A/N: There was some question about the italicized quotes in Allison's section in the previous chapter. Those were from her twin sisters, who were in the kitchen practicing their Latin homework. You may not care at all what the words mean, but, just in case you do, all of the words mean the same thing: "stupid".

Also, huge thanks to TBFF Nat, who answered a million questions for me about sports-related injuries. Read her stories 'Who I Really Am' and 'What Lies Beneath' (you can access them on my favorites page). They're great.

Chapter Sixteen: Don't Make Me Say It

8:58 P.M.

After dinner, Andy spent a long time in the living room watching television. His mother went back to the office to finish up some paperwork, and his father still hadn't come home yet. He and a few of his friends from work played poker together about once a month, and more than likely, he wouldn't be home before his son went to bed…which was just fine with Andy.

Just as a new episode of Remington Steele ended, the phone rang. Andy's mother called out from the office, "Andy! Can you get that?"

Andy sighed and stood up from the couch, answering the phone in the middle of the fourth ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's me," said James.

"Oh, hey."

"Don't sound so excited."

Andy rolled his eyes. "Sorry."

"Sure. We still on for tomorrow?"

Andy frowned. "For what?"

"Basketball. We were gonna shoot some hoops, remember?"

Andy sighed. "No, I forgot about that. I can't do it tomorrow."

"Why not?"

"I got a detention."

"For what?"

Andy paused uncertainly, wondering what he was supposed to say. I taped a guy's butt cheeks together and then beat him up. The words sounded so absurd in his head, like they couldn't possibly have anything to do with him.

Before he could say anything, Mrs. Clark walked into the kitchen from the office. "It's not for me, is it?" she asked.

Andy shook his head, and she nodded, opening the refrigerator door. Andy waited for her to hurry up and leave, but she didn't. She took out a jug of milk and placed it on the counter, then stood on her tiptoes and snagged a glass from the top cupboard to pour herself a glass.

"You still there?"

Andy blinked and turned away from his mom. "Yeah."

"So, what was the detention for?"

Andy let out a frustrated breath. "You wanna come over?"

James paused. "Right now?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Are we gonna play ball?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." Andy heard some shuffling on James's end of the line. "I'll be over in a few minutes then."

"Yeah, okay." Andy hung up the phone and looked over at his mother, who was taking shallow sips from her glass of milk.

"Was that James?" she asked.

Andy nodded.

"Is he coming over?"

He nodded again, wondering if this was the moment that she was going to remember that she should ground him.

Apparently it wasn't. Mrs. Clark took another sip of milk and looked over at the refrigerator door, which was covered in family photos and pictures of Andy from various sports events over the years. Her eyes locked onto one of them--though, which one, Andy couldn't be sure--and she became still for a moment, lost in thought. Finally, she cleared her throat and looked up, still refusing to meet his eyes. Andy's chest grew hot with shame, and he looked away from her.

"Tell James I said hello," she said quietly as she moved out of the room.

Andy nodded stiffly. "Okay."

9:03 P.M.

Claire spent her entire evening in front of her closet, reorganizing her shirts and skirts, first by color, then by brand. The excitement of looking at her new clothes was wearing off, and after a while she gave up on her closet and went into the bathroom, where she started cleaning out her make up case and reorganizing her bracelets. She worked steadily for about thirty minutes before she let out a deep sigh and snapped closed the lid to her jewelry box.

Claire was a very organized person, but she was especially so when she was under a lot of stress. Cleaning, straightening, shuffling, tossing, stocking: it gave her something tangible and pleasant to focus on when it seemed like everything else was falling apart, which was pretty often these days. Her parents were always fighting about something, whether it be money or their children or her father's frequent "business trips". They never screamed or yelled, but the tension was always there, thick and cold and bitter. When she was younger, their fights both fascinated and terrified her. She would press her ear against the door to her parents' bedroom and listen to their hushed, angry voices until her brother Teddy found her and took her into the kitchen for a cup of milk and as many Oreos as she could eat without throwing up. Ten years later, she just closed her bedroom door, turned on the radio, and started reorganizing her magazine collection.

After turning off the light in her bathroom, Claire walked back into the bedroom. Her father wasn't home yet, but there had been a couple of phone calls throughout the evening, and Claire assumed that he'd called to tell her mother that he would be later than he thought. She thought back to the confrontation with her mother earlier in the evening, to the look on her mother's face when Claire brought up her father's indiscretions.

"Just because Dad's screwing some other woman doesn't give you the right to ground me!"

Claire felt her face flush with anger and shame, and she swallowed down the shame, unwilling to feel sorry for the woman who grounded her without cause. She sat down on the edge of her bed and picked up the phone, dialing the numbers she knew better than her own.

"Hello?"

"It's me," Claire responded curtly, letting out a short, frustrated breath.

Heather paused, then sighed. "Oh, hey."

Claire rolled her eyes. "God, are you still mad at me?"

Heather sighed again, just as dramatically as he first time. "You took my car without asking. I'm not going to pretend that I'm happy about it."

Claire sighed and adjusted the phone so that she could remove her earrings. Heather was a drama queen, and she never let anything go without wringing the situation for all of the drama it was worth. Usually Claire was willing to play along, but on Friday night she wasn't in the mood.

"Nothing happened to the car," she said. "It's fine, Heather."

"But something could have happened."

Claire opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. She paused, listening carefully, as the garage door opened and closed.

"I mean, what if you'd gotten into an accident?"

Claire looked away from the window. "I said I was sorry."

Heather scoffed. "No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did," Claire answered distractedly, glancing over at her bedroom door. Downstairs, the door leading in from the garage opened and shut, and she could hear her father set his briefcase down on the kitchen table.

"No, you didn't. You never apologize."

Claire stood from the bed and walked over to her bedroom door, dragging the phone cord behind her. She pulled the door open a crack and leaned against the doorframe, listening to her parent's muffled voices. "Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

Downstairs, her parents' voices grew louder and louder as they continued talking. Claire couldn't hear everything that they were saying, but she was able to pick up on a few key phrases like "late hours", "never home anymore", and "new secretary". She sighed and started to close the door, then stopped when she heard the word "daughter".

"…detention for leaving school…"

"…gave her the credit card…"

"…should ground her…"

"…called the school…"

"…doing her no favors…"

Claire leaned against the wall, pressing her forehead against the edge of the doorway. Her parents words floated up the staircase, gaining strength as the argument became more heated. Claire felt tears pricking the back of her eyes, and she imagined her brother in his studio apartment in New York, standing at the kitchen counter eating Oreo cookies.

"…don't know why I even bother."

Claire blinked once, twice. "What?"

Heather scoffed. "God, you're not even listening to me. You never pay attention when I talk to you. Unless it's about Jack, and then you're all ears."

Claire wiped the moisture from her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic," she said weakly.

Heather let out a short, derisive chuckle, but Claire could tell that she was genuinely upset. "Whatever. I have to go."

"No, wait!" Claire blurted, desperate to keep her on the phone. "I'm sorry, Heather. I was just…" She trailed off, unsure of what to say next. Downstairs, her mother shouted something about "this wreck of a partnership", and Claire tightened her grip on the phone at her ear. "I just…" she whispered.

Heather sighed. "Look, it doesn't matter. I'll talk to you later, alright?" Without waiting for Claire to respond, she hung up the phone.

Claire stood there in the doorway for a long time, phone still pressed against her ear, listening to the sound of the dial tone.

9:10 P.M.

James pulled into Andy's driveway about ten minutes after the two of them hung up the phone. He climbed out of the driver's side door and reached into the back seat to pull out his leg brace, then locked the door behind him. When he saw Andy, James nodded in greeting. "Hey."

Andy nodded in response, and the two of them walked further down the driveway, where a ragged, dirty basketball hoop was anchored to the top of the garage door. Andy adjusted the straps on his own leg brace and grabbed a basketball from the garage, returning just as James finished putting on his brace. Andy threw the ball at James, who caught it easily. "To ten," said Andy.

James nodded and bounced the ball back to his friend to check. Andy returned it to him, and the game began.

They played without speaking, no noise except for a few bursts of ragged breathing and the squeaking thuds of their rubber-soled shoes hitting the concrete beneath them. It wasn't an intense game. Andy's knee was still weak after his ACL tear last season, and James was in even worse shape. He had been Shermer's star point guard for the basketball team until November of the previous year during the first game of the season. He'd jumped to make a three-point shot, but landed awkwardly on his right leg, rupturing his ACL. The ball went in, and the shot counted, but unfortunately it came with a pretty steep price. His family couldn't afford the expensive surgery needed to fix the problem, and James couldn't play without it. The full ride he'd been offered to Ohio State was revoked, and he started looking at brochures for local community colleges. Three points for four years. Sometimes life doesn't balance out very well.

After about fifteen minutes, James, who was easily eight inches taller than Andy, put one up over his friend's head. "That's ten," he said.

Andy nodded and wiped his forehead with the bottom of his cotton t-shirt, and James walked over to Andy's Bronco, which was parked about halfway down the driveway, and leaned against the hood. Andy grabbed two bottles of water from the refrigerator in the garage and handed one to James.

"So, what about your detention?"

Andy looked up. "What about it?" he asked guardedly.

James took a sip of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm. "What was it for?"

Andy hesitated, then sighed. "Got into a fight."

James looked surprised, but only a little. "With who?"

Andy shook his head slightly, wondering how many times he was going to have to say it out loud before it sounded any less absurd. "I don't know." He paused. "Just some guy in the locker room."

James nodded. "What happened?"

"I beat him up…taped his butt cheeks together," he said, smiling. But it was a forced smile, and he was sick of talking about it, sick of himself.

James paused thoughtfully. "Are you talking about Larry Lester?"

Andy glanced over. "You know him?"

James shrugged. "He was my partner for that presentation I had to make in English today, but he never showed up. Mrs. Newbery said he got hurt and had to go home early." He glanced over at Andy. "So, what did he do?"

Andy paused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, why'd you tape his butt cheeks together?"

Andy clenched his jaw, suddenly angry at the question he'd known was coming. He glanced over at James's knee, held together by metal and cloth, and felt a surge of envy roll through his body. Immediately, he felt disgusted at himself. He looked away and shoved off from the Bronco, walking over to where the basketball was sitting a few feet away. He picked it up and started dribbling lazily, desperate for something to focus on. He made a couple of shots that didn't go in, and finally one that did. After a couple minutes of this, James came up from behind him and nodded at the ball.

"To ten."

9:24 P.M.

Bender sat perfectly still as Janie moved her mouth over his, her soft, glossy lips a perfect contrast with his chapped, dry ones. He wanted to squirm out of her grip, but he managed to stay put until she finally pulled away, smiling sweetly, her eyes glittering in the darkness. "I'm glad you decided to come," she whispered.

Bender nodded, but not too enthusiastically, and glanced over at Zeke, who was standing beside the table, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, stammering through a conversation with Christina, who was watching him calmly.

"So, how was your day?"

Bender looked back at Janie, who had dropped down into Zeke's abandoned seat and was watching him expectantly. He picked up his glass and took a sip of beer. "Fine."

Janie smiled. "I was thinking about you today…wondering if you'd be here tonight."

Bender picked up the glass again and took a sip, just so he wouldn't have to meet her eyes.

Janie scooted her chair a bit closer to his and slid a hand over his thigh. "If you want to come home with me again, you can."

Bender let out a noncommittal grunt. Janie leaned over until her face was inches from his, her lips hovering next to his ear. "I want you to come over," she whispered, her warm breath sending chills down his spine. "I want you to walk me home, and when we get there I want you to…"

Bender listened closely as she described, in detail, exactly what she wanted from him. He kept his face a blank slate, but he couldn't help that his heart was beating so loudly that he could hear the blood pounding in his ears, nearly drowning out Janie's words. On any another night, he might have been turned on by her proposition, but this time he wasn't. Janie presented no challenge, put up no fight. She wanted to be conquered, asked it of him, and of what worth was that to him?

"…can even sleep in tomorrow. You can have breakfast at my house. I don't have anywhere to be, so--"

"I have detention," Bender said bluntly. He downed the rest of his beer in one large gulp, then stood from his chair. Davis was sitting a few feet away, still working on a cup of peanuts that he'd taken from the bar. Bender walked over and kicked the bottom of his seat. "I'm going to smoke a cigarette. You want to come?"

Davis looked up and frowned. "I don't have any cigarettes."

"You can have one of mine."

Davis shrugged and poured the rest of the peanuts into his mouth, then plunked his cup onto the table. Bender started walking towards the door, then paused to look back at Janie. She was still sitting in Zeke's chair, one hand resting on the seat he had occupied only seconds before, the other hand reaching up to tuck a long, dark strand of hair behind one ear. She was staring at his empty chair, her eyes narrowed in confusion, as if she couldn't quite figure out what had just happened.

Bender turned away from her and started walking towards the side exit. Davis had disappeared and was presumably already outside. Just as Bender reached the door, it swung open, pouring a wide band of moonlight onto the dark wooden floor.

"Something happened to Billy," said Davis.

A/N: Angsty chapter, I know. Two more chapters to go (and I'm almost completely sure this time, LOL). Please review and tell me what you think. Thank you for reading.