Apparently, I've lost all control of this series. This episode was supposed to be Ryan's first date, but . . . it's not. The date will be the next update (at least I think so.) But Trey keeps pushing himself into the middle of these stories, and here he is again.

I blame the season finale.

Anyway, insert standard disclaimer here.

And by the way, chronologically, this would follow Ryan's First Kiss.

The First Time: Abandonment The first time anyone abandoned Ryan he was eight and his dad disappeared from his life, somewhere into the gray maze of the prison system. But the first time Ryan really felt abandoned was in the spring of sixth grade, when Trey moved out of their house.

Maybe that was the difference. His father never meant to leave Ryan. Not really. Not at that time. He had been driven away forcibly, in a police car, with no way that he could even open the door.

Trey just rode off on his bike. And he didn't look back.

The light changed, green to yellow to red, five times while Ryan lingered at the last intersection before his block. He spent the time savoring deep drags on his stub of a cigarette, switching his book bag from side to side, kicking the telephone pole and scuffing the toes of his shoes aimlessly against the curb.

A horn blared, and a voice—maybe familiar; he wasn't sure--shouted something out a car window, but Ryan didn't look up. He just hunched his shoulders, kneading away sweat at the nape of his neck.

It was no good. He couldn't stand in one spot forever.

Besides, Ryan realized, no matter how slowly he moved, he would only postpone the inevitable: at some point, he would still arrive home.

I wish, he thought, watching the jaunty pedestrian "Walk" sign blink on, that there was a traffic light above my front door. Just something—some code--to let him know when it was safe to enter, especially now, since there was always the chance that Dawn's latest boyfriend, Marcus, might be sprawled on the living room couch. Eating their food. Drinking. Sucking up way too much space and oxygen. Permeating the room with his bulk and his smell.

A red light, and Ryan would head straight to the library, or duck next door to see if Theresa was home.

Yellow, and he'd sit outside on the porch, shifting position to follow the shade.

Green, and he would go inside. And maybe his mom would greet him with a kiss and slice of bread thick with peanut butter, or Trey would grab him in a mock chokehold and wrestle him to the living room floor, where they'd lounge companionably, watching videos.

Green, Ryan decided, was definitely his favorite color.

Above him, the traffic light changed again and he sighed, hoisting his book bag higher as he trudged across the street.

"Every man got a treasure." That had been a line in the story his English class read just before the final bell. Ryan repeated the words to himself as he walked, weighing their truth. "Every man got a treasure." His fingers dug into his left pocket and touched his father's chain. It nestled there alone. Ryan kept all his other stuff on the right side—coins, matches, rubber bands, smudged pieces of paper with messages that once seemed important; but the chain deserved a space of its own.

Even if it wasn't his treasure.

Even if the story was wrong, and Ryan didn't have one at all.

Bracing himself, Ryan flicked away his cigarette butt so he and his mom could both still pretend that he didn't smoke. He squared his shoulders, counting off all the houses he passed, picking one to redesign in his imagination. Maybe he'd give it bay windows . . . a fireplace . . . a wraparound porch . . . a curving driveway . . . a deck in the back . . .

It was a trick, to keep Ryan's mind off the prospect of what he might find inside his front door. Sometimes it worked.

Today, it didn't.

As soon as he turned the corner, he could hear it—a chaos of cries, muffled thuds, occasional fractured oaths—pouring from his house. For one instant Ryan froze, uncannily cold in the sweltering afternoon sun, before he charged down the street, legs, heart, pulse all pumping, racing even faster than his confused thoughts. His hands were already locked into white-knuckled fists.

"Ryan!" Theresa's voice seemed unnaturally high, and very far away. "Ryan, wait! Don't!"

She caught his arm just as he reached the bottom of the steps, and the urgency of her touch jerked Ryan to a standstill so abrupt that they both nearly fell.

"My mom--" he panted, pulling away. Theresa clung tighter. Her nails imprinted his skin, although Ryan scarcely noticed the pain. "Shit, Theresa! Let go! My mom--"

"Don't go in there. Ryan. Your mom is okay. Listen."

His mind was full of noise—the scrambled roar of a hundred remembered screams, wails, promises--and Ryan wasn't sure he could hear anything through that cacophony, yet somehow the sounds from his house separated themselves. He couldn't discern individual words, but he recognized the voices.

Shaking his head, Ryan blinked, tried to focus, tried to catch his breath. "What?" he murmured dazedly. "Trey?"

Theresa nodded.

"But Trey—what's he doing home now?" It didn't make sense. Despite the fact that the high school dismissed twenty minutes before middle school, his brother never arrived home before Ryan did. Not anymore. Not since Dawn started seeing Marcus. Whether he went to classes or ditched, Trey always loitered somewhere else—anywhere else—throughout the evening, usually scrounging dinner with friends and slouching home just in time to collapse into bed.

Or sometimes too late even for that. Sometimes Trey only had time to shrug on a clean t-shirt before he was gone again.

"I don't know why he's home," Theresa said. "But he—they came home together, Ry, Trey and your mom. About five minutes ago. They've been yelling ever since."

"But Mom's supposed to be at work. Why would she and Trey . . .?" Absently, Ryan rubbed the spot on his wrist scored by Theresa's nails. He frowned slightly, thinking, and then his eyes widened in alarm. "He's not there in there too, is he? Theresa, is Marcus--"

Theresa shook her head an emphatic no. "He's not home," she insisted. "Look, Ry—his truck's not even here. See? Your mom is okay. She and Trey—they're just arguing, that's all. Don't get in the middle of it. You know what happens when you get in the middle." She slid her hand up Ryan's arm, tugging his elbow gently. "Sit on my porch with me, okay? Until Trey comes out. Or . . .?"

"Okay." Reluctantly, Ryan tore his gaze away from his closed front door. "Yeah, I guess. Okay. Thanks."

He let Theresa lead him to her steps, sitting down sideways so he could still watch his house.

"You want something to drink, Ryan? Some lemonade maybe?"

"Nah," he murmured. "I'm good. But go ahead and get some for yourself if you want."

"No. I'm good too." Theresa dropped down next to him, her shoulder grazing his, just enough contact to remind Ryan that she was there. "Maybe Trey got in trouble at school, and the principal called your mom in for a conference," she suggested.

Ryan shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe," he agreed doubtfully. "Except . . . I don't think Mom would go." He grimaced, recalling the last time Dawn had been summoned to Trey's school.

Less than a week after starting his freshman year, Trey had instigated a fight in the parking lot, and had wound up swinging on a teacher before security guards hauled him away. Ryan had just arrived home when the principal called. No, he had reported, his mom wasn't there, and no, he didn't have another number for her, but the man was insistent that they had to talk, so Ryan had walked to the corner drugstore to deliver the message.

"What the fuck are you doing, coming to me about this, Ry?" Dawn had hissed furiously. "I'm working here!" She slammed the last boxes of hair dye onto the shelf, rattling the entire display.

The manager looked up from the register, his face creased with irritation. "Dawn?" he demanded. "Is there a problem?"

"No, sorry. I just . . . it's my kid," Dawn explained. She raked her nails nervously through her tangled hair. "Not this one . . . his brother. The school called. He . . . he got sick or something. They want me to come get him."

"Oh." The man's expression softened to one of concern. "Well, go ahead then," he urged. "I'll mark your timecard. Family comes first. Dawn."

"Yeah," she muttered. "Family first. Thanks." Outside the door she yanked Ryan's arm, tugging him after her as she turned toward the school.

Ryan winced. "Mom," he protested. "Let go. I'll wait for you guys at home, okay?"

"Just shut the fuck up, Ry. You're coming with me. I don't need to be worryin' right now about the trouble you could get into at home alone."

You never worry about that, Ryan had thought, but he swallowed, the acid taste of betrayal burning his throat, and said nothing.

Outside the principal's office Dawn had pushed him down onto a bench and ordered, "Don't move."

Ryan caught a glimpse of Trey wadding a bloody washcloth against his upper lip. Then Dawn banged the door behind her, but its solid wood only shut out the sights, not the sounds. Ryan could hear everything.

"Mrs. Atwood—" the principal began, before Dawn interrupted, her voice sharp and venomous.

"I'm gonna say this one time. You got a problem with my kid? You deal with it," she spat. "That means, you wanna call the cops on him? Call them. You wanna suspend his ass? Fill out the damn paperwork and kick him to the curb. I got a job. I can't be runnin' up here every time he gets in trouble, playin' those make-nice games and sayin' I'll talk to him, and this will never happen again. Trey stopped listenin' to me when he was ten. And whatever he's done? Shit, I guarantee it'll happen again until he gets bored or somebody whips his ass for it. So if you wanna do that, you got my permission. Now, I gotta get back to work. Let's go, Trey."

"Mrs. Atwood," the principal protested as the door opened. "Your attitude here is not helping your son—"

Dawn shoved Trey out in front of her, despite his hissed "Hands off me, Mom!" "Hey," she argued. "I'm not givin' you attitude, mister. I'm being honest here. You're on your own with this one. So don't call me again. Got it? Trey, Ryan--we're getting' the hell out of here, guys. Move it. Now."

Ryan shuddered, remembering. He wrapped his arms around himself, accidentally jostling Theresa's elbow. "Sorry," he murmured, darting an apologetic glance from under his bangs.

"'S'okay." Theresa grinned and poked him back playfully. "I don't bruise that easy."

Ryan's mouth curved in an uncertain smile.

All of a sudden, it seemed strange to him--sitting this close, alone with Theresa. Something had shifted in their friendship three months ago, after she caught him kissing Mica under the bleachers. Ryan could sense the difference, but he couldn't define it. In many ways, Theresa remained the same girl he'd always known: she still sneaked extra sandwiches into his lunch bag, still raced him the last two blocks to school every morning even though she always lost, still taught him Spanish swear words that he could use to describe Dawn's boyfriends.

And her eyes still lit up at the sight of him.

Yet there was . . . something.

Thinking about it, he realized: Theresa didn't share her secrets with him anymore. Even though, just like now, she knew all of his.

And she had begun to change physically, too, in ways Ryan pretended to ignore. He could choose not to look at her body—not too closely, anyway, or at least not on purpose--but he couldn't avoid the new timbre of her voice, dark, creamy, layered with mystery. It reminded Ryan of a thick chocolate milkshake, only warm, which made no sense at all because nothing about Theresa ever melted away.

She was strong, solid and real. Ryan knew that.

He counted on that.

"Hey," Theresa prompted, wiggling her fingers in front of his eyes. "Earth to Ry . . . Come in, Ryan. So what do you think Trey and your mom are arguing about anyway?"

Ryan rubbed his knuckles across his teeth. "Don't know," he sighed. "But they always find something . . . At least if Marcus isn't there . . ."

"He's not," Theresa insisted.

She shifted position on the porch beside Ryan, stretching her arms behind her and leaning back so that her hair almost brushed the floor. Ryan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He dropped his eyes to his lap, picking at the unraveling fabric around a rip that had opened over one knee, forcing his gaze away from Theresa. Under her thin pink t-shirt, he could glimpse faint swellings that hadn't been there last fall. They were accentuated by the way her back was arched, and they aroused the same tight itchiness that Ryan got when he flipped through Trey's magazines in their deserted bedroom.

"Theresa," he blurted, at the same time that Theresa began, "Ryan . . ."

They both laughed self-consciously.

"Ladies first," Ryan offered, because he really didn't know what he had planned to say anyway.

"Ooh," Theresa teased. "Such a gentleman." She swung her head, her dark curls dancing dangerously close to Ryan's face, and studied the porch ceiling with apparent interest. "Okay. So you know Turo's girlfriend? Camille? She's having a birthday party Saturday night. Her Quinceanera."

Ryan twisted the threads he'd pulled out of his jeans around his index finger. "Yeah? That's an important one, right?"

Theresa nodded. "Very. And I'm invited." She gave a self-deprecating shrug. "Probably just because I'm Turo's sister, 'cause I think everyone else there will be older. But anyway, Camille said I could bring a . . . guest." Her fingers tapped a nervous pattern on the concrete.

Ryan's eyes slid sideways, fascinated by the flash of Theresa's shell-pink nails. "Yeah?" he asked hoarsely.

"Mmm-hmm. So I wondered, would you . . . like to go?"

"You mean with you?"

Theresa swatted Ryan's knee and then looked away, blushing. "Well, duh. Of course with me . . . Want to, Ryan?"

"I . . . Okay. Yeah." Ryan's voice sounded gravelly to his own ears. He cleared his throat before adding, "Sounds like fun."

"Just as friends," Theresa claimed hastily. "I mean . . . you know, not like you and Mica or anything."

Ryan felt a blush burnish his skin. "Yeah. Friends," he echoed. He touched a spot just under the neck of his t-shirt, where a faded hickey marked his most recent encounter with Mica. They still met sometimes, under the bleachers, or in the alley outside the school, just to kiss.

They kissed a lot actually, but they almost never talked, not even when they were alone. Ryan didn't know what that meant.

Probably, he told himself, it meant nothing at all.

"Look, Theresa . . . about Mica and me—"

Whatever Ryan had meant to explain was lost in the gunshot-loud slam of his front door behind Trey as he bolted out of the Atwood house.

Instantly Ryan scrambled to his feet. "Trey!" he shouted. "Wait up! . . . Theresa, I've got to . . ."

"No, I know. Go," Theresa urged. "I'll see you Saturday, though, right? Seven?"

"Yeah . . . seven." Ryan didn't even risk a goodbye glance over his shoulder as he vaulted off the porch and raced into his yard. "Trey," he demanded, clutching at his brother, "what's going on?"

Trey was fumbling with his bike lock. It refused to open, and he swore viciously, shaking the chain. "Fuck. Off!" he snarled when Ryan grabbed his arm. Blindly, he whipped his elbow backwards. It caught Ryan's cheekbone, and both boys yelped with surprise and pain. "Shit, Ry! Why the hell do you always got to get in my way? Just this once will you fucking back off?"

"Okay. But tell me where you're going, all right, Trey? Don't just take off." Trey shot Ryan a feral look that made him stumble back in alarm. "You're scaring me, man," he whispered. "Come on. Calm down. Please?"

"Fine!" As if that one word damped the fire inside him, Trey collapsed against the steps. He gestured grimly to the bike before he dropped his head on his knees, fists clutching his hair. "Get that fucking lock off for me, Ry. I can't . . ."

Ryan swiped at his face furtively, scrubbing the blood onto his jeans. "Okay. Yeah. But just . . . what the hell happened, Trey?"

Behind them, the front door swung open, and Dawn stormed out on the porch. "Forgot this, didn't you?" she demanded, flinging Trey's bulging gym bag down next to him. Its zipper was mashed into a sweatshirt whose sleeve dangled outside. "You want to know what happened, Ry?" Dawn laughed a little hysterically, her fingers splayed and shaking at her side. "I'll tell you what happened."

"He didn't ask you," Trey muttered into his clenched hands. Each word was clipped, a separate aimed weapon. "He was talkin' to me."

"Your smartass brother here got himself expelled, that's what happened."

The lock slid out of Ryan's grasp and clanked against the metal of the bike spokes. "Expelled?" he stammered. "Trey?"

"That's right," Dawn raged. "Expelled. I get called from my goddamn job to come to school because my son's been caught making—what did they call it--unwanted sexual advances toward a young lady. This is what I'm raising? A kid who gets thrown out of school because he can't keep it in his fucking pants? What's the matter, Trey? You don't get enough from your ho of a girlfriend, so you have to try and take it--?"

Trey's fists tightened convulsively. "Shut up, Mom," he warned.

Dawn waved a dismissive hand in his direction, before looking at Ryan, her eyes haunted and desperate. "They start quoting this goddamn student handbook at me, baby, like I give a shit, and talking about the girl's parents maybe pressing charges. What the fuck am I supposed to do about that?" She snorted. "No, you know what? Let them. Let them press charges. Why the hell not? It's just a matter of time before Trey winds up in jail like your dad anyway. Shit, I'm surprised he's not there already."

Ryan glanced anxiously at Trey and shook his head. "Mom," he gasped, "don't—"

"No. You don't," Dawn snapped. "Don't you defend your brother, Ry. Not this time." She spun around, pointing a trembling index finger at Trey. "But I'll tell you this, smartass. The school don't want you? Well, I don't either. Find yourself someplace else to live, Trey. This isn't your home, not anymore—"

Trey's head jerked up. "When was it ever? Mom."

For a long moment, the last word hung in the air, laden with malice and accusation, while Trey and Dawn glared at each other. Neither of them seemed willing to look away. Ryan shrank down, eyes darting between them, holding his breath the way he had once in the moments after a minor earthquake, wondering when it would be safe to move.

If it ever would be safe again.

Then Dawn turned abruptly and stamped inside, slamming the door so fiercely that it rattled four times in the frame before it closed.

Ryan inched closer to his brother, careful not to touch him. "She didn't mean it," he said finally, into the silence.

"What?" Trey's face was buried in his arms again, so the question emerged muffled and rough.

"When she said this isn't your home. It is. She's just . . .Mom's mad right now. You know how she gets, man. Just give her a chance to cool off."

"Jeez, Ry!" Trey pushed himself up and wheeled on Ryan, hauling him to his feet. "You think I give a fuck that she kicked me out? Hell, I was going anyway. I should fucking thank her. At least now I won't get in trouble for staying away from this shitass place." He grabbed the handlebars of his bike and pulled, but it was still chained to the tree. "God damn it! You were supposed to get the lock off for me, Ryan! I ask you to do one lousy thing . . ."

Ryan knelt back down, fumbling with the combination. "Sorry, Trey . . . Here." He removed the chain reluctantly and handed it to his brother. "Where are you gonna go?"

"Not sure. Maybe Eddie's, at least for tonight." Trey shrugged, straddling the bike. He shook out a cigarette, suddenly calm, and offered the pack to Ryan. "Want a last smoke with me, little brother?"

Ryan licked his lips. "Sure," he agreed. "Listen, Trey . . . Do you need any money? Or anything?"

Trey's mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. "Shit, Ry, if you wanna give me money, yeah, hand it over. Never say no, man."

Ryan dug through his pockets, sheepishly held out a small handful of change. "Sorry it's not more."

"Yeah," Trey replied wryly. "You and me both." He took a long drag on his cigarette and massaged the back of his neck. Unconsciously, Ryan mirrored his movements. "So . . . aren't you gonna ask, little brother?"

"Ask what?"

"You know. What happened at school."

Ryan shifted uncomfortably. He dug the heel of his palm into his thigh, then shoved both hands deep in his pockets. "Nah," he claimed, and amended, more firmly, "No. But I mean, that sucks, Trey. Getting expelled."

Trey snorted. "Like I was gonna graduate anyway. Yeah, Trey the Cut King Atwood in a fucking cap and gown." He cuffed Ryan's cheek affectionately. "Pretty funny, right, Ry?"

"Right." Ryan sketched a broken smile, but his gaze faltered. It was too hard to look into his brother's eyes and say the things Trey wanted to hear. "A cap and gown," he mocked weakly. "Yeah, it's like the school wants one last chance to embarrass you before they let you out. You're lucky you won't have to wear one."

Trey blew a lazy smoke ring. "Damn straight, little brother." He flicked his cigarette butt into the grass, shouldered his gym bag and sat back on the bike. "Okay. So . . . I guess I'll see you around, kid."

"Wait." Inside his pockets, Ryan's nails bit into his palms. "Trey--"

"Look. I didn't do it, all right, Ry? Not like they said."

Ryan looked up, startled. "What? No, I know. Trey, I didn't ask."

"Sure you didn't," Trey scoffed. He chewed the side of his lip, squinting at Ryan skeptically. "But you wanted to. Don't try to play me, little brother."

"It's just . . . I don't get it, Trey," Ryan admitted. "Why they said—well, you know."

Trey lit another cigarette and sucked down a few furious puffs before he answered. "Unwanted advances. Hell, unwanted, my ass," he growled. "Okay, Ry, this is what happened, all right? We were under the stands at the football field, and all I did was make out with the girl—well, yeah, it went farther than that, but Shayla was totally hot for it. Shit, she's the one who took off her shirt. And she was into the blowjob, I swear to you, Ry. She just went all offended virgin because that nosyass security guard caught us, and she was afraid of what her parents would say." He paused, staring at Ryan intently. "You believe me, right, bro?"

"Yeah," Ryan stammered. "I mean, you said that you swear . . ."

"I do." Trey's eyes flicked up to the front door and then back to Ryan. His gaze was candid and clear, and never wavered at all. "On mom."

Ryan caught his breath. Then he nodded quickly, just once. "Okay."

"Ryan?"

Both boys turned. Theresa was leaning over her porch balustrade, waving tentatively. "Mama wondered if you'd like to come over for dinner tonight. We're having fajitas." She blew out a small breath and added, her smile slightly pinched, "You're welcome to come too, Trey."

"Nah," Trey replied, "not tonight. It's a little too close to Casa Atwood, you know? Bet Ry would like to eat with you, though. Wouldn't you, little brother?" He nudged Ryan, nodding suggestively toward Theresa's breasts.

Theresa flushed and hiked up the neckline of her blouse. "Ryan?" she prompted.

He glanced uncertainly toward his house. "I'm not sure, Theresa. But maybe. Can I let you know in a few minutes?"

"Sure." Theresa paused at the doorway, as though she wanted to say something else, but then she disappeared into her house.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Ryan spun around to face his brother. "Why did you do that?" he demanded.

Trey widened his eyes innocently. "What?"

"Look at her like that. You embarrassed her, Trey."

"Embarrassed. Yeah, right." Trey mocked the word with a derisive laugh. He clapped a hand on Ryan's shoulder and leaned down to whisper, "Trust me, Ry. Girls want you to notice when they look good. And Theresa—shit, but she is growing up really fine. Don't tell me you haven't noticed, LB."

Ryan bit his lower lip. "Yeah," he admitted grudgingly, "but Trey, just don't . . ."

The hand on Ryan's shoulder tightened almost imperceptibly. "Don't what?"

Ryan frowned, troubled. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say. Don't leer at Theresa. Don't fight with Mom. Don't treat me like a stupid kid. Don't move out. Don't disappear, Trey. Just don't.

"Nothing," he sighed.

"Okay then. Look, I gotta jet, Ry."

"Wait, Trey." Desperate to stall him, Ryan confided warily, "I . . . um . . . Theresa and I going to a party together Saturday night."

"Yeah? You and Theresa?" Trey bobbed his head, his lips pursed in approval. "Shit, my little brother's becoming a man. But hey, listen . . . if you're gonna start getting involved with girls, you gotta watch out, bro. They will seriously try to fuck with your mind. Don't let 'em." He cocked his head, and let his gaze drift down, drawling, "Now, if they wanna fuck other things . . ."

Ryan's face flamed. "Trey! Jeez!"

Laughing, Trey knuckled the top of Ryan's head and pushed off, pedaling slowly down the sidewalk.

Ryan jogged next to him. "Trey, listen, you're going to come back, right?" His breathing was ragged, as though he'd run a long way, but he was trying hard to sound casual. 'Cause Mom . . . I mean, you know how she is. And she's bound to break up with Marcus pretty soon . . . Look, will you let me know where you're staying at least? Just in case . . .?"

Trey hunched over his handlebars, picking up speed. "Later, Ry," he said vaguely. He shifted gears, popping a wheelie as he rounded the corner and vanished from sight.

Ryan stumbled to a stop and lowered his head, ashamed that he had been chasing his brother like some stupid puppy.

Furious that he hadn't found words to make his brother stay.

Behind him, he heard the door open and his mother call, "Ry? Come on in here. Baby, I mean it. Get in this house now."

"I need you, man," Ryan whispered.

Of course, Trey couldn't hear him.

He was already gone.

The line "Every man got a treasure" comes from the story "The Treasure of Lemon Brown," by Walter Dean Myers.