inches below the base of her throat, the place where Clefairies danced. She could bear humiliation, not because she was strong — she was weak — but because of what she wanted so badly. Neither did she say nice things because she was a good person. She said them selfishly. When Christie said "They make me feel special" or "I love you", it wasn't for Sarah and Shelly, but for Christie.

There were pains and more pains. Christie had talked to Mom in March, but there was no reward for this. Her mother loved her — that was obvious, given how hard she worked — but perhaps because of how hard she worked, she had no interest in hearing the truth about Christie's childhood. Christie had been made to see a psychologist for a while. On fourth of July, her aunts gossiped about Christie over barbecue, and they had all sorts of theories about what was wrong with her. Christie's little cousins pulled her skirt down. They asked if she liked being babysat.

Christie spent more and more time at Shelly's. Her friends listened to her, didn't use her without permission, and they never blamed her for being weak. She found a spark of sensitivity in each of them, even Becky, and it made her feel less alone. When things were really bad, like the fifth of July, she could talk to Rob. He always listened, even if his posture tensed, even if never talked himself, like he had that long night in March.

All these pains accompanied Christie's happiness. But above all, the happiness itself was painful. Christie had gained a limited resource, a rare and precious gift, the color of memories. Shelly and Rob had spent so much time on her, and so many relationships had been poisoned, and for all this trouble, another person could have enjoyed her happiness more unambiguously. She ached at night — this would never go away, she suspected. In this sense, Rob, Shelly, and Christie's friends were wasted on her.

But still, she was happy. Pained, selfish, lonely and undeserving, Christie was happy.

The group set off at 10:12am, to Christie's smouldering. Sam overslept, and Brook forgot her bathing suit, and Sarah needed breakfast. Ana's dad had thrown away the rolling cooler she'd promised. There was no bocce set. The group spent half an hour searching the attic for beach supplies, most of which Christie had listed for packing beforehand: sunblock and parasols and thermoses and camp chairs. Christie carried her bags around for two straight hours, but if anyone caught the hint, they ignored it. Everyone was bustling so cheerfully.

When Shelly brought diapers up, literally two minutes before heading out the door, Christie felt tired and defeated, and she argued even though she knew Shelly was right. On the bedspread, Shelly reasoned about rest areas and leather seats in a soothing voice, which just made things worse. No one trusted her. She had to be pathetic on her birthday.

Christie found herself crammed in the backseat of Becky's car between Ana and Brook, diaper hot and itchy and forcing her legs apart. The leather burned her bare skin. After drawing straws, Mori had offered to swap her seat in Rob's car, but feeling self-destructive, Christie refused. She kicked Sneezy's seat every time he said the words "birthday princess". Everyone was indulging her, but their good humor made her feel powerless and defective. She flapped her sundress, waiting for the AC to kick in.

"It's all for the better, sweety," said Becky. "Rob needs to focus on the road. Why don't you get some rest? I'm sure you two will have plenty of time to flirt and be obnoxious on the beach."

Sneezy clipped his seatbelt. "Miss Blanchette may distract him just the same, however less pleasantly."

"Oh well. Let him crash and burn then. Hopefully the girls make it out okay."

Sneezy coughed. "Hell hath no fury, they say..."

"If I promise a kiss, will you shut up?"

Christie kept sulking for ten minutes, frustrated by the helpless intensity her emotions. But Ana and Brook made a game of poking while she wasn't looking, and before long she laughed, and she succumbed to the sense of motion, excitement, adventure, and she was swinging her legs, talking about jellyfish and the tide forecast and fried dough. Ana even goaded her to singing with the radio.

"Da da da DAAAAA. The smell of your skin lingeeeeers on me noooooowwww..."

"I hate this song..." Snapping, Becky flipped the radio to the traffic report, which sent Sneezy into fits of self-restraint. Brook looked puzzled. Christie watched gas stations and strip outlets pass, sucking her reminder bottle.

Since that night by the lake, Becky never talked about Christie and Rob directly. About her feelings. She would give Christie little tips: that Rob might like a sketch, that Christie shouldn't bother him on this day or that day, that Christie should open up to Rob's dwarves, that she cut her hair shorter, that she not bite her nails, no matter what. Becky would make quips, using words like "passions", "flirting", "dalliance", or "mating season". But as for their relationship, she never mentioned it.

Rob's dating Christie had been slightly scandalous at school, even with her insisting I'm turning sixteen, I'm turning sixteen over and over again. People still looked sideways at a senior dating a freshman. Especially THAT freshman. It was as if bright shirts and lip gloss made everyone forget she was in high school. With her having recently returned to diapers, it was assumed Rob must have some pretty wild kinks, and people wondered if Shelly was involved somehow. Becky cackled at the rumors, heckling him, which relieved some of Christie's guilt — Becky's friendship with Rob seemed as easy and unrestrained as ever.

And from how quickly Becky had started dating Sneezy, she couldn't be too torn up about Rob... could she?

Christie watched a gap in the roadside guardrail, anxious. As if reading her thoughts, Becky laughed darkly.

The ride dragged on. After some hesitation, Christie apologized for sulking, and Brook and Ana apologized for not packing the night before. To make her feel better, Ana told a story about having been a witch to her mother on Christmas morning. Brook bobbed her head in support. Since March, Ana told lots of these kinds of personal stories. Christie wondered, again, why the world was so full of poison.

On the highway, Becky grew somber. "I might have something to show you today, Christie."

"Hm?"

"A little detour. Just don't sing anything else, please. Or... to Rob is fine, I guess. It's complicated."

Becky didn't explain herself further. Sneezy slumped in his seat, watching the tree line rush by.

To pass time, Christie drew cartoon animals on her Bristol pad. She started with established species — turtles, doplhins, tentacools, mermaids, laprases — but Brook and Ana had better ideas, and soon the page was filling with adorable eldritch creations. Christie fashioned an Octowyvern, a Klurge, a Slantelope, a Mantidusa. She attached fins, wings, and tentacles where Ana suggested. Brook helped color the background.

It still surprised Christie how creative Ana could be. One of the plus sides of being a little sister — a messed up, needy little sister, no less — was that people didn't need to keep up appearances around her. Christie got to see them unfiltered. She could help them be unfiltered. Christie would sometimes find herself sucking her reminder bottle, holding Shelly's hand, acting guileless to put them at ease.

Though she was having fun, halfway through an Iciclop, the world blurred, and Christie found herself yawning, Ana's voice fading. Christie was getting so used to sitting with Shelly, and since early July, her eyes would get heavy around this time. The pencil rolled out of her fingers.

Christie dreamed the ocean was pulling her under the surface. Seaweed fingers caressed her cheek, and the cold waves drank her up.

When she woke, Becky's car was pulling off the highway onto a salt marsh covered with cord grass, seagulls circling tidal pools that dotted the horizon. Christie could hear the ocean. She lifted her head from Brook's shoulder, eager, but Becky said the beach was miles away. Brook's shoulder was warm and soft. Under her sundress, Christie's diaper felt dry.

Rubbing her eyes, she checked her cellphone. It was half past noon. She scrolled though her text log:

[CHAT]
PELICAN
gas station ?
christie r u wet
omg thats creepy af shelly.......
HAWK
She's sleeping, should I check?
nm were close
omg stop being crepes ppl srsly
[/CHAT]
Christie shook her head, then drained her reminder bottle.

The ocean was unfolding slow and blue on the horizon. They drove into a town of weathered cottages and chipped storefronts huddled to the coast, breakwaters and saltswept piers chasing out to sea. Becky followed Rob to the parking lot, all cracked and full of shimmering cars, but no one was checking for student IDs. Sand coated everything. Along the thoroughfare, bubble lettering advertised taffy, dairy twirl, and italian ice.

When the group poured out, the asphalt was hot enough to cook through flip-flops, and they had to make a dash for the grass.

"This is INSANE," said Sam.

"I thought with the wind...!" said Brook.

"And it's gonna get WORSE," said Shelly.

The group made sport of complaining about the heat, the way people do to savor outdoor hardships. Everyone wished Christie happy birthday, and she apologized for her behavior that morning.

Rob and Sneezy made a trek to the beach, loading up with chairs and bags, while the girls searched the boardwalk for changing stalls. Brook, Ana, Sam, Mori, and Sarah switched straight to swimsuits. Becky and Shelly stayed in street clothes. Christie, meanwhile, changed out of her diaper — dry, she showed Shelly triumphantly — and pulled cotton shorts over her pullups so it would look natural if the wind pushed up her skirts.

The beach was overrun with college students, muscular and shapely creatures who seemed imposing to Christie's eye. They roved in packs, looming. Christie could see why Rob had brought Sneezy along. From the top of the dunes, she tiptoed over blackened kelp, shaded her eyes, and breathed in the ocean.

The boys had set up their chairs on the tidal flat, where the sand was still damp from high tide, firm and even and fun to run over. Rob and Sneezy had stripped their shirts, and they were lean and muscled in a less intimidating way. Sam made fun of Brook for oggling.

Weaving through sunbathers, the girls rushed the shore. Everyone made a game of pretending to be hesitant at first, but they were just pretending. They splashed in, stumbling through the waves. Wading up to her knees, Ana squeaked, acting like she'd leapt into the Bering Straight in February. Christie couldn't swim, so she waited by the shore. Apparently her pullup would swell and come apart if submerged. Sneezy stayed with her, explaining tidal wind patterns, and how the ocean was warmest in the evening. She let the waves lap over her toes.

Rob was sitting up by the dune grass, watching the sea.

"Did something happen during the ride?" she asked.

"It's nothing. Just the road we took."

"The road?"

"He's fine. Give it an hour, little whiskers."

Rob had been in low spirits today. He'd wished Christie happy birthday, of course, but his expression seemed forced. When Christie talked to him, he would smile, say something banal. Isn't the wind nice? he'd say, as if Christie couldn't feel that on her own. Even with her friends giggling and splashing, Christie felt a pang of melancholy. Becky was reading a novel under the sunshade.

An hour later, Rob had returned to his usual self, like Sneezy promised. He laid his towel next to her, and they talked, and they even held hands.

"How's your day going?" he asked.

"Perfect..." she said.

It almost was.

After a few minutes of splashing, the girls had dried off and laid towels on the dunes. They rubbed on sun tan lotion, Christie helping with Brook's back, Shelly working goopy SPF 40 into Christie's ears and neck.

The group ran through the usual beach activities. They collected shells, piled up sand, crabbed, and buried one another. (Sand in pullups made a strange sensation.) They played ultimate frisbee and, when they got tired, hiked up to the boardwalk, buying drinks and italian ice. Curiously, no one swam or bodysurfed. At two o'clock, they ate lunch, unpacking the chicken salad sandwiches Christie had made. Everyone complimented them, even Ana, who ate three in a wild binge. The sun was getting hotter and hotter. A nearby FM radio predicted one hundred degrees further inland.

At two thirty, Shelly unsealed the gray bag that Sneezy had hauled from the car. Inside were tupperware containers full of squished birthday cake. They unwrapped plastic forks and wax candles and ate. (Ana looked more and more forlorn). Afterwards, everyone pulled out presents for Christie, the sort of baubles teenage allowances could afford. If Christie hadn't been able to read Rob's mood, it would have been the most perfect two hours she could have dreamed.

The expensive gifts came from Becky, Rob, and Sneezy, who were old enough for licenses and jobs. Becky gave her movie tickets; Sneezy, a Bath and Body Works gift certificate. ('Crispy smells just fine without girly fruit water crap.' –Sam. 'I liked it when Shelly used to dab baby powder.' – Brook.) Christie tried to return Sneezy's gift, but he waved her off, smiling.

Rob gave her a pair of clip-on earrings with pink flowers. They were wrrapped in a small white box. He seemed slightly embarrassed by the gift, as if she were expecting diamonds, but they were lovely. Shelly squealed as she helped pin them on. ('Oh, these will go GREAT with your ballerina skirt, or you green onepiece, or your...!')

Brook had bought a box of artists crayons. Meanwhile, Sam gave her a comic book titled Fruits Basket. ('My lacrosse friends guessed you might like this. I dunno.') The gift was somewhat awkward. The plot seemed to be about a girl with three boyfriends, which seemed excessive to Christie.

Sarah had wrapped up a stack of old albums, a little grungy, with folded inserts and flecked spines. Among the artists were P!nk, Evanescence, and Dido. ('I used to listen to these in seventh grade. Pretty sure you'll actually like this stuff... yeah. Sorry for pressuring you.') Christie thanked her warmly.

Ana gave her a box of sparklers. The present came with a handwritten card: 'Happy bday, you are the best! I was wrong, you are sweet as sugar! xoxoxo Ana ~BFF~'. At this, Christie got rather overwhelmed. ('Wow, she really wanted firecrackers, huh? I coulda saved some money...' – Sam. 'Hush.' – Shelly.) The card was cluttered with Clefairies.

When she composed herself, re-enveloping the card, she looked up to find Becky staring from outside the circle. She seemed nauseous, her face pale, disturbed. She was gripping sand in clenched fists, but it was slipping out in a dribble. There were tendrils of loathing in her eyes. The tears froze on Christie's cheeks.

Becky had said she didn't hate her, but Christie would see this expression from time to time, appearing and vanishing just as fast. Usually it had to do with Rob. Christie tried to be understanding of that. But Christie couldn't see any connection with Rob in this case, she'd just been opening presents.

The moment passed, and Becky smiled apologetically. No one else had noticed.

"Why don't you open your last present, sweety?" said Becky.

"My last present?"

Brook nodded. "We all pooled our money."

"I picked it out," said Shelly.

Sam sighed. "Don't worry, Crispy, we stopped her from picking the third grade special. You have a boyfriend, for chrissakes. Anyway..."

As Mori gathered and bunched the wrapping paper, Sam pulled an unassuming blue bundle from the bottom of the presents bag. Everyone waited. Christie undid the tissue paper, feeling the fabric underneath. She found herself holding a two-piece bikini.

She was rather at a loss.

"I can't swim..."

Shelly giggled. "We drove two and half hours to the beach. Did you really think we weren't going to swim?"

"But I can't swim."

"Don't ask for water wings," said Sam. "I'll let you drown if you ask for water wings."

"But it's not just that... in the water, I'll..."

"Oh, don't worry about it," said Becky. "Everyone pees in the ocean. Some people say they don't, but they're filthy liars."

Christie looked to Rob.

"Go ahead," he said. "I'll wait here and lifeguard."

Christie hesitated some more, but in the end, her objections were ignored as usual. Shelly took her to the changing stall, stripped her wet pullup, and helped her tie the bikini strings ties. At the beach, they reapplied sunblock, and Brook helped lather her back. Rob made the appropriate noises about her swimsuit. After waiting the requisite fifteen minutes, the girls went out into the surf, Shell dragging a boogie board, Sneezy, Rob, and Becky watching from the shore. They seemed strangely quiet.

The water DID feel like the Bering Strait. Christie complained that beginners were supposed to learn in shallow water, Sam kept dragging her deeper and deeper.

Seaweed slithered past her leg, and Christie thrashed in terror.

"I-can't-breathe-I-can't-breathe! The-waves!"

"You're breathing just fine, stop being a baby!"

Christie clutched at Sam, who was laughing.

"Don't (*gasp*) bully... Christie!" Brook ate a wave, then coughed, spitting salt water through her teeth.

Christie kicked her legs furiously, Sam pushing up her stomach, Shelly guiding her by the nose with a boogie board. The other girls treaded water, watching her flounder. Before long, Christie joined the company of every other human alive and peed in the ocean.

"Kick! Kick! You're so pathetic!" Sam laughed with a maniacal glee. "I like you a lot, I do, but you are SO pathetic!"

"I'm trying... I'm trying..."

Christie sputtered, slammed by each crashing wave, gulping down mouthful after mouthful of oceanwater.



############################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################
Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:20 PM
Content: Epilogue, continued

Two hours later, the beach crowd had thinned. Christie lay cocooned in towels under the sunshade, tired but not sleepy, her body beaten up and tickled with salt. Shelly had left her here to nap while the group walked to the breakwater. Christie barely found the energy to wriggle into a pullup under the towel. To her side, Sneezy was reading a novel. (Shelly had insisted Rob escort the girls, a fierce glint in her eyes.)

Though not quite learning to swim, Christie had managed a doggy paddle, and even body surfed a few times until Shelly reigned Sam in. Mori suggested Christie eat more so she floated better, a comment that made Ana simmer. After a couple of hours, Christie cramped so bad she needed to be dragged in. Shelly helped towel her off.

The only bad thing was not getting to swim with Rob. "Maybe next time," he'd said, smiling an apology. Christie rolled over, wondering when she'd have her chance to flirt and be obnoxious. The day had been wonderful, but Rob seemed to be keeping her at arm's length.

At 5:21pm, Christie got a text from Becky.

[CHAT]
come for a ride?
[/CHAT]
Christie shaded the screen under a towel to type her answer.

[CHAT]
sure
[/CHAT]
Becky drove Christie across the salt marsh, then two exits up the highway to an old mill town with corrugated iron roofs. The town reeked of welfare farm, its mill windows boarded up, its streets littered — a working town that had never succeeded in transitioning to a bedroom community. Most of the workers by the shore probably lived here, far from the beach-goers and their lovely vacation bubble.

"Shelly and the rest are watching seabass fishers at the river. With the tide pulling in, so they're catching ten-pounder after ten-pounder. There are trawlers, too. Sam and Sarah were blowing kisses at the young fishermen to make them blush."

"Poor fish. Poor fishermen."

Becky snorted.

As with most old working towns, the nicest building was the Catholic church. Though it, too, was well past its prime. The stone had weathered, but not in an unpleasant way, and even this far inland, its grit and coarseness suggested the sea. Christie gazed up at the church's dark stained glass, its flying buttresses. The Irish had brought Europe with them, Becky said.

Behind the church there was a large cemetery enclosed by a wrought iron fence. Becky scaled the gate and unlocked it from behind, then strolled through the overgrown pathways, finger swaying left and right, reading inscriptions. Christie toddled behind, minding her dress. The heat, the seagulls, the chirping insects, and the trees hanging with spanish moss seemed to belie Christie's notion of a cemetery. There was nothing grim, nothing frightening here. Life grew indifferently over the gravestones.

Becky found the spot eventually.

The stone grows old.
Eternity is not for stones.

1988 – 2003
Becky pushed herself up onto a larger monument and dangled her feet.

"Here we are..." she said, sounding tired. "Sorry, hon. I was planning to go about this differently. Had this whole spiel planned, very dramatic, very tacky. Saying sorry and you're a good friend and I'm happy for you and all that. Turns out I can't stomach it."

"Can't stomach what?"

"Lying." Becky kicked the dirt off her sandals. "So. Have you forgiven me, Christie?"

"Forgiven you?"

Becky smiled. "I tried to kick the ladder down on you. Lying with the truth is still lying. Isn't that the moral of our delightful little story?"

Christie thought for a moment. She nodded.

"Interesting. I don't think I'll ever forgive you, unfortunately."

Christie wiped dried mud from the inscription. "You love Rob that much?"

"Rob?" Becky started, blinking. Then she chuckled. "My god, you ARE sixteen. Someone tell Shelly. Life isn't all about guys, sweety, so you shouldn't worry about it. People's dreams are crushed ten million a day, but that's what Hollywood is for. It was never going to be me. Enjoy. You're his little princess. You and you alone. Feel free to talk cute, make eyes, and rub yourself against him in public. It doesn't bother me."

Becky picked at her wet shirt, sighing. "You had questions about her?"

They talked at length about Rob's old girlfriend. As expected, Becky knew more about her than even Rob, and she answered completely, in a neutral, almost bored voice, like a minimum wage clerk at an information booth. She didn't talk fancy, 'prevaricate' as Sneezy would say. But the answers, while detailed, lacked any real context or insight. In the end, Christie thanked Becky, unsatisfied.

Becky nodded, distracted. "You're now older than she ever was. Huh. Would you believe it, she's kept aging in my mind. Isn't life strange?"

"Did you ever try to sabotage her?"

"No. I wished her the best, the little squirrel. I even tried to help her, though of course she never listened. Because I tried a lot, I've never tried to help you. She made her choices... that's 'freedom', isn't it?" Becky examined her fingernails. "I suppose I was willing to wait. Why not give her a chance in the sunshine? I'd always been with Rob, and always would be. Maybe he could help her, I thought. And how long do middle school romances last? Even at twelve, I wasn't stupid enough to think he'd be pining after his first crush forever. But then she went and killed herself..."

Becky took a long look at Christie.

"What is it about you? I asked a few months ago."

"You were kicking me."

"I was kicking you." Becky smiled apologetically. "Did you know what I was asking?"

"I think so."

"Good, because I didn't. Was I asking why you had your personality? Why you pissed me off? Why Rob cared about you? Or was I asking about you you. About you specifically. Why did you get to succeed? Why did everyone rally around you? It seemed hideous. It still seems hideous. Watching you cry at that stupid card..."

Becky bit her knuckle, trembling.

"You liked her?" Christie asked gently.

"I despised her. I just wish life were different sometimes — my own little fairy tail. Anyway, I came up with a few ideas, for what made you succeed. To start off with, you're pretty."

Christie looked down at her dress. "T-thanks."

"It wasn't a compliment," said Becky. "Pretty people get extra chances, they get chased. I don't mean to say Shelly and Rob are superficial, of course, but the world is full of sad ugly people. You stole their chances."

"I guess," Christie said. "Was she pretty?"

"About as pretty as you. So another idea I had was, you turned out different because you're spineless. Or were, anyway. You could be manipulated. Miraculously, you were surrounded by friends who wouldn't take advantage of this, and they were ready if you ever decided to be honest."

Christie didn't comment.

Becky sighed. "But the more I think of it, the same was true for her. I didn't know at the time. Fifteen years old and already figured things out. I didn't understand the world as much as I thought I did...

"There's one last thing. You leak."

"Uh... thanks?" Christie checked her pullup.

Becky smiled. "That too, I guess. But what I meant was, you're a terrible actor. You could never quite manage your lines. I think that might be the difference between you and her. She'd never have been caught crying by a river."

Becky scratched her chin. With the sun getting lower in the sky, the stained glass windows grew progressively brighter. You could see tessellations of color drawing over the grass.

"It's funny. When you're upset, you wet your pants. You're clumsy, needy. You bite your nails. You cry. I'm guessing you've spent your whole life cursing these things, thinking it unfair. But really, would life have been better if you were strong? Would anyone have known you were lying, if you were like her? Would even you have known?"

Christie bit her lip. "You don't believe what you're saying."

"No." Becky smiled, then she looked at the headstone again. "Oh little squirrel, how long will you be punishing me? I used to like stories, too. I used to like morals. I kept waiting, year after year, but somehow, I was still twelve years old, and Rob was miserable, and you were miserable, and I was miserable, and we were all pretending life was fine, and even if it wasn't fine, at least it'd have a moral, it'd be a story. That I'd never have to watch..."

Becky took a deep breath. "Well. You get over the things that were done to you. I believe that's what they mean by growing up."

Becky eased down from the monument, brushing off her clothes. "Don't keep Rob waiting too long, Christie. He's been a mess for years, even if he jogs and knows his major and quotes Chinese proverbs and stuff. He needs you to forgive him, can't you tell? Like he wouldn't let me forgive him. For godssake, he's loved you since you were a little kid, but he'd never make a move on his own. Be happy. Forget, forget. It might not be destiny, but being second fiddle isn't so bad, right? You'll be fine so long as you remember why you got her place."

She turned back to the headstone, gesturing bitterly. "No reason at all."

At sunset, Christie distributed her box of sparklers. The group burned them pleasantly as the stars came out, except for Sam, who tried chasing Brook with hers, swinging it like a lightsaber. Mori doused it. The dunes grew cool, empty, and quiet except for the occasional firecracker going off. Christie listened to Ana babble about the marlin in a trawler's fishing net, watching the ocean.

Christie had cheered up considerably over the last few hours. She felt even cheerier than this afternoon, really. Her friends had gone swimming again, with Rob wading in after her. The water was cooler in the evening. They'd gone to the arcade. Rob had held her hand down the pier. Shelly spotted dolphins in the distance, dorsal fins peeking.

Sneezy bought a crate of pine wood at a convenience store and was making a campfire, with Mori and Brook collecting litter for kindling. A tiny pool of warm yellow in the endless blue. Becky groaned forbearingly, checking her watch. Some of the group made a coffee run, but Christie lingered by the fire, watching it lick, writhe, and consume. She yawned.

"Gosh small crisp. Don't you get enough naps?"

Christie shrugged. "I dunno. It's not relaxing if I can't cuddle."

"Then why DON'T you cuddle?" Sam rolled her eyes.

Christie regarded her, nonplussed. Readjusting her towel, she scooted over to test Sam's lap, which was much leaner and firmer than Shelly's. But Sam shoved her off. "Not ME, stupid," she said, laughing.

Rob was sitting up by the dune grass again, half chatting with Becky and Mori, half watching the moon. Since Becky and Christie had returned and gotten scolded by Shelly, he seemed to be enjoying himself — but as a spectator, not a participant. Christie caught him watching sometimes. When she'd swum with him, his body had been tense, but that tension made her smile now.

"Go, go!" said Ana. "We've been hogging you enough. It's your sweet sixteen, isn't it?"

Christie sighed. "What if he doesn't want to cuddle right now?"

Ana smiled devilishly. "Be selfish."

"Plus," whispered Sam, leaning in. "Shelly's gone, so she can't be a prude about it. Clock's ticking. Come on, show some initiative."

"Initiative. There's a big word for you," said Christie. She still fell back on sarcasm at moments like this.

"Coach uses it all the time." Sam grinned. "You're not feeling... chicken? Are you?"

Christie kicked sand at her, then climbed the dunes in a mock huff. She subtly checked herself as she walked. Dry. She preferred avoiding major life experiences in wet diapers and pullups. Though, checking, she realized she'd wouldn't back down now. It felt disrespectful not to cuddle with Rob.

When she arrived, Mori covered her mouth with dainty delight. "Oh my. I see we're not wanted here."

"I guess we'll enjoy the campfire..." said Becky, amused. "Shelly'll be back soon, so don't push your luck, Rob."

The two girls shimmied down to Ana and Sam at the campfire. Blushing, Christie set her towel next to Rob, but he wasn't sitting on a towel, so she pushed it aside and sat next to him. Rob smiled at her.

"Don't smile."

"I'm not allowed to smile?"

"No. You can only smile if you can't control yourself."

Christie inched up to him, feeling goosebumps on her skin. She took him by the shirt and pulled him down, turned him to her.

"Hold me."

"Hold you?"

"It's my birthday. You've got to hold me."

Obediantly, Rob held her. She frowned.

"You're not holding me right. You're supposed to squeeze, strong and fierce, but tender, like you're restraining yourself."

"Is that how hugging works?"

"That's how hugging works," said Christie, and closed her eyes. Up by the boardwalk, she heard sandals dragging over wood, then slogging through sand. Shelly, Brook, Sarah, and Sneezy wandered closer — they hushed suddenly, then whispered away. Christie blushed again, heart beating. "I think I love you now."

"Just now?"

"Yeah. It's unfair that you got to love me first. Jerk."

"I'm, ah, sorry?"

"I'm sorrier."

Christie listened to the ocean for a while, and then she kissed him.

She did a really bad job of it.

Once it was over, she squirmed free and ran squeaking down to Shelly. Her big sister received her with a chuckle and a soft lap and sips of convenience store hot chocolate. Everyone was drinking coffee and making smores. Sam patted Christie's back, hard, talking about their little girl growing up, while Brook looked misty-eyed, and Mori pined for her own boyfriend back at home. Sarah and Ana were singing that Fergie song. Across the campfire, Becky still seemed grumpy, but she couldn't quite resist the outrageous attentiveness of Sneezy, who was trying to pop marshmallows into her mouth.

Rob came down a few minutes later. He tried, but didn't quite manage not to smile at Christie, who was still shaking between Shelly's knees. It was time to go.

Rob and Christie went for one more walk on the beach under the moonlight. Christie took off her sandals and skipped, spinning around to walk backwards, and she talked and talked. She was dreaming her painful, beautiful, happy, lonely dream. Rob smiled because of her, and she smiled because of him. Down the beach there flickered a tiny flame in the endless blue, yellow and warm, so bright it hurt the eyes. It was always there, if she kept facing this way. If she kept facing this way.

THE END

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Author: donbiki
Timestamp: May 10, 2022 at 11:22 PM
Content: Again, sorry for the necropost. I'm a time traveller from 2022 and we have terrible forum manners in the futuretimes. I finished this story a long time ago elsewhere, but wanted to dump it here in case that other site goes belly up. If I lose my hard drive, I want to be able to read this again.

Unfortunately, there are some formatting issues with the text blocks, but not too severe. I'll try to fix them in case anyone besides me ever reads this again.

Well wishes to all!