"Bebe,"

She turned to her bedroom door, in only light blue underwear, knee-high stripped socks and Kenny's orange pullover. Her fingers curled over the ends of the baggy sleeves, it was semi-tattered and very large on her, but she cherished the stolen gift. She considered whatever Kenny would forget in her possession an indirect gift. It made her feel less guilty about wanting to keep it.

"What do you want?"

"Where the fuck have you been?"

She looked away, twiddling with the hem of the sweater, "I needed to see my friend. I was literally ten minutes from the house, by the school,"

"Look, you dumb shit, next time you decide you're leaving the Goddamn house, you tell your mother. She nearly had a heart attack, and you know I don't give a shit where you go or when, but she does,"

At least he still cared about her mother to some degree.

"That's wonderful, Charlie, now if you don't mind, I'd like you to close my door and go back to your own room without too much noise,"

Normally she'd never speak to her father this way, but whenever she got to see Kenny, she would find that he revived any lost bravery.

"Don't talk to me like that, you little shit. We'll talk about this in the morning, when you're stuck here, grounded,"

"That'll be good timing, considering you're stuck here, plastered by noon, right? Are you sure you'll remember what you wanted to ground me for by morning?"

He stormed in and she crossed her forearms over her head defensively. He lowered his fist and walked out, slamming the door behind him. She was just glad he was gone. She held herself in a self-embrace and pulled the sweater tighter around her, taking in the scent of Kenny, almost feeling him inside the oversized top with her. She crawled onto her bed and tugged her flowing curls into a messy bun, flipping onto her back, closing her eyes and muttering,

"If you'd just realize I'm over her…if you'd just forget him…maybe we could…"

There was no point in finishing that request that was only between her and God. A confession made a thousand times, only spoken aloud, alone, in the privacy of her bedroom or her wildest daydreams. He didn't love her and that was how it was supposed to be. Always unrequited, always alone and strangely despondent, independent and aching. It was her existence, her essence and she accepted it with a spike in her heart, a churn of her stomach and a swallow of her pride. Something she regularly choked on.

Brandon was standing by the counter, washing dishes to prepare for a salad that Staci was intent on making for him. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he thought nothing in the food pyramid more bland and unpleasant than salad. He wanted to use that as part of his argument for leaving her. Which, by itself, sounds a little ridiculous. Why would a man leave his fresh-out-of-college, limber, devoted secretary-girlfriend because she wanted to make him salad? Well, the simple answer was that Bernadette would have known that he didn't like salad, and would have made him steak. Not only would she have made him steak, and she would have forced him to help. He chuckled to himself quietly, but that was just her nature; she would never be taken advantage of and she hated fitting gender-based stereotypes. He tried to think back to the first time he was enticed by Staci. He tried to think of why he gave in so easily, tried to remember what was going through his mind. Why didn't he think it would hurt Bernadette? Why had he ever doubted her love for him? Was he attention-hungry? Perhaps he was jealous of her students, spending all day with her and occupying all of her night hours with paperwork, tests and essays.

That, he told himself, was very immature. But not unlike him. He wanted to leave Staci's house, even if he had nowhere else to go. She'd probably cry and cling; she tended to be a bit emotional. Nothing like Bernadette. When he was leaving her, the worst she showed him was tossing a cup of coffee down a flight of stairs. Staci was still a girl, a child. Bernadette was a woman. His woman. He couldn't bear the thought of giving her up to any man. He scowled as he imagined Kyle Broflovski; having only seen him in a yearbook. He was the reason she stayed late at the school, he was the reason she was unaware that Brandon had been drifting away. What scared him and hurt him more, though, was the thought of them being alone together at the end of the school day. For far longer than he pleased, and she'd come back saying their conversations were confidential and it wouldn't be fair of her to 'gossip' about him. He'd die before he'd accuse her of having an affair, especially with a student. However, he didn't really believe that insecurity, rightfully so, but he found that part out too late. He acted out in irrational fear and hurt her just to see if he could.

The third part of his argument was that, frankly, he felt like being alone. If he couldn't be with Bernadette, then he wanted no one else and any attempt to fill the crack in his heart would be futile and only cause him more pain. She only meant well, really, he knew that and she adored him and admired him and showered him in affection. It wasn't what he wanted, though. He wanted Bernadette's cold shoulder, he wanted her negative attitude, he wanted her to insult his taste in music and force him to go to Borders Bookstore with her every Friday. He'd waste so much money on her there. Staci liked clothes, though, and she was smart, yes, but not as smart as Bernadette. He found that he was terrified of people finding out at work, and he was mortified to find that when they weren't having sex that conversation just died into awkward silence. His eyes were heavy and he very slowly put the plate down into sink, announcing that he felt tired and was going to rest in her room. She told him she'd call him down to the kitchen whenever the meal was ready and he muttered an agreement to that reasoning. He walked into her room, down the hall from the kitchen and laid down on the bed, newly broken-in by him, but still unfamiliar to his lazy muscles and exhausted spirit.

He closed his eyes and thought back to his first kiss with Bernadette.

He was, what? Fifteen? Sixteen? He couldn't remember. He stayed home because of an early-morning migraine and was home alone all that day. He was consumed by thoughts of his grade-school rival, Bernadette Roman. He thought of her in class and how perfect she looked from across the room. The way the light from the windows in first period, while the sun was still just rising in the winter terms, would frost her face in gold and white and her perfect skin would shimmer and twinkle. The way she rolled her gym shorts tight enough that he could see the outline of her underwear and how lean and carved her torso was from sports. She was a poet too, and her English projects would always one-up his. She aggravated him with a constant cold shoulder, but occasionally he would catch her in a strange stare and she would quickly look away, or she would linger near his desk before class began. Her fingers, beautiful, feminine fingers would trace along his desk, her eyes low and body tilted and she would read whatever was lying on the surface. He would walk in, every day, and she'd glance at him and she'd almost slither back to her own seat, lucid and terrific in grace and transition. He never asked her about it, and she never told him what purpose it served. He was lying in his bedroom, in his air-conditioning; summer break was approaching and the weather was torturing him with headaches and allergies. In the chill air of his room, though, he was comfortable and could think of Bernadette freely, without the questioning stares of his friends or her heavy presence distracting him from logical thought.

He sighed as he rolled onto his back, his hands folded over his athletic chest. He watched the anxious rising of his chest; he was so wound up, his stress, sexual frustrations and work-load overwhelming him. He would worry, and as most adolescent boys, when they were surrounded with disquiet or boredom, in turn, he would remake an artificial fantasy. He slipped his arm under his bed, no dirty magazines, only pictures of Bernadette Roman kept from over their years at school and the movie in his mind. He took them out and sat up over them, closing his eyes and allowing his hand to travel to where it was, probably, most familiar with on his entire anatomy. It wasn't long before the rushes wrapped up every one of his muscles, and his eyes rolled back in ecstasy and he scrambled for tissues by his bedside table. He would rest and repeat that ceremony two more times, two different fantasies playing out in his private theater; her satin skin slick, her school uniform skirt hitched up higher and higher as his hands slid up. Their lips would mold together, and her smooth voice would moan his name and that's all it ever took to bring him over the edge.

He was beaded with sweat and his bed had tissues scattered along the blanket with pictures of his centerfold angel splayed across. Huffing, tired and content, he walked out and into the shower. When he came back, she was standing in the doorway and his secrets were revealed. It came as such a shock, when she dropped the homework papers she'd come to drop off and ran out, he stayed still for a few moments. He ran off after her, the only thing he could think to do, and kept calling her name, trying to get her to stop. She did, eventually, in the middle of the street outside his house. She turned around to face him, and she was flustered and looking at him in a way she never had before. There was a gleam in her eye, that until then, he had never known. He loved it.

"That was humiliating,"

"I'm sorry," He told her. He didn't know why; it was in a boy's nature after all—he had no reason to apologize for wanting to masturbate.

Somehow it only made sense, though.

"It's okay," She replied, "Is it all that matters, though?"

"Is all …what?"

"I guess not, considering you ran out here half-naked to get me. Do you like me, Brandon?"

"That'd be…an…understatement,"

She smiled humbly, almost cutely; he was liking her more and more with each passing second.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Brandon,"

As she went to turn away, he reached out and grabbed her forearm, forcing her to turn around; as entranced as he was by her, he was still the aggressive type and wasn't one to be very formal or polite or gentle with girls. He twisted her and very close to her pretty face, he nearly shouted,

"W-wait! What does that mean?"

She smiled, simply, and leaned in to kiss him. She wrapped her arms around his wet neck and brushed her hands through his dark hair; the kiss was not his dream's, though. It was kind of messy and desperate and starved. When she snapped away from him, he wanted nothing more than to have her so close again, but she told him again,

"Our secret. I'll see you tomorrow, Brandon,"

She got on her bike that was parked by the curb and he got a single glance at the purple, plaid panties under her school skirt as she rode off. He always had a drive for her, but her kiss sealed the deal, and he'd want no other kiss for all his life.

A beautiful memory, a silly one and embarrassing one, but those were the types one remembered. He sighed and rolled onto his back, his fingers twining over his chest; before he could think about anything else, Staci's voice rang out from the kitchen to call him down. He returned the call and reluctantly shoved himself off her bed; there would be no high school angel waiting for him in the kitchen, no paralyzing kiss, no pretty fingers or secrets to keep. That life was far, far away from his now. He knew he deserved it, and so ate in silence.

I gave Brandon some air-time cause I don't want everyone hating on him XD

I know he's been stupid, but I've been getting PMs about people hating him! XD I want you guys to at least TRY to like him! XP