No one needs a ride Friday after school, so I drive straight to the Stoneybrook Public Library. It may be the start of the weekend, but I still have homework that's piling up. I've fallen slightly behind. Yesterday I had a long Honor Society meeting, then yearbook layout to complete, and in the evening, I went to Wes'. We ordered chinese food and watched a movie, one I already knew was safe for mixed company.

I stay at the library until five o' clock researching a paper on Catherine the Great for European history. My first draft is due Monday. Usually, I'd have finished days ago. There's simply too much going on. When I get home, I almost drop dead behind the wheel of my car because Dad's car is in the garage. The first thing that pops into my mind is "who died?" The same thing Tiffany asked Mom last Friday. I find Dad in the living room reading the newspaper, his feet propped up on the coffee table. He's still wearing his suit and tie.

"What are you doing home so early?" I ask, coming around to the other side of the coffee table, so I face him.

Dad lowers his paper. "I'm going out of town for a few days. My flight leaves out of Stamford at ten. I thought I'd come home early and relax for a couple hours. Maria's upstairs finishing my packing." Dad raises the paper and resumes reading.

I raise an eyebrow. "Maria's packing your suitcase?" I ask. I'd hate to think what Maria would consider appropriate Dadwear.

"I laid out everything first."

I don't recall the last time my father and I were alone together. I don't recall our last real conversation. Maybe it was in July. I think we discussed whether he should buy a green Jaguar or a blue one. He settled on a BMW. It's red. And now I stand before him and have nothing to say. What is there for us to talk about?

"Dad," I say, thinking of something, "the other day I was remembering that crush you had on Kathleen Turner. Do you remember that?"

Dad doesn't look up. "Sure do. She was quite the looker. She and your mother used to look a bit alike. What the hell happened?"

I'm not sure if Dad expects an answer. What the hell happened? To Mom or to Kathleen Turner? Either way, I don't have a clue. Dad continues reading and eventually, I leave the room. I find the mail on the table in the foyer and quickly flip through it. Bills, bills, bills. And a letter from Anna! I tear it open, nearly ripping the notebook paper it's written on. It's only a page and a half, much shorter than her letters used to be. I scan the letter quickly. She talks about a recital she's preparing for, how she and Adelaide were disappointed in the new Carson Fraser musical, and that Abby is very upset about SDS not making the volleyball playoffs. Nothing about her mother or the big secret. I'm disappointed. I write to her about it, but she never addresses it back. I slip the letter back into its envelope. I'll read it more carefully later when I prepare my reply.

I take the bills into the den and sit at the cherrywood desk. I open my household daybook and my checkbook. I pay the phone bill and the cable bill and the bill for our gas cards. I address them neatly and affix stamps perfectly straight in the little boxes on the provided envelopes. Lastly, I open Dad's credit card statement. Usually, I don't read the statements. I simply check the amount on the card and write out the appropriate payment. But the amount on Dad's card surprises me. I check the log in my daybook. The amount on Dad's card has doubled. And that's after the three hundred dollar payment I made last month. What has Dad been buying? I unfold the statement and scan it. A lot of charges at the Greenvale Country Club, of course. And a long string of charges at the Juniper Club in Stamford. The Juniper Club looks like a normal upscale bar from the outside, but even I know it's just a pricey strip club. So, that's where Dad and Mr. Jardin spend so much of their time. Golfing, drinking, and watching pole dancers. It's not like they have families or anything.

I don't finish reading the statement. I know enough. I quickly write out a check, record it in my daybook, then file the statement in the bottom desk drawer. If I still had any opinion of my father, it definitely would have lowered just now.

I find Maria in the kitchen, eating sliced pickles out of the jar. "Maria, that's disgusting!" I exclaim. "Is that your dinner?" Honestly, I can't leave my sisters unattended for a single afternoon.

Maria shrugs. "I like pickles."

"So do I. But not as dinner." I grab the jar from her hand and screw on the lid. I retrieve last night's leftover macaroni and cheese from the refrigerator and put it in the microwave. Then I take out the wheat bread and peanut butter and begin making Maria a sandwich. "Did you make sure Mrs. Bryar saw the check I left on the refrigerator?" I ask Maria.

"Yes. Cut the crusts off, Shanny."

"I will. And did you finish your homework?"

"Yes. Tiffany left her progress report for you on the table," Maria replies. She grabs a piece of folded yellow paper from the table and brings it to me, along with a pen.

I study Tiffany's progress report while cutting the crusts off Maria's sandwich. A-minuses in French and oceanography, B-minus in American history, C in English, C-minuses in algebra and gymnastics. I furrow my brow. How do you get a C-minus in gymnastics? I took gymnastics in ninth grade and even though I never successfully made it over the vault, I still received an A. Sighing, I sign Mom's name on the progress report. Tiffany and I will discuss this later.

"Mrs. Bryar brought us cookies," Maria informs me, holding up a paper plate covered in cellophane. There are five oatmeal cookies underneath it.

I give Maria a stern look. "Maria, how many did you eat?"

"Only two," she replies, innocently. She picks up her sandwich and bites into it. "I took some to David Michael Thomas," she says without swallowing.

I retrieve her macaroni and cheese from the microwave and stir it with a fork. "David Michael can get cookies at his own house," I tell her. I don't even ask why she insists on constantly referring to him as "David Michael Thomas".

"Yes, but look at what he gave me," Maria says, proudly, extending her right hand to me. On her ring finger, there's a silver ring with a blue and purple iridescent ball in the center.

I take her hand, studying the ring. I don't know what to say. "Um...what does this mean?" I ask.

Maria rolls her eyes. "That he's my boyfriend, of course!"

"Isn't David Michael a little young for you?"

Another eye roll. "I'm only seven months older, Shanny. Besides, I like younger men. Although, David Michael Thomas is very mature for his age. At the Creative Arts Faire, all my friends thought he was thirteen."

I drop Maria's hand. I haven't noticed a lot of maturity in David Michael - excuse me, David Michael Thomas. He's a mostly nice kid, even though he can be a jerk sometimes. I don't know how I feel about him dating my little sister. But then, I remember my middle school romances, which never had much romance in them at all.

"Congratulations, Maria. I hope you are very happy together," I say, kindly, putting away the peanut butter and bread. "Now did Tiffany finish her homework? Did she even start?"

"I don't know. She's been upstairs with Tyler all afternoon."

I drop the peanut butter jar on my foot. "What do you mean she's upstairs with Tyler?" I demand. I never even noticed Tyler's car outside. I must have been too shocked at seeing Dad's.

"She's upstairs in her room with Tyler," Maria says. "This macaroni isn't heated all the way through, Shanny."

"You know how to use the microwave," I snap, rushing out of the kitchen. As I go through the living room, it doesn't even occur to me to alert Dad. Would he even care? Doubtful. Besides, he's now watching Body Heat. I guess I stirred some fond memories for him.

Tiffany's bedroom door is shut. I try the doorknob. Locked. Unbelievable. I press my ear to the door. Silence. I begin pounding. "Tiffany Lillian Kilbourne! What are you doing in there?" I cry, still pounding. I jiggle the doorknob. "Open this door, Tiffany!" She's been dating this guy three weeks. Three weeks.

After a long silence on the other side, Tiffany calls out, "Go away!"

"I know you have a boy in there!"

"You're not my mother!"

I might as well be. "I'm responsible for you! Now open this door!" I jiggle the doorknob some more, as if the lock will magically loosen on its own. "If you don't open the door, I'm getting a screwdriver and removing the doorknob. Then I'll be able to see exactly what you're doing in there!"

I hear the bedsprings squeak as someone rises from the bed, then the sound of someone tripping over something. Not a surprise. Tiffany's room is a disaster area. The lock turns and Tiffany cracks the door enough to peer out at me. Her hair is mussed. She's still in her uniform, but her blouse is untucked and half-unbuttoned.

"Are you trying to completely humiliate me?" she hisses.

"What are you doing in there?" I demand.

"What do you think, genius?"

"Are you having sex?"

Tiffany's jaw drops. "No, we're not having sex!" she hisses, angrily. "I am fully dressed, as you can see! Now we're busy, so please leave."

I try to shove the door open, but Tiffany shoves back. She's a lot stronger than I am. The door slams shut in my face. The lock turns.

Huffing, I storm down the stairs and out to the garage. I find a screwdriver in a dusty toolbox. Tomorrow, I'll replace Tiffany's doorknob with the doorknob to the laundry room. The laundry room door doesn't have a lock. I'll do it while she's at work. Dad's engrossed in his movie when I pass through the living room again. He didn't even notice Tiffany and I screeching upstairs. I stop at Tiffany's door before entering my room. I press my ear against it, then jump back, quickly. I'm certain I heard groaning. I grip the screwdriver tightly. What am I supposed to do about this? Kick down the door and stab Tyler Austen with my screwdriver? It isn't all Tyler's fault. Tiffany is as much to blame for...whatever they're doing.

Thoroughly disgusted, I stomp into my bedroom and slam the door. I take a deep breath. Then another. In and out. In and out. I don't have time to explode. I'm on a tight schedule and have wasted enough time as it is. Wes is picking me up at six-thirty. Picking me up here. At my house. I know it's risky, but he was beginning to ask questions. I've hinted that my home life isn't exactly stellar, but that isn't enough reason for him to never even see where I live. I decided tonight was the ideal night. My parents are never home (thanks, Dad), Tiffany is usually out with Tyler, and Maria doesn't ask questions. Plus, I don't have to worry about Kristy or Abby. Kristy and her family are going to dinner then bowling tonight and Abby left on the five o' clock train to New York to meet Mrs. Stevenson for dinner. Abby invited Kristy and I to go with her. Of course, we both already had plans. So, Abby took Greer instead. Greer and I still aren't speaking, despite Greer's attempts to convince me I'm being a ridiculous baby. But Greer and Abby have patched things up and I don't hold that against Abby. No one has to choose between Greer and I. And it is some consolation to know that Greer was Abby's very last choice. Meg and Lindsey aren't allowed in New York without adult supervision.

I change out of my uniform and into a dark brown dress with a beige floral-print. The short-sleeves are slit down the center and tie at the ends. There's a wide scoop-neck that shows off just enough. I slip on a pair of dark brown heels, then spray jasmine-scented perfume on my neck and wrists. I brush my hair and touch up my make-up. I turn in front of the mirror, scrutinizing my reflection. Perfect. I look absolutely perfect.

I poke my head into the hall. Tiffany's door is half-open. I'm much calmer than before. I won't freak out at her. I walk slowly across the hall and peer into Tiffany's room. She's also changed out of her uniform. Now she's in a jean skirt and pulling a red polo shirt over her head. Tyler is nowhere in sight.

"What are you all dressed up for?" Tiffany demands when her head appears through the polo.

"I'm going to a play with Lindsey," I lie.

Tiffany looks doubtful. But I don't worry. I know that even if she calls Lindsey to check out my lie, Lindsey will cover for me. That's one great thing about Lindsey. She's such an accomplished liar, she can join in on any cover story, effortlessly, without even thinking.

"I need to borrow your brown shawl," I tell Tiffany, crossing the room. I glance over at the bed. It's as rumpled and messy as always. No matter how much I plead and lecture, Tiffany never makes it. "Where's Tyler?" I ask.

"In the kitchen getting a soda."

I pull out a dresser drawer. It's a mess, too. "Aren't you the one always informing my friends that our house isn't the A&P?" I ask, coolly.

"Boyfriends are different."

I find the shawl buried underneath a wad of wrinkled t-shirts. The shawl is a bit wrinkled, too. I shake it out, hard. I don't have time to iron it. "What were you and Tyler doing in here? Please tell me the truth."

"Why are you so interested? Need a few pointers?" Tiffany replies, sassily. She picks a red hoop earring up off the floor and slides it on. She begins kicking clothes out of the way, searching for the mate. "We were just fooling around."

"Are you and Tyler having sex? Because if you are, you need to tell me so we can...um, talk," I tell her. I feel very stupid saying such a thing to my little sister. What am I going to say to her about sex? Other than "don't do it"? It's not like I'm an expert. Mom hasn't discussed the topic with me since I was thirteen. And it wasn't a very good discussion either. Maybe I could pick up some pamphlets at the Stoneybrook Health Clinic. Or maybe I could just send her across the street to Elizabeth.

"We're not having sex," Tiffany answers. So casually, like we're discussing the weather. She finds her other earring and slides it into her ear. "Not sex sex," she adds.

I look up from the shawl I'm still shaking out. "What do you mean...not sex sex?" I ask, slowly, filling the air with my dread.

Tiffany shrugs. "It's only head."

My mouth falls open. "Head?" I repeat, nearly choking on the crudeness and its meaning. "Oral sex?" I would shriek it if my voice weren't coming out in a gasp. "Tiffany! You are only fifteen years old! And you've only been dating for three weeks!" Is she insane? Does she want a bad reputation? For everyone to write on the bathroom walls: Tiffany Kilbourne is a slut?

Tiffany shrugs again. "I love him," she says.

"You hardly know him," I shoot back.

"I know him enough to know I love him. And I want him to know how much I love him. What's wrong with that? What's wrong with wanting to be loved?"

"Nothing, but you don't have to have sex to prove anything. Oral sex is still sex, Tiffany. Did he wear a condom?"

Tiffany scrunches her face. "Of course not. If I wanted latex in my mouth, I'd suck on the rubber gloves in the kitchen. Don't judge me, Shanny. I don't judge you."

We hear Tyler bounding up the stairs. When he swings around the doorframe and sees me, his ears turn red. Good. He ought to be embarrassed. I hope he realizes I know exactly what was going on in here while I was across the hall and my father and twelve-year-old sister were downstairs.

"Oh, hi, Shannon," he says, quietly.

I tilt my head upward and stare at him. Finally, I say, very coolly, "Hello Tyler."

"What took you so long, butterbean?" Tiffany asks him.

"Uh...your father...he was trying to pay me. I think he thought I was the paper boy or the pool boy. Or something," Tyler answers, not looking at me.

"I told you, he's an idiot," Tiffany says. "As if he didn't spend all last Saturday night with you. Come on, we're going to miss the movie. You can finish your soda in the car." Tiffany slips her hand in his and pulls him out of the room. In the doorway, she looks back at me. "Goodbye, Shanny," she says.

After they leave, I go back downstairs. I chase Maria out of the living room, where she's watching Dad's movie with him. I order her to take Astrid on a walk. After much whining, she finally leaves. Sometimes Maria acts more like a nine-year-old than a twelve-year-old. For such a smart girl, she is rather immature. That's why I don't allow her to baby-sit yet. Except occasionally for Emily Michelle. When Maria's gone, I hover at the dining room window. Finally, I see Wes' headlights turn into our drive. I rush out the front door without even bothering to waste any words on Dad.

Wes has barely opened his door when I yank the passenger side open and jump in. "In a hurry?" he asks, looking more surprised than amused. "Can't I come in? I'd like to see your house."

"No. Not tonight," I reply. "My father's home. It's not a good time." I leave it at that.

"Oh...okay. Sorry," he says, starting the car. I wonder what he suspects about my family. I hope he doesn't ask around. "Your house looks fantastic from the outside though," he tells me.

"It's a very nice house to look at," I reply, my voice colder than I intend. I bite my lip, so I don't say anything more.

Wes doesn't say anything either. I wonder if he still considers me intriguing. Or simply strange and frustrating. At the stop sign, he places his hand on my knee and smiles. I release my lip and smile back. We're silent most of the drive to Stamford. We're headed to El Sombrero, where we went on our first date. I told Wes it was our place in hopes he wouldn't find it odd that I never want to eat at restaurants in Stoneybrook. The three weeks we've been dating, we've eaten at El Sombrero four times.

Wes puts his arm around my shoulders as we cross the parking lot. "You look great tonight," he tells me. He leans in and kisses my left temple. "You always look great."

I smile and slip my arm around his waist. It's wonderful that someone finally notices me, notices all the effort I put into myself. Into everything.

"You're awfully quiet tonight," Wes observes when we're seated and have ordered.

I shrug and sip my diet soda. "I have a lot on my mind," I reply, nonchalantly.

Wes looks concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, I've just been having problems with a lot of people. My best friend. And my sisters," I say and take another sip, trying to appear casual, unbothered. "My sisters," I say again and sort of laugh.

"I'd like to meet them. Your sisters. And your parents."

I set down my glass and shake my head. "No, you don't want to meet them. Any of them. Especially not my parents. They're...they're..." I shrug and begin straightening the sugar packets. "I haven't met your parents either."

"Oh, well..." Wes starts, looking slightly embarrassed. "Someday."

"Is there something wrong with them?" I ask. Although with the way Wes goes on and on about them, they sound like the most fabulous people to ever walk the face of the earth.

"Is there something wrong with yours?"

"Yes."

Wes laughs. "Well, there's not really anything wrong with mine. I mean, you've seen my dad's commercials, so you know he has no shame. It's just that...well, honestly, they don't know you exist."

"They don't know I exist?" I repeat and it stings when I say it, much worse than when he did. After all he told me about his parents, I assumed he told them all about me, too.

"Uh, it's nothing personal," Wes assures me. "I know that sounds lame. But it really isn't personal. My parents can be a little overbearing. I prefer to keep my private life, uh, private. Otherwise, they'll badger me until I go crazy."

"Oh, I understand," I reply, even though I'm still a little hurt. I shouldn't be. I have no right to that. And really, I should only feel relief. The Ellenburgs don't know about me, which means they can't blow my cover. Wes' mother and Mick's grandmother work together at the Greenvale Historical Society. She would surely find me out.

"You're upset."

I shake my head. "No, really, I'm not. My parents don't know about you either. For other reasons. They're so disinterested in my personal life that it's a waste of valuable time to even bother speaking to them. It's best this way. Our little secret." I smile and place my hand over his.

Wes smiles back. "My parents would like you a lot."

I might as well be honest. "All my mom would care about is how much money you make. My dad would only notice you if you made him a martini. Oh, look, here comes our food." I focus on shuffling around our glasses and the chips and salsa.

"I'm sorry, Shannon," Wes tells me when the waiter has left us with our dinners. "You know, I've wondered why you stayed in Stoneybrook for college. You don't seem, uh, very happy here."

I concentrate on spreading sour cream over my flour tostada, considering what words to choose. I've never mentioned Wellesley to him. Or Amherst or Brown. He doesn't know that this time next year I will be elsewhere, far away, living a new life. A better life. "I'm needed at home," I explain, simply. "I have to run the house. Pay the bills, pay the housekeeper, buy the groceries, pick up the dry cleaning, take care of my sisters."

Wes raises his eyebrows. "That's a lot of responsibility."

I shrug. "I don't mind," I reply, even though I sometimes do.

Wes drops the subject. That's something I like about him. He doesn't push me farther than I desire to be pushed.

After dinner, Wes and I are crossing the parking lot to Wes' car with our arms around each others' waists. It's a beautiful night, not too cold or too breezy. Perfect. I often forget how it feels to be so content.

"What would you like to do now?" Wes asks.

I rest my head against his shoulder. "Let's just go back to your apartment," I suggest. We spend a lot of time at Wes' apartment now. He doesn't seem to mind.

There's no traffic back to Stoneybrook. It's a quiet, relaxing drive. I wish all my time could be spent with Wes. I'm much happier when I am with him. When we're walking up to his apartment, I can hear his neighbors screaming. But not their usual angry screams. "Your neighbors are making up again," I observe as Wes unlocks the door.

Wes sighs. "Yes. And the guy upstairs has his terrors this weekend. They've already thrown a potato at me from their balcony. I can't wait to move."

I giggle as I step into the apartment. Darth Vader, Wes' ridiculously named cat, is waiting on the television set beside the front door. She hisses, as usual, when she sees me and swipes at my arm. She was only expecting Wes.

"Poor Darth," Wes says, plucking her off the television set. "She's jealous." Wes carries her off into the kitchen and actually gets her a bowl of ice cream. Ice cream for a cat. Wes' attachment to his cat continues to mildly disturb me. But no one is perfect.

I sit down on the couch and soon Wes joins me, putting his arms around me and leaning in for a kiss. I think this is why Wes doesn't mind spending so much time here. I wrap my arms around his neck and lower backward onto the couch, pulling Wes on top of me. He kisses my neck. Sometimes I worry things are moving too fast, steadily spiraling from my control. I was never like this with Mick. But this isn't a high school relationship and Wes isn't a hormone-crazed teenager. This is a mature, adult relationship.

Wes moves his lips back to mine, kisses me, deep and penetrating. He's suggested before that I be on top, but this is how I like to be with Wes, feeling his weight on me. I feel safe, protected. I like how that feels, how it feels to be so close to someone. Finally.

I told him I'm a virgin. He didn't seem surprised. He didn't seem excited either, which I assume is a good thing. He asks "is this okay?" a lot and I like the way he whispers it in my ear, soft and huskily. I think I might say yes to anything asked in that voice. I am not a cold girlfriend. Greer is wrong about me.

"Is this okay?" Wes whispers, untying the loose knots on my sleeves.

"Yes," I whisper back and he pushes down one of the sleeves and kisses my shoulder.

Wes pushes down the other sleeve and peppers kisses all along my collarbone, then he pushes my dress down further, down to my waist, revealing my breasts in their black lace bra. "Is this okay?" he asks and kisses my chest.

I start to say no. I start to protest. This is too fast, Wes, please stop. But I don't say anything, not anything but yes.

Wes cups my breasts and I feel the heat of his hands through the black lace. I raise my head, kissing his lips, sliding my tongue against his. I reach around my back to the bra strap and begin unhooking it. What am I doing? What am I doing?

We're interrupted by a loud crash upstairs. A crash of shattering glass and a heavy thud and a high-pitched shriek. Wes pulls back, startled. "Those kids!" he groans and climbs off of me. He straightens his sweater and smoothes his hair. "I'll go make sure everything's all right," he says, walking to the front door.

"Okay," I reply, sitting up and re-hooking my bra. Then I pull my dress back up and attempt to re-tie my sleeves. It's impossible without the dress off. I hear Wes' footsteps on the stairs, then him knocking on the door upstairs. It opens. Then footsteps on the ceiling, some heavy like men's and some lighter and faster like children's. Something moves across the ceiling. Another thud.

When Wes returns, he's shaking his head. "Well, upstairs guy owes the apartment complex a new window," he tells me, shutting and locking the front door. "His refrigerator just went through it."

I gape at Wes and try not to laugh. "The refrigerator went through the window?" I repeat.

"I don't know how it happened. Upstairs guy couldn't explain it either."

I laugh. "Do you actually know any of your neighbors names?"

Wes taps his finger against his chin, thinking. "Uh...no," he finally replies. He laughs and sits down beside me. He takes my hand, strokes it with his thumb. "I guess that kind of ruined the mood," he says.

"I guess," I agree.

"Shannon, can I tell you something?" Wes asks. He's looking at my hand, not at me.

I get this odd, uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. "Of course," I say, quietly.

"I know we've only been dating for three weeks. And we really don't know each other very well. I mean, I feel like I've known you forever. You're wonderful and smart and beautiful. Please don't freak out, Shannon, but," Wes looks up from my hand and into my eyes, "I think I love you."

I almost freak out.

I am at a loss. I watch him watch me, gauging my reaction. His thumb still strokes my hand. I don't remember when someone last said they loved me. Years ago maybe my parents did. I don't remember when I last said it to anyone. Years ago maybe to my parents. It's strange hearing the words. Strange and sort of warm. I'd like to hear them again. Over and over, repeated on loop in my ear.

"I love you, too," I reply. It feels wonderful to say, even though I'm not certain I mean it.