Working Title Here

amanowrimo @ 2006-11-07T15:59:00

2006-11-07T20:59:45Z

Well, my muse decided to gift me with an interesting twist to Justin's motivations today...it turns out that Justin slept with one of his male co-stars (the one based on Orlando, if anyone's interested), and that's why he flipped out about Lacey being male, because he thought that meant he was irrevocably gay. I think it's a great twist and I like the way it just comes out of nowhere; I think it works well that way. You can't telegraph everything ahead of time.

excerpt

2006-11-06T21:57:28Z

I posted this excerpt over at my Nano profile, so I thought I'd post it here as well. It's mostly dialogue, which is good because my exposition sucks. It's so long, and boring, and it doesn't move forward at all.

“Hey, Lacey wants to talk to you.” She handed the phone over.

“Caitlin! It’s so good to hear from you. Boy, this fandom_wank thing sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Totally. But Molly’s fixing it, so I’m good. How are you?”

“Great! Justin and I have been emailing for the last three weeks. We just can’t stop talking! We’ve really gotten to know each other well.”

“That’s great,” I said, not really meaning it. Justin was in dangerous territory here, and I didn’t want him to get in trouble.

“He’s so funny! I never realized how funny he is. He makes me laugh out loud all the time.”

“Yeah, he’s quite the comic. It’s a shame he doesn’t do more comic work; he has great timing. We could even see that back in middle school.”

“It’s great, I feel like I’ve known Justin for as long as you have.”

“Look, Lacey, I’m happy for you and all, but could you do me a favor and tone it down on the boards? I don’t want people to get the wrong idea.”

“What wrong idea?”

“That you and Justin have something going on.”

“Why would people get that idea?”

“Because you do, don’t you?” I hadn’t meant to bring it up so abruptly, but there it was. It was too late to take it back.

“Caitlin! How could you think that about two of your closest friends?”

“Lacey, either you’re implying something that isn’t true, or you and Justin are having an epistolary affair. That’s what I’ve been getting out of your posts.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me the truth, Lacey.”

She took a long pause. “Fine,” she said quietly. “You’re right, okay? Justin said he’s in love with me.”

“Oh dear God,” slipped out before I could stop it.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen!” Lacey said with urgency in her voice. “You have to believe me. I don’t want to break them up, I really don’t.”

“Then why don’t you stop it? It takes two people to have an affair.”

“Because I think I love him too,” she said, sounding like a little girl.

“You know this has to stop. You know what the right thing to do is. I can’t do it for you. You have to fix this one yourself.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because no one’s ever made me feel like this before. He makes me feel like I’m the only girl in the world who’s important. I don’t want to stop feeling like this.”

“Lacey, he loves someone else!”

“Maybe he doesn’t love her anymore. Maybe he just stays with her because he can’t figure out how not to be with her.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Maybe.”

This was worse than I had originally thought, and it was getting more complicated the longer this conversation went on. I was tempted to hang up just so I wouldn’t hear anything worse.

“I can’t tell you what to do. I’m just going to say this: you know right from wrong. You know what you should do. It’s up to you whether or not you do the right thing or the wrong thing. Goodbye.” I hung up.

I flopped down on my bed, exhausted. All of a sudden my petty concerns about RPS and the boards seemed really far away. Justin was having an affair with Lacey. Justin was in love with Lacey. Justin didn’t want to be with Bethany any more.

I picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number.

“Hello?”

“Justin, I just got off the phone with Lacey.”

“What did she tell you?” Justin asked, sounding suspicious.

“That you’re in love with her and you don’t want to be with Bethany anymore.”

“Shit.”

“Damn right. You’re in deep shit, mister.”

“Look, Caitlin, you’re Beth’s best friend and all, but I’d like to think that you’re my friend too.”

“I am your friend, which is why I’m going to stay the hell out of this except to say one thing: if you hurt her in any way, we’re going to have problems. You understand me?”

“Yeah. Listen, I didn’t want it to be this way. It’s just, Bethany and I have been together for eight years. I’m only 26 years old. I don’t know if I’m ready for so much of my life to be over.”

“What?”

“You know Bethany’s been after me to propose to her.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I don’t think I’m ready for that. I’ve only had two girlfriends my whole life. What if I’m only with Bethany because I’m scared to be alone?”

“So because you don’t want to marry Bethany, you’ve got to line up another girl before you can dump her so you’ll have a legitimate reason to break up? That’s pretty twisted, dude. And stupid, because cheating on her just makes you look like an asshole.”

“I know, I know. I didn’t mean for this to happen. It just did.”

“That’s so weak. It’s an excuse, Justin, and a pretty pitiful one at that. If you’re going to be a cheating liar, at least own it.”

“Would you stop insulting me, please?”

“I’ll stop when you stop deserving it.”

“I’m not a bad person!”

“Yeah, well right now you’re not a good one either. I’ll tell you what I told Lacey: you’re both more than old enough to know right from wrong. So you can do the right thing, or you can do the wrong thing. It’s up to you. But if you do the wrong thing, I reserve the right to kick your ass for hurting my best friend.”

“So you’re not going to tell her?”

“No, because it’s totally not my place to tell her. But I’m not going to lie for you either. If she asks me if something’s going on, I have to tell her.”

“Why would she ask that?”

“I don’t know. I guess you’ve been careful, because as far as I know she doesn’t suspect anything. But she hasn’t seen you and Lacey together like I have.”

“We only talk through email, and I called her once.”

“She talks about you on the message board all the time. I told her to knock it off, but I’m not sure she will.”

“Bethany doesn’t read that stuff, though.”

“Not yet she doesn’t.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“No, I wouldn’t. But that’s not to say she wouldn’t find it on her own, or look it up to see how the garden thing went.”

“Oh God, I hadn’t thought of that! What am I going to do?”

“Hope she doesn’t wander into the message boards, I guess. Look, if she asks me about it, I’ll head her off. I was going to try to keep her off the site anyway.”

“Why?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Okay…”

“No, it’s better this way.”

“Whatever. Are we done?”

“Yeah, we’re done. Talk to you later.” I threw the phone on the bed. I was really frustrated with both of them. They were both so selfish, not thinking at all about the big picture. This had far-reaching consequences.

It turned out that I had no idea how far-reaching.

Lacey's "pseuicide" note

2006-10-27T09:40:33Z

Wrote this at work yesterday...I don't know if it'll make it into the story or not (it probably will, but who knows?), but I thought I'd post it here anyway. A quick note: "The Royal Court" is the name of Lacey and Molly's website/LJ community (think Bit of Earth, for those of you who know that story).

Quick summary of what's going on at this point: Justin is dead, and Caitlin, Morwen, and Rose have started to bring to light Molly and Lacey's misconduct in planning the convention. Lacey has realized that Justin's death is her fault, but she hasn't told anyone besides Molly about her former identity. She wants out of the fandom for good, and figures this is the only way to get away from Molly.

To all the friends I’ve loved before,

I just want to say how sorry I am for my part in the utter catastrophe that The Royal Court turned out to be. What was once a place for fans and friends to gather to share love and light has become a black hole of hatred and deception. The lion’s share of the blame for the fall of PenCon and by extension TRC falls upon my shoulders. Molly never would have gotten away with so much if I had just stood up to her one time. One time! She was my dearest friend and I wanted so badly to overlook her negatives and focus on her positives. I truly thought I could turn her around. When I couldn’t, I allowed myself to indulge in the same behaviors I most despised. I lied and I lied and I lied some more. I lied to everyone who was important to me, whose opinions of me I held in high regard. I lied to you and I misled you and you’ll never know how sorry I am for that. If I hadn’t lied to Molly, maybe none of us would be in this mess. If I had been up front with her about my relationship with Justin, maybe she wouldn’t have sabotaged PenCon. Maybe we could have all gotten together and had a lovely time. We’ll never know.

There’s something else I must apologize for as well. I know you blame me for Justin’s death and why shouldn’t you? Justin trusted me, loved me, and I abused that love and trust at every turn. I encouraged him to cheat on his girlfriend, the love of his life, and for that alone I’m sure I’m going to Hell. I let him believe that he could love me. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the attention it brought. Raise your hand if you wouldn’t want a bona fide movie star to proclaim undying love to you. I let that attention go to my head and for that I am sorry. I am truly sorry for the role I played in Justin’s death, and it seems only fair that I should atone in this particular way.

I didn’t write this letter so you would feel sorry for me. I wrote this letter because I want to go into the afterlife with a clear conscience. I wanted all of you to know that I truly am sorry for all the horrible things I’ve done. If I had just let all of you down maybe I could live with myself, but with what’s happened to Justin... I don’t deserve to live anymore, and there is nothing anyone can say to convince me otherwise. I know some of you may think I’m taking the easy way out rather than facing the consequences of my actions, but I assure you there’s nothing easy about this.

Goodbye, dear friends.

Lacey

Plot summary

2006-10-22T23:26:43Z

All of this is, of course, subject to change at the whims of the muse.

Caitlin meets Lacey and Molly in a Yahoo! group for Pendragon Chronicles fans. Lacey and Molly are interested in meeting the stars of PDC, and when they find out from Caitlin about Justin’s strong background in charity work, Molly suggests putting on some kind of charity event in order to attract Justin. They decide to make a charity garden for the children’s hospital that Justin supports. The project goes pretty well, with some rough spots due to Molly’s laziness, and Justin and Lacey begin to correspond, which eventually leads to a full-on affair. Meanwhile, Molly is talking about having a convention. When Molly finds out about Lacey’s affair, she gets so jealous that she sabotages the convention.

At the hotel, Justin goes to sleep with Lacey only to discover that Lacey is actually a guy. Humiliated and horrified, Justin leaves her. Lacey leaves the hotel. The next morning, Caitlin discovers Justin dead in his hotel room, having committed suicide. When Caitlin tells Beth, Beth begs her to find out why.

Caitlin starts to investigate and discovers that Lacey was the last person to see Justin. She finds out about the affair, but not about Lacey’s true identity. As she digs, she finds out why the convention crashed and begins reporting it on her blog. Caitlin’s online popularity grows as she dishes the dirt about the PenCon crash. Finally, Molly’s jealousy leads her to reveal to Caitlin that Lacey is transgender. Caitlin realizes that must have made Justin kill himself, but she doesn’t want to tell anyone.

Lacey enlists Caitlin’s help in faking a suicide online in order to get out of Molly’s clutches. Finally, the stress causes Caitlin to have a breakdown and she goes into the hospital. She meets Ben and they develop feelings for one another. Caitlin finally admits to Beth that she knows the truth about Justin’s suicide and learns to deal with her part in the situation.

Characters

2006-10-22T23:21:53Z

The characters:

Caitlin Campbell — 25 years old, brown hair, brown eyes, a tiny girl who easily blends into a crowd; grew up in Lititz and never left Lancaster County; been friends with Beth since they were 4 years old and became friends with Justin because of Beth; very much into the Internet and online fandom and feels left out of real life because no one around her understands her interests; connects with Lacey and Molly through their message board; volunteers to help with the garden and PenCon in order to feel included and popular; uses her connection to Beth to help Lacey and Molly manipulate Justin and uses Justin to gain status in fandom

Justin Klinefelter — 26 years old, blond hair, brown eyes, interesting scar from pipe bomb incident, tall and gangly; an incredible actor who became a professional at age 18 after dropping out of high school; starred on Boys of Summer and was cast in The Pendragon Chronicles shortly after the show ended; has dated Beth since high school; keeps Beth around for the good publicity—through her he has gotten involved with a lot of charity work, which is what attracts Lacey and Molly; carries on a long distance affair with Lacey while still dating Beth

Lacey Douglas — 21 years old, brown hair, brown eyes, stick-thin and average height, born Douglas Henning, transgender (male to female), attracted only to men; grew up in rural Massachusetts and went to college in Boston for one semester before dropping out; befriended Molly online in a group for Pendragon Chronicles fans; goes along with Molly’s wild schemes because she’s afraid Molly will reveal her secret if she doesn’t; has good intentions and tries her hardest to turn Molly’s machinations into beneficial things

Molly Corbett — 28 years old, brown hair, blue eyes, short and stocky, rather dumpy-looking; a naturally manipulative and melodramatic person who is obsessed with celebrities and being famous; devoted to Jordan Carr in an almost stalkerish way; “settles” for Justin due to Caitlin’s connections to him; attracted to Lacey even though she’s never been attracted to a girl before; questions her orientation and breaks up with her husband in hopes of landing Lacey; comes up with the fake charity idea in order to eventually meet Jordan

Beth Radliff — 25 years old, red hair, green eyes, confined to a wheelchair due to spina bifida; has dated Justin since she was a junior in high school; got Justin involved in charity work once he was famous; resents Justin using her for good publicity, but stays with him because she thinks one day they will get married and she will always have someone to take care of her; best friends with Caitlin since they were in kindergarten; has no clue about Justin’s relationship with Lacey

Ben Griffin — 26 years old, brown hair, hazel eyes, tall and solidly built; worked as a liquor store clerk and was involved in a robbery, saw a co-worker get shot to death; is in the hospital for PTSD

Other incidental things

The Pendragon Chronicles — a fantasy movie trilogy about the life of King Arthur; Justin plays Sir Gawain

Boys of Summer — a teen drama about surfers in California; Justin’s first professional acting gig

A change in plans

2006-10-22T05:01:44Z

I suddenly realized that before I post anything, I need to get permission from Turimel to fictionalize parts of her story. So I'll hold off posting a plot summary or outline until I hear from her. Not that I can figure out how to code the damn outline anyway without completely retyping it.

New year, new novel

2006-10-22T03:16:36Z

Wow, it's really been awhile! I'm going to keep this journal as more a meta journal than a story journal (I think), but I'm sure I'll be posting plenty of excerpts. I'm going to be posting my outline here in a minute. I'll also be tagging entries as meta or excerpt. I'm thinking even about making a wiki. This is really kind of exciting!

I can't wait to get started now. Except I really need to get my main research novel back from my friend S, and she's a bitch to get ahold of. I'm thinking I may just have to get a new copy from Turimel -- she has some neat Sean-autographed ones, but I don't know that I can afford it. Or that it would come in time (although I think it would).

Anyway, I'm linking this post from my main journal, so feel free to friend me, and if you have a NaNo-related journal, leave its username in the comments so I can check it out.

section 11

2003-11-15T01:49:25Z

I am sooooooo behind.

"Oh my God, Megan, you have to see this."

Megan clambered onto my bunk. I pointed to the email that I had just opened. "Dude, seriously, this never happens to me."

Hey Trish,

I know you probably don't even know who I am. I was that really dorky guy that beat Ross in the dance competition. Actually, I kind of hope you don't remember who I am.

I was wondering if you'd want to go out with me Friday night. Call me, x3664, or email me back.

Hope to hear from you soon!

-Shawn

"That's so cute!" Megan squealed. "You're going to say yes, right?"

"Of course!" I gushed, not even thinking about it. I'd never actually been asked out by a boy before. I had always had to ask the guys out, and they invariably said no anyway--except for Brendan, whom I dated for nearly a year. Even when I was with Brendan, we figured out about three months after we met that neither of us ever actually asked the other one out. When I said that, he made a big deal of getting down on one knee and asking me out, but that definitely wasn't in the same league as this. This was a guy seeing me, liking me just on appearance alone, and asking me out. It was what my mom had been promising me would happen since I was thirteen. It was what I had been waiting for what was beginning to feel like my whole life.

I hit "reply" and started typing out my acceptance.

Shawn—

I don't know how you got my email, but I'm really glad you did. I'd love to go out with you on Friday.

Oh, and my extension is 3199. I'm in Schellenger East Basement.

—Trish :-)

I took a deep breath and pressed "Send." My hands were shaking.

"Awww, Trish is gonna have a boyfriend," Megan teased in her best playground singsong voice. "Tricia and Sha-awn, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N—"

She had to stop when I smacked her in the face with my sunshine pillow. We both laughed. "Actually, my name's Patricia," I informed her.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't know that. Why didn't I know that?"

"Because only my mom and my grandparents call me that," I explained. "I'm named after my aunt. She died when my mom was a kid."

"Oh wow," breathed Megan. "Sorry."

"No problem," I replied lightly. "It's just that no one calls me 'Patricia' unless I'm in trouble."

"Oh, you're in trouble all right!" Megan picked up my stuffed dolphin, Darwin, and threw him at me. He bounced off my laptop screen and landed on the desk.

"Hey! Leave Darwin out of this!" I whacked her with the pillow again, and we were both giggling so loudly that Drew and Erik next door pounded on the wall.

"Screw you!" Megan called back.

"We're trying to fucking sleep!" Erik screamed, knocking harder.

I rolled my eyes. This was going to take some getting used to. Drew and Erik really didn't have a leg to stand on; Drew had been blasting that damn Savage Garden song all day and night since we'd gotten here. None of us could wait until he had his audition. It wasn't a bad song—at least, not the first three hundred times you heard it. After that, just about any song is a bad song.

Megan climbed over me and looked at the alarm clock. "Shit, I'm supposed to see that girl about InHarmony! I have to go!" She jumped off the bed and grabbed her jacket. "See you later! I'll meet you guys here for dinner."

"Wait, what time is it?"

"It's almost 1:00."

"Fuck! I'm supposed to be at pep band at one!" I scrambled off the bed and threw on a pair of sandals. I flung the door shut behind me and fumbled to lock it. Megan was holding the door open for me. "Thanks," I gasped.

I rushed up the hill. There was no way I'd get there on time. I had to get all the way to the third floor of Meyer to get my baritone sax and then down to the basement of the SSC. No way. Shit. Way to make a first impression on the guy I'd have to audition for on Monday.

"Hey, hold up!" A male voice called out from behind me. I was the only person on the quad. I turned around. It was Shawn.

"Uh, hi," I stammered. Definitely hadn't been expecting this.

"You're going to pep band, right?"

"Yeah." I suddenly noticed that he was carrying a trombone case.

"So am I."

"So you know we're late." He was struggling to keep up.

"It's no big deal."

"It is to me."

"So, if I say I'll pick you up at seven on Friday night, you'll be ready at 6:45."

"Probably." I had to admit, he was pretty cute. And determined. Man, was he determined. It was actually kind of scary. In a cute way, though.

"Hey, where are you going? We're meeting in Shaffer basement."

"I have to get my sax out of the instrument room."

"I can get it for you."

"You have a key?"

"Uh, no?"

"Then, I have to get my sax out of the instrument room." I turned around to smile at him, but he wasn't there. I spun back around. He was holding the door of Meyer open. I giggled. So cute!

"So, you play sax?"

"Eight years now. I just started playing bari last week, though."

He grinned. "You'll be down in the bass section with me, then."

"I guess so." The elevator doors opened. I unlocked the storage room and dragged the ancient bari case out. I half expected the damn thing to fall apart as soon as I touched it. I hoped we wouldn't have too many home games.

When we got to the basement room, the rest of the band had already set up. "Ah, Shawn! Great! The low brass section is looking a little thin." A couple of girls laughed. I glanced around the room. There weren't any low brass players at all, just woodwinds, a trumpet, and two drummers. This promised to be interesting.

Dr. Prescott disappeared into a closet. "Patricia, you can keep that old sax in here for now. No one else is using it."

"Thank God," I replied. I set the case on top of a dusty piano bench. "Oh, and everyone calls me Trish."

"Okay, Trish," he replied, staring intently at me. "Sorry, I’m terrible with names. Much better at faces." Dr. Prescott is a little…eccentric.

"All right, folks! Time to get a move on! I know this is a casual group, but we should at least try to get to stands on time." Dr. Prescott picked up a trumpet and headed out the door. The woodwinds followed him, chirping and giggling. That's why I don't like to admit I play alto. Shawn and I straggled behind.

"That's a pretty huge saxophone."

"Yeah, well, someone's got to play it. Unless we get a tuba."

"It's also a piece of shit."

I tried to shrug, but my poor shoulders couldn't lift the freaking thing. "Yeah, well, the nice one's not supposed to go outside."

"Not to be rude, but can we cut the small talk soon? I really want to get to know you."

Wow. That came out of nowhere. "Sorry," I replied, bewildered. "I'm kind of new at this. You're the first guy that ever asked me out."

"You can't be serious."

"Well, no one else has your good taste," I cracked, giving him a rueful smile.

He shook his head. "You know, that's criminal. It really is."

"Tell me about it." We climbed up into the stands. "You know, I meant to ask you…how did you find out who I was?"

"Well, I heard someone call you Trish, and when I saw you cheering for Ross I knew you must live on his hall, so I snuck in last night and looked at the name on your door."

"Why didn't you just knock?" Not that I would have had any clue what to say if he had, but it is what a normal person would do.

"Uh…it was three a.m. and I didn't think you were still up."

"Of course not! Why were you still up?"

He shrugged. "I'm kind of a night person."

"Well, I'm definitely not," I informed him. "The rest of my floor might be, but Megan and I go to bed at 11."

"Megan…Farr? She's your roommate?"

"Yeah. How do you know her?"

"I saw her at the InHarmony meeting."

"Yeah, she and Drew are trying out. So you're in it?"

He looked away. "I hope to be."

"Well, good luck." I hate choir. I quit when I went to high school. Of course, at that time I didn't know that all you had to do to get Mr. Miller to proclaim you "the talent of a generation" was to sleep with him.

'Thanks."

I sighed. "This is really awkward, isn't it?"

"You think so?" He returned his gaze to me, and he actually looked a little hurt. "Why?"

I felt bad. "It's just…there have to be more interesting things to talk about than school."

"Okay, what do you want to talk about?"

Before I could even put a conscious thought together, I heard myself speaking. "Why me?"

"What?"

What was I doing? "Why do you like me? You don't even know me."

"But I want to."

"You saw me for two seconds at the Underground. I'm not pretty, I'm not special—I can't even sing! You had all those girls to choose from; why me?"

"You have something none of those other girls have. You're nothing like them. You can see it in your face. You're smart, and confident; you are what you are and you don't care who knows it. You're better than they are—you're real."

interlude 2

2003-11-11T03:59:40Z

You know what's sad? Writing this is the closest I've gotten to getting laid in months.

"I want to do this right." Grant took a deep breath and turned away. He smoothed down the front of his oxford shirt and ran his hand through his lacquered blond hair. "Okay, I can do this. It's just the same as always." He turned and rapped three times on the door.

Jordan stumbled to the door, kicking aside a pair of shoes and some paperbacks. He opened it to reveal a buttoned-up, cologne-scented Grant. He stared, puzzled. "Grant? What's going on?"

Grant smiled nervously. "Well, I just wanted to know…if…you maybe wanted to go to the movies with me tonight?"

Jordan's eyes widened incredulously. "You're asking me out?"

"Yes, Jordan, I want to go out with you."

"Have you lost your mind? Seriously, Grant, do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"Jordan, I really like you, and I was hoping we could at least try to have a normal relationship."

Jordan sighed. He grabbed Grant's hand and pulled him inside, anxiously surveying the hallway. He slammed the door shut. "Look, Grant, you're a nice guy and all, and I really would like to go out with you, but…this is a disaster waiting to happen. I know you know that."

"Come on, Jordan! Why won't you give me a chance?"

"Because you're you!" Jordan stepped back. "You might be a great guy, but it's 'Grant Patterson' that came to me, not you."

"That's incredibly unfair and you know it! You're the one who's all about tolerance all the time."

Jordan sighed. "Grant, I'm really trying. I swear. But it's hard for me to accept this you when I have to deal with Grant Patterson the right-wing mouthpiece every day as well."

"If everything you know about me is from Trish Valenti, then that's what's really unfair," Grant retorted. "You don't know how hard it is for me! You get to be yourself. I don't. I have to do what people expect. It's not like I want this, any of this."

"Look, I'm sorry, but I've done this before. I don't want to be with someone who's in the closet."

Grant brushed his hand over his hair. "Jordan, I know. Really, I do. But you're saying that I shouldn't even get to be who I am in my private life, and that's just…it's ignorant."

"That's not what I'm saying at all! Fuck whoever you want, wherever you want. It's just not going to be me."

Grant was determined. Desperate and determined. "I saw it in your face before. I see it now. I know you feel something for me, even though you don't want to." He stepped forward. "Your eyes don't lie."

Before Jordan really knew what was happening, he was kissing Grant.

And it was good.

Very, very good.

And this? Was very, very bad.

"Grant, no," Jordan gasped.

"Your lips," Grant whispered between kisses, "say no. But this—" He traced a finger down Jordan's neck and rested it on his chest. "—says yes. And so—" His hand was moving again, down past the waistband of Jordan's jeans. "—does this."

Fuck it all, he was right.

Grant had a fantastic mouth. His kisses were just right—not too hard, but not too wimpy either. And it was leaving. But there was hot breath on Jordan's neck now, and…damn, there were teeth on his neck too. "Grant, don't. How am I—" He gasped. Grant was trying to take off his shirt. "Are you sure about this?"

Grant pulled back and looked straight into Jordan's eyes. He looked…well, "hungry" was really the best word. "You have no idea…" …kiss… "How long…" …kiss…"I've been waiting…" …there went the shirt… "For this moment."

Grant went for the buttons on his own shirt, and all Jordan could think about was how much he missed Grant's hands. "Here, let me," he breathed. Grant's shirt was starchy-crisp and perfectly pressed, and Jordan felt a second's guilt that it was going to end up in a heap on the floor. Oh well.

They were moving now, over to Jordan's unmade bed. Grant gently pushed Jordan down on his back and his tongue traced down Jordan's chest to one half-hardened nipple. He gave a lightning-quick bite, and the sensation sent Jordan's hips jolting up from the mattress. Grant laughed silently, his warm breath sending a tide of electricity up Jordan's breastbone. His head lolled back and he tangled his fingers in Grant's gelled hair. Grant's hands drifted southward until he was unbuttoning Jordan's jeans.

Grant was right; his brain was screaming, "No! You can't!" but his heart—and cock—were saying "Yes, yes, oh yes, just like that!"

Grant finished unzipping Jordan's jeans and pulled them off. He tossed them aside; Jordan heard the swishhh as they landed under the desk. Grant unfastened his own belt, his soft tongue still laving Jordan's nipples. He bit one sensitive bud again and Jordan's cock jumped to full attention.

Grant slid his hand under the waistband of Jordan's boxers. Jordan moaned softly, not even aware of anything except the growing tension. Grant languidly stroked Jordan's cock, his fingers searing the already-fiery skin. He licked a light trail down Jordan's stomach and his lips closed around the head of Jordan's cock. He flicked his tongue whisper-lightly over the slit and Jordan thought he would die, right then, his body vibrating itself apart like glass shattering when an extraordinarily high pitch is struck. Grant took the whole length, his teeth dragging just gently enough to leave a trail of electric sparks zinging down the shaft. Jordan was panting and bucking so hard that the mattress bobbed up and down like it fancied itself a waterbed. It wasn't long until Jordan orgasmed so hard that he thought he would split in half. He lay spread-eagled on the bed, unable to move, unable to think, unable to breathe. Grant had sucked away the life Jordan thought he had.

Grant fell back on the bed beside Jordan, panting and moaning. "Oh God," he gasped.

"You can…say that…again," Jordan whispered. "That was…fucking…incredible."

God, as it turned out, really had nothing to do with it.

section 10

2003-11-11T03:56:54Z

Hendricks was the closest academic building to the residences, but it seemed like miles to walk in the surprisingly bitter October chill. I had thrown a sweatshirt on before I left, but it definitely wasn't enough. I shoved my hands in my pockets and started jogging up the hill. Of course, once I got to Hendricks I'd have to go up four flights of stairs to get to Brachman's classroom, but at least that would warm me up.

The first two flights were okay, but I was really starting to feel it by the third. My ankle still hadn't totally healed, but I refused to wear that damn air cast any more than I had to. I dragged myself up the fourth flight and limped down the hall to 411.

Only four other people had shown up so far. I checked my watch; I really wasn't that early. We had told everybody that these study sessions practically guaranteed you at least a B on the quizzes, but people still weren't showing up. Morons.

Amanda was there already, but Jo wasn't. Damn. I don't dislike Amanda, but she's just not nearly as much fun. She's really quiet and shy, and Jo is brash and outspoken and hilariously funny. Last time she had repeated all these stories that Dr. Brachman had told her about how much weed he smoked in college, and then revealed that Dr. Brachman had once shown up to Quantum Mechanics stoned. We spent the next twenty minutes discussing the kinds of bongs that MIT engineering students would build. It was great.

Katie Jamison and Becca Foster came in then, followed quickly by Danny Sinclair. Danny's great. He's not the brightest star in the constellation, but he apparently goes to every party--on- and off-campus--every weekend, so he always knows the dirt. Note to self: never say or do anything in a frat house that you wouldn't want the entire football team and most of the cheerleaders to know about the next morning.

"Okay, what do you guys need to go over before the quiz?"

"Those equations," answered Danny immediately.

"Could you be a little bit more vague?" Angie Sanchez cracked. We giggled.

"The ones about temperature," he shot back. Angie shook her head.

The door flew open and Jo threw herself onto the other stool, sliding it right into the side of the desk. "What'd I miss?" she gasped. "Rugby practice ran late."

"We haven't really started yet," Amanda admitted. "So you didn't miss anything."

I grinned. Jo definitely had the Kramer hair to go with the Kramer entrance. She had the curliest natural hairstyle of anyone I'd ever met. She usually kept it shoved under her UCLA Rugby hat, but considering that it was about three feet long, one baseball cap couldn't hope to keep it all under control. I would have given my right arm to have hair like that when I was younger. Fortunately, I'd wised up when I was 16 and cut it all off. I've never even considered growing it back. It's so much easier to take care of. Three minutes and it's good to go; no blow-drying, no brushing, just gel and a little bit of molding wax.

"Hey, Jo, did you smoke up with Brachman today?" called Danny.

Jo laughed and shook her head. "No, he seemed pretty straight today," she replied. Danny groaned. "Come on, let's get to work."

We looked over the formulas and did some practice problems. Amanda left for a meeting about half an hour later. As soon as the door was closed, Danny's hand shot up. "Can we talk about Brachman now?"

"Sorry, guys, I don't have any new stories."

"Aw, come on, Joey!"

"You call me Joey, you won't be alive on Tuesday to take the quiz," Jo shot back, but she was smiling.

Danny rolled his eyes. "I'd probably get a better grade that way."

"Hey, I'll stay here until midnight, if that's what it takes for you to get this stuff. That's my job."

That's the other thing I love about Jo. As much as she jokes around with us, she takes her job really seriously and she cares about whether or not we do well. I honestly don't think Amanda does. I knew she wasn't joking about staying until everybody felt they got it.

"Nah, I'll be okay. Give me another problem. I think I can do it."

Angie shrugged her jacket on. "Well, I'm fine. See you tomorrow." Becca and Katie followed suit. I started to gather up my things, but I didn't want to leave without talking to Jo. I had been waiting all week to see her again. I really didn't need to come to the review sessions, but it was the only time I ever got to hang out with Jo. She was the coolest person I had ever met in my life.

Danny jumped up. "Shit, there's a house meeting tonight! I gotta go. Thanks, Jo."

"No prob. See you next week." Danny left, and Jo and I were alone.

"You doing okay with this?"

For some reason, I didn't realize right away that she was talking to me. I nodded. "I don't really know why I come. I get A's in here anyway."

"Well, what do you think you'd get if you didn't come?" she pointed out.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." I picked up my backpack.

"So, where are you running off to?" Jo asked as she locked the door behind us.

"Nowhere, really," I replied. "How about you?"

"I should go back and do some work, but I don't really feel like it. You want to go grab some coffee at the Commons?"

"Sure!" I don't drink coffee, but for Jo I could definitely make an exception.

"Do you like Life in the Universe so far?"

"Oh, I love it!" I answered eagerly. "Astronomy is so amazing. It's astonishing how much we've found out about the universe in so little time."

Jo nodded in agreement. "This class just scratches the surface. If you take Astro 110 with Brachman next semester, it'll blow your mind even more. I hope you like math, though."

I shrugged. "It's okay. I did pretty decent in calc."

"You'll be fine, then. It's just like the stuff we're doing now."

"Okay, cool."

The Commons was packed. It's the only place to get food after 7:30, so it's pretty popular. Jo got in line at the grill. I grabbed a chocolate pudding and a bag of pretzels and tried to find a seat. Luckily, a big group was just leaving one of the circular booths in the back.

"So, what do you do when you're not in Hendricks?"

Jo snorted. "When's that?" She shook her head. "Seriously, don't major in Geo or Astro. You will have absolutely no life at all."

"You seem to be doing okay," I offered.

She smiled. "What about you?"

"Oh, I'm just a freshman. I'm looking for more stuff to do." I tore apart one of the pretzels.

"Well, if you don't have class on Fridays at noon there's always discussions at the Women's Center. I'm on the board there, and I'm the president of the LGBT Alliance, obviously."

I knew what she meant, but I needed to hear her say it. "Why 'obviously'?"

"Because I'm the BDOC," she answered jocularly. "Big Dyke on Campus."

Well. "Yeah, I guess I could see that."

"You should come sometime. The meetings are really fun. I think you'd really like it."

"That's cool. When are they?"

"Tuesdays at 7:00."

I grinned. "I'll be there, then."

"You know, I can't believe I haven't seen you there already," Jo added.

I glanced quizzically at her. "Why?"

"Because you're a lesbian."

I dropped my spoon. How the hell did she know what I had been thinking about the last few days? Had Shawn told her? Wait, I hadn't told Shawn. Of course I hadn't told Shawn; what the hell was I thinking? I hadn't told Megan. I hadn't told anyone. I hadn't really even told myself yet.

I tried to laugh it off, play it casually. "What makes you think that?"

She glared at me incredulously, like I had just asked her why she thought the sky was blue. "I knew it from the second you walked in the door on the first day of class. My gaydar is 100% accurate. I've never been wrong about anyone. Even if they're not out when I meet them, they've always come out eventually."

Well, shit.

section 9

2003-11-09T04:00:31Z

I haven't written since Thursday. I'm a bad girl.

"Where were you?"

"I told you, I had a taping tonight!"

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did! Yesterday! I said I wouldn't be home Wednesday or Thursday. The only day I'd be home was Tuesday. I told you that three times!"

"Okay, I forgot. Sorry. That still doesn't excuse your tone, young lady."

"You do this all the time! You never remember what I say, and then you blame it on me. I'm tired of it. Why should I tell you anything? You know, if I lived at school you wouldn't be able to freak out if I showed up ten minutes late, because you wouldn't ever know where I was or what I was doing."

"I know that, and I'm not nearly as bad as you say I am. I just forgot that you weren't coming home for dinner today. Is that a crime?"

"It is when you do it every two days!"

"I said I was sorry, Patricia; what else do you want?"

"I want you to stop treating me like I'm back in high school! I'm an adult, Mother—an adult who's been in college for two years now. I used to go wherever I wanted whenever I wanted, and it's not fair to ask me to report to you every time I get in the car. If you didn't know what I was doing when I was doing it, you wouldn't be able to worry, now, would you? Maybe I just shouldn't tell you anything, ever!"

"You know, if the worst thing that ever happens to you is that your mother cares about you, I think you're doing pretty damn well."

"Yeah, except that my mother cares so much about me that she doesn't have a life of her own!"

"Excuse me? Who goes out and works so that you have food on the table and a car to drive?"

"Yeah, you work all right. Who can't get a job that will actually pay the bills? Who can't ever stop complaining about how much money we don't have? Who barely even tries to get a decent job so that she can actually see a real doctor instead of 'borrowing' painkillers from her friends? God, I'm sick of being the only mature adult around here!"

I shouldn't have said that.

I really shouldn't have said that.

I've never seen my mother look so furious. She stalked over to me, shoving the wooden spoon in my face. Water and oil dripped onto my shoes.

"You can talk about being an adult when you get up at 5:00 AM to clean an entire house top to bottom, take care of two dogs, pay the electric and water and phone, pay insurance on two cars, weed two gardens, and work thirty hours a week. Until then, I am the adult, and you are the spoiled, lazy, ungrateful child."

"And you wonder why I spend eleven hours a day at school. Why I don't want to come home at night to this."

"Then don't," she shot back. "You're always talking about how much money you have. If you want a room on campus so badly, you pay for it."

"And how am I supposed to do that? With the mutual funds I can't touch, or the CDs and bonds I can't touch? I could sell my car, I guess—that would solve the insurance problem, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, spare me the put-upon martyr act."

"You're the martyr! You're the one who works a dead-end job she hates—and is killing her!—and only pretends to try and find a new one. Every time I try to help you, you tear me a new one. I'm tired of it!"

"You think I can just quit my job because I don't like it?"

"No, I think you should quit your job before you fucking die!" Tears dripped onto my shirt. I brushed them away with the palm of my hand. "I'm in the basement, not another country. Don't you think I can hear you moaning and groaning all the time? Don't you think I notice that you can't even get out of your chair sometimes?" I grabbed a tissue from the box on the counter. "Do you think I'm stupid? You're just like Pop-pop; you're going to work until it kills you because you're too proud to admit you can't do it. And you think I have no common sense? God!"

She wasn't looking at me anymore.

"It's really not as bad as you think."

"Don't lie to me! You told me before." I could barely choke the words out. Usually she would be hugging me by now and telling me that everything would be all right. "You had to borrow Tylenol from me. You told me how many pills you take every day. I said it was ridiculous, but you were all 'that's just how it is'. It's not right, and you can't keep doing it!"

"It'll only be until February. I'll have a new job by then."

"No you won't! How many interviews have you been on so far?"

"I get envelopes almost every day. Something will pan out. It'll just be a few more months. I promise."

"You can't! You can't promise that." I pounded the doorframe. "Nothing's 'panning out', and you don't even care! You have to do something. Look at Aunt Margie; she has four jobs, and you can't even get one? Hell, you could work at Choice-Mart and it would be better than the press. You know that!"

"It's not that easy!"

"But it's not that hard!" God fucking damn it! Just because I'm the kid, apparently I never get to be right.

"You have no idea. No idea at all."

"You know what?" I wiped the remaining tears away. "Neither do you."

interlude 1

2003-11-06T23:41:03Z

"Jordan, I wanted to talk to you."

Jordan nodded, confusion darting across his face. "Is there something wrong? Something I did?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. It's—well, it's kind of about Trish."

Jordan's eyes widened. "You know, I don't think I'm the person you want to talk to…I mean, Trish is one of my best friends, and—"

"Jordan, Jordan, relax. Please." Grant looked down at the floor, then past Jordan at the bookshelves. He looked so nervous that Jordan half expected him to ask for Trish's hand in marriage. "I know she's your friend, that's why I wanted to ask you and not anyone else." He took a deep breath. "What did she say to you about me?"

"Everything said at GLBTA meetings is confidential," Jordan sighed. "It's really not my place to answer that question. If you really want to know that, you'll have to ask her."

"In case you hadn't noticed, Trish Valenti thinks I'm the devil."

"I know, I know. But I don't know details. I'm staying out of this, Grant. I'm not getting in the middle. I can't."

"She thinks I'm a big homophobe. I'm not stupid. I do read her emails. I am paying attention. I know I've pissed off the GLBTA…even though I don't exactly know why. But she doesn't understand. She acts like I'm threatening everyone and everything she cares about, but she's doing a fine job of that on her own. I saw her making out with a guy at the mall this summer. Yeah, it was one of Greg Aycox's friends, and they were all over each other. You can't believe anything she says. This thing between her and me—it's ridiculous. I don't get it. Please, say something to her about it. Alaina talked to her, and she won't leave the show. I don't want it to be like this."

Jordan shook his head frantically. "This is not my place; you should not be talking to me about this. I'm Switzerland. I can't play peacemaker. I can't be your go-between. You have to work this out between yourselves. I am her friend. I can't read her mind; I can't control what she does. I'm just her friend."

"Jordan, please. I want us—you and me—to get along. I want the SAB and GLBTA to get along. I want Trish to stop turning all the gay people on this campus against me!" Grant was pacing the tiny conference room. "I thought I could turn to you for help with that. Alaina tried to tell her the truth, but she wouldn't listen. She'll listen to you."

"I don't think there is any truth in this anymore," Jordan retorted. "I don't know what you did or didn't say. I don't know who Trish did or didn't talk to. All I know is that Trish feels hurt and insulted and offended by you, and you obviously are upset by that. I honestly don't know what to tell you. I don't know what you should do."

Grant's gaze flitted between Jordan and the open door. He took a hesitant step forward. "Jordan, I…" He clenched and unclenched his fists a few times. "I want to spend time with you. I want to get to know you. I want you to get to know me. I don't want this thing hanging over us. If what she says is true, would I be saying this to you? Would I even be in the same room with you? Wouldn't I have beaten the crap out of you by now?"

"Grant…" Jordan had no idea where this was going, and that terrified him. He edged backwards. "You know, it's like…it, uh, almost sounds…like you're hitting on me."

"Would it be…a really bad thing…" He swallowed hard. "…if I am?"

section 8

2003-11-06T03:18:07Z

I'm 25% done with this bitch, yo!

"We're going to the Underground, right?"

I leaned over the edge of my lofted bed. "Yeah, I thought so. I know Cassie and Sara and Ally and Ross wanted to go, so I thought we were all going."

"Joe said something about a party at Delta," said Megan as she disappeared into the closet.

"That's not going to start until, like, eleven," I replied. "The thing at the Underground is at nine. We have plenty of time to do both."

"Yeah, I know that, but I don't know if the guys know that."

I rolled my eyes. "The guys are stupid."

"You just realized that?"

I giggled. "I guess we'd better get used to that if we're living with them all year."

"What were you going to wear?"

"Nothing special, why?" I knew Megan was feeling kind of self-conscious about her loud, colorful wardrobe; she was worried that it would immediately give her away as a "foreigner." I tried to reassure her that Wyoming wasn't a foreign country, and besides, people in college didn't really care about that stuff anyway. I mean, our RA was from India and Sara's roommate was from Turkey, and nobody treated them like they didn't belong.

"I don't know what to wear. I don't know if people are dressing up."

"Then why don't you go ask them?" This was getting annoying. I wanted to go check out the student union, but Megan insisted I stay there until she finished unpacking. At the rate she was going, we wouldn't have to worry about what to wear to the Underground. "You know I never dress up—except for concerts and stuff."

"Why not?"

"Because I'd rather be comfortable."

"You're, like, a tomboy, aren't you?"

I hadn't ever thought about it. To me, tomboys had to letter in three sports and live in their warm-up suits. "Not really. I just don't worry about how I look."

My mother was always telling me that "that sort of attitude will not help you meet boys." What she didn't realize was that she had inadvertently revealed to me exactly how to avoid dating.

"Meg, aren't you done yet? How many clothes did you bring?"

"Well, it's not like I know what the weather's like out here," she grumped. "I had to bring everything."

I rolled my eyes. "Look, you're finished with everything but the closet. Why don't I go over to the CSU and you can meet me over there?" I reached across the bed and picked up the battered Orientation Schedule. "The popcorn thing starts at 4, and it's—" I had to lean over the bed to see my alarm clock. "—3:48."

"I'm almost done, I swear!" She threw her empty suitcase aside and it thumped against the door. "Why are you so compulsive about being on time, anyway?"

"I don't know," I replied honestly. "I just always have been."

"At least you'll always be up on time for class," she said enviously. "I bet I'll miss half of mine."

"I'm sure you won't," I told her, climbing down from the bunk. I grabbed my keychain and ID from the desk. "Are you coming or not?"

She jumped up and tried to push the overstuffed drawer closed, but it wouldn't budge. She sighed and tucked her hair behind one ear. "All right, I'll figure this out later."

"Do you have your keys?" I reminded her. She rolled her eyes and dug them out of a pile of hair ties.

"I am going to get locked out so freaking many times," she complained. She turned and locked the door behind us.

The Cramer Student Union was at the other end of campus. It actually used to be the President's house back in the 17- and 1800s (yes, Madison-Alexander is that old). It was converted into administrative offices at the beginning of the 20th century and was then renovated again three years ago and turned into the student union. It's kind of small, but then again there are only 2300 students at this school anyway. The first floor has a lounge with two public computers and a bunch of outlets and Internet hubs, two pool tables, and a huge TV with both a Playstation and an X-Box hooked to it. The second floor had the snack bar/coffee shop and a gorgeous lounge complete with fireplace. That's where we were going.

The lounge was already packed when we got there. We attempted to squeeze into a booth with a couple of second-floor girls we knew. One of them was a gorgeous South African exchange student named Charlotte who had the coolest accent ever. This was the first time I'd actually seen her without her throng of male admirers.

"Are you guys going to the Underground tonight?" Megan asked her.

"I wanted to," Charlotte's roommate Kelly piped up. "But I think we're going to Delta."

"Everybody's going to Delta!" I groaned. "What's the big deal? It's a frat party. It's not like those don't happen every weekend."

Charlotte grinned. "Not like this."

"Why don't you come with us, then, Kelly?" I suggested. "You can hang out in our room if Charlotte's not back."

Kelly glanced worriedly at Charlotte. "Do you mind?"

"Oh, no, not a bit," Charlotte replied with her musical lilt. "Brent and Jason offered to walk me there, so I believe I'll hold them to that."

"Did you guys read the chapters for tomorrow?" Kelly asked. "I tried, but I just can't ever stay awake reading that book! I know it's probably better than most of the stuff I'll have to read for Bio, but…I don't know, I just don't care about these people."

All the incoming freshmen have to read a book and "discuss" it in "seminars" during orientation so we'll get an "understanding" of how college classes work. Of course, the professor in charge of our floor has just been letting us digress into talking about the frat parties. Somehow, I think we're the ones getting the better understanding of college overall. I had no idea when I came here that there was so much Greek influence on campus, but all I've heard about since the parents left is "Delta" this and "Kappa Rho" that and who threw up on who last night. I'm not a prude or anything, but I just don't like dark, hot, crowded rooms full of grabby drunk guys.

Apparently a big pool game downstairs had just broken up, because a group of guys came barging into the lounge with cue sticks in hand, yelling and laughing and being generally obnoxious. Three of them sat down at a recently vacated table while the fourth, a short redhead, went over to the coffee bar. At first I thought he was looking at Charlotte—hell, all the other guys did—but Megan and Kelly quickly pointed out that he was actually checking me out.

"No way. He's definitely looking at Charlotte."

Megan shook her head violently, her thick blonde hair whipping across my cheek. "No, it's you. It's all you. Oh my God, watch, he's going to trip!"

At that point he had to have realized we were talking about him, because he whipped his head around so fast that he did nearly fall over the trashcan. We all giggled. He was kind of cute, in a dorky skater-punk kind of way.

"Were you going to stick around for the movie, or are you going back to Schellenberger?" asked Kelly.

I glanced over at Megan. "Do you need to finish unpacking?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sick of unpacking. Let's just go watch the movie." We'd all seen Revenge of the Nerds a million times, and it's the biggest college cliché ever, but Megan was right—anything was better than unpacking.

After the movie, we headed back to the dorm to get ready for the dance at the Underground. Megan finally decided, after much agonizing, to wear capris and a low-cut sleeveless blouse. I, of course, was wearing shorts, a tank top, and not a speck of makeup. I knew most of the girls on the floor thought I was some kind of alien life form because I'd only brought two pots of lip gloss and a tube of concealer, but honestly, I've never been good at putting on makeup. My first (and last) few attempts made drag queens seem subtle. Apparently I was born without that particular girl gene.

The Underground was pretty deserted when we got there. A couple of guys from Third East were playing foosball, and the girls from the all-female floor were checking out the karaoke machine, but that was about it. "Well, this is exciting," snarked Cassie.

"Oh, come on, it'll be fun," Megan chirped. "I'm sure the other floors will be here soon. Come on, let's sign up!" The big attraction of the night was the foosball tournament—the prize was $20 worth of free drinks (no, not those kind) at the CSU coffeehouse. We figured we had a pretty good team; our only real competition would be Third West, the other mostly male floor.

"Hey, look, there's also a dance competition," said Ally, picking up a clipboard. "Hey! Look at the prize!" It was a pretty nice portable stereo.

"Oh my God, Mark, you should totally do it!" Cassie exclaimed, grabbing his arm. Mark was a broad-shouldered football tackle who easily topped 6'6". Mark gave her such a dirty look that she slid behind Ross.

"Oh, I'll do it," Ross shrugged, taking the clipboard from Ally. The girls all clapped and cheered, while the guys disappeared into the arcade to prevent any further recruiting.

Second West and Third East were the first two teams to play, so the rest of us went to watch the karaoke girls. Four of them were singing "Genie in a Bottle," and they actually weren't that bad. For a second I wondered if they were already drunk.

Megan and Sara rushed over to the stage and grabbed the songbook. After much deliberation, they decided to sing "I Will Survive" and had us all cracking up with the dramatic gesturing and fake crying. Cassie then declared that she had to perform "It's Raining Men," and we were nearly crying ourselves with laughter. Megan and I were just about to start "Oops, I Did It Again" when the deejay announced that the dance contest was about to begin.

The first person to take the stage was a visibly drunk lacrosse player from Second West. He appeared to be one of those guys who regularly committed DWI—dancing while intoxicated. What he lacked in rhythm he made up in sheer stupidity.

Ross went next, and Third East yelled at us from the foosball table that we were deafening them with the cheering. Ross was actually really good, though! He's one of those guys who are incredibly funny and goofy and charming, but you don't know it because he doesn't really talk that much. Apparently he was hiding more than just his first name from us, because he was unnaturally talented. We screamed loudly enough to drown out the music, but I had to admit that it was partly to piss off Third East.

After Ross was the red-haired guy we'd seen at the CSU. He just got up there and acted like a complete idiot. We ended up laughing at him just because we couldn't figure out what else to do. Cassie leaned over to Ross and whispered, "You know you're going to win. This guy's a jackass." I had to agree.

The deejay stepped up on stage. "Let's give all our contestants a hand," he said, and we all screamed and grabbed onto Ross. He blushed. "Well, it was a tough choice, but the winner is—" We all took a deep breath and prepared to cheer. "Shawn Rosenthal!"

"What? Who's that?" The red-haired guy went up on stage. Cassie rolled her eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. "Oh my God, I can't believe that. You were so much better than that moron, Ross."

"Yeah, totally," Sara and Ally echoed.

Cassie slung her purse over her shoulder. "This sucks. Let's go to Delta." She turned to the foosball table. "Hey Adam! Mark! You want to go to Delta?"

"Sure," they called back. Cassie pulled out her keys and jogged over to them.

When she returned, she tossed her purse to Ally. "I want to go change," she told her. "I'll be right back. Just wait for me, okay? I told the guys to wait." Ally nodded.

I took Megan's arm and pulled her aside. "You know, I don't really want to go. I'll just go back to the room, then."

She looked surprised. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just don't really like frat parties," I answered. "But you go ahead, I don't care."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive! Go have a good time," I insisted. I picked up the karaoke book. "I'll just stay here and hang out for a while."

She nodded. I flipped through the song catalog, trying to find something interesting. I never sing in front of people. I can't--my voice just kind of freezes. But I really wanted to try this. There wasn't a whole lot of stuff I was familiar with—I'm not a big pop fan. Then I turned to the Beatles page. I put the number into the computer and the song began.

Yesterday
All my troubles seemed so far away
Now it looks as though they're here to stay
Oh I believe in yesterday…

He was staring at me again. Oh my God, I think he really is checking me out.

section 7

2003-11-05T02:30:25Z

"Dude, he won't even look at me. Do you see that?"

Jordan rolled his eyes and shook his head. He hadn't said anything, but I could tell he was getting tired of this whole thing. Can I help it if I enjoy pissing people off?

"I love this shirt. I'm going to wear it to every taping." I was wearing a really adorable t-shirt I had bought at the Pride festival this past summer. It featured a picture of Peppermint Patty and Marcie holding hands, and Marcie has a lesbian symbol on her shirt. I tye-dyed it myself, using a green-and-yellow spiral pattern. I was also wearing my rainbow necklace and Birkenstocks, and I should mention that I wear my hair really short and spiked. If anyone had any doubts about my orientation, I think they were erased when I walked in today.

Rob was playing with a Dave Matthews CD and the God mike. "I think I left the flow sheets in the office. Can you go check?"

"Sure." I jumped down the control room stairs and jogged down the hall. Then I heard the words "Madison-Alexander" and froze. I turned to the DCTV monitor, which was playing the 6:00 WWDC In-Depth News over the community bulletin board. "The search for 19-year-old Katie Jamison has been called off. Jamison and a friend were kayaking in southern Vermont when they disappeared."

I spun around. No one else was in the hall. I briefly considered running into the station, but I knew the news didn't have any commercials, so I wouldn't get to talk to Emily for another twenty minutes. I went into the office and picked up the news script that was lying next to the Under Fire flow sheets.

"The search for a missing Madison-Alexander College student has been called off tonight due to lack of evidence. Katie Jamison disappeared two weeks ago while on a weekend kayaking trip in Vermont. Yesterday, rescue workers discovered the body of Jamison's companion, Marissa Tompkins, sixteen miles off the coast of Cape May."

I threw open the door to the studio, still clutching the script. "Did you hear about this? The missing Madison-Alexander student?"

"Yeah, that was on the news today," Breeann replied.

"I knew her. I used to have class with her. I can't believe this."

"Oh, you knew her?" Jordan stepped closer. "Wow…that's so sad, huh?"

"Yeah. She wasn't my best friend or anything, but I liked her. She was really nice. She shouldn't be dead. That's awful."

"Well, I guess they don't know for sure she's dead," Breeann offered.

"They found her friend's body off the coast of New Jersey. They were kayaking in Vermont," I pointed out. "That's not exactly a good sign." Breeann looked away.

Jordan's headset squawked to life. "Trish, Alaina needs you at the Toaster."

I don't even really remember doing the show. I couldn't stop thinking about Katie. God, what an awful way to die, exposed to the elements like that--choking, dehydrating, starving, freezing...

I guess nobody really knew what happened; but, no matter how she died, it had to be excruciatingly painful. What did she think about? Did she ever think she could possibly die that day? Do any of us ever think that on a normal day? Katie was only the second person I knew who had died so young.

I only really knew Katie from the observatory. We used to go there every week for our Life in the Universe class. It wasn't an assignment, really, so the people that went were the ones who were really fascinated by the class. It would be eleven o'clock at night and we would be standing under the open roof trying to figure out how the universe could be infinite yet constantly expanding, and what it could possibly be expanding into if anything outside the universe didn't technically exist. At that point Dr. Brachner used to just shake his head and tell us that there were things the human brain wasn't built to comprehend. We would just stand there craning our necks towards the sky and listening to the others breathe, marveling at the simple fact that we existed. As much as I ended up hating Mad-Al, on nights like that I couldn't imagine being happier. I had to wonder, as I assumed most of the other students did, if somewhere there was a group of beings standing under the stars and asking what the odds were that we existed.

"Trish! Pay attention!"

"Yeah, sorry." I pulled the switcher up and faded the disclaimer in. Say what you will about the Mad-Al fratholes—at least they just come at and throw beer cans at you instead of indulging in all this passive-aggressive religious crap.

I looked at the Fire Away titles: liberal media, Streisand, and icon. Christ on a cracker, where does he come up with this stuff? I half expected the next show's slate to just come out and say "Burn in hell, traitorous infidels! Because of you, the terrorists win!" I really wished Jordan could be in the control room with me, because sometimes I think I'll get an aneurysm from trying to hold all the mockery in. Rob's a good guy, but he's not exactly the brightest bulb in the chandelier.

If it hadn't worked with Katie on a project for Dr. Brachner, I never would have met Sam. And if I'd never met Sam, I would never have been sitting here in a lesbian shirt mentally cussing out Grant Patterson.

section 6

2003-11-04T21:20:30Z

God, it was cold in the computer lab. Air conditioning is one thing, but this place rivals a meat locker most of the time. It's 10:30 at night in the middle of October, and I think it's warmer outside. I just had to finish this email and then I'd be able to head home. Yes, I still live at home. I lived on campus when I went to Mad-Al, but I just haven't gotten it together enough to figure out how to pay for it, and my mom really isn't any help. She keeps saying, "we'll talk about it when I get a new job." She's been saying that since my first week at Dresiden. I'm not exactly holding my breath on that one.

I wanted to make this quick. I opened a new message and started typing.

Are you going to do a segment or show on Marriage Protection Week? If not, I really think you should. It's a topic you surely have strong feelings about, and I think a debate on it would bring the specifics of the issue to a wider audience. At this point I think a lot of people are missing the specific details of the issue because they are focusing too much on their own opinions and feelings.

I'm minoring in English literature. I was sitting in Brit Lit a few weeks ago and suddenly realized that bullshit had become my second language. I don't even have to think about it anymore. It just comes out.

It would be a great show and it would be a shame to lose this opportunity because you, as you previously claimed, are too afraid to broadcast your own feelings. If your beliefs cause you this much fear and embarrassment, perhaps you should ask yourself why you wish to put yourself and your opinions on public display at all. You may also question why you have those beliefs in the first place. If you are unwilling to stand up for what you believe, why believe it at all?

When I left Mad-Al, I sent this viciously nasty email to a couple of people I didn't like. I didn't really think ahead, though—I sent it as a group email, and someone complained to the administration about it. What I actually got in trouble for was airing "confidential" matters to unrelated people. Well…that and threatening them. I really don't think that "you've obviously got a place reserved in the same circle of Hell as the child-molesting priests" or "you are a disgusting, perverted waste of skin that really needs to forfeit his lifetime allotment of oxygen to someone who isn't an embarrassment to masculinity" is actually threatening, but whatever. Since then, I've learned that you can say as much as you want to whomever you want, as long as it isn't obscene, offensive, insulting, or threatening. Just plain disagreeable, however, is perfectly fine. There are times that I love my country.

I do not plan to let this matter rest until I get what I want. The Comm department and the College may be able to force me to listen to you, but they will not force me to remain silent. So we can do this the easy way or the hard way. You can bite the bullet and do a homosexual marriage/homosexual civil rights show now, or you can put up with the once-a-week begging from me. I will not stay silent; you can mark my words on that.

Signed, spell-checked, cc'ed to Jordan, sent. My job here is done.

I hate going home sometimes. It's always the same thing. I mean, I love my dogs—I hated being away from them, and I used to go home every weekend just to see them--but my mom…well, that's a whole other story. Don't get me wrong--I love my mom. I adore my mom. My mom and I are like the Gilmore Girls, only we talk slower. And aren't thin. Or involved with men. But it's been just the two of us since I was nine years old. My mom didn't work until I went to college, and she doesn't even work full time. She's 55 years old and so out of shape that she can barely climb a flight of stairs, but she works in the machine room of a printing press. Did I mention that my mother, like all the adults in our family, is utterly insane when it comes to employment? My aunt works in three dentists' offices and moonlights in the Wal-Mart pharmacy, my grandfather is a 73-year-old roofer who commutes to work on a Harley and used to own a country-western bar, and my cross-stitching, pie-baking, former receptionist mother is a machinist. Whatever this gene is, I hope I didn't get it.

My future job is going to involve sitting in front of a computer for 8 hours a day and having as little interpersonal contact as possible. Ideally, I'd like to be a critic. Something about getting paid to tell people they're wrong really appeals to me. It's definitely one of my talents. When I was younger, I wanted to be a lawyer. Arguing with people for a living also seemed like it would work out pretty well. Then I found out how horrible law school is. I also found out that you either have to work for soulless, unethical corporations or violent criminals. Then I learned that you can't throw things at the opposing counsel if they piss you off. So that was out.

I logged off the computer and headed to my car. Dreisden really is a beautiful campus. It's twice the size of Mad-Al, but Dresiden has nearly 500 fewer students. It's strange. The academic buildings surround the library like the spokes of a wheel, with the dorms on the outer rim. My car was parked at the recital hall. The reflections of the orange vapor lamps left glittery trails on the surface of the lake. Swans and geese honked good-naturedly at one another as they passed. I loved being in college in the fall. It was my first fall semester at Dreisden; I'd transferred here the previous spring after a series of unfortunate events at Mad-Al. It's pretty much the best thing I've ever done. Mad-Al didn't even have a Comm program, and now Comm is basically my entire life. Despite all the bullshit with Grant, I wouldn't leave Dreisden for anything.

section 5

2003-11-04T02:25:24Z

I peered hesitantly into the Comm department office. Dr. Frye's door was open and the light was on; I assumed that meant he was sitting in there. I didn't want to see him, but I knew I had to. Quite honestly, the man freaked me out. He just was so…weird. Some days he would walk around scowling, looking as though he would pounce like a mountain lion on anyone who crossed his path, and other days he would flit around the control room joking and laughing and generally acting like he didn't realize that he was the professor rather than the student. He had cute nicknames for all the board members (he didn't come up with Wookie, though; that was Dr. Sorensgaard) and always talked about how much his wife hated his late nights. You never knew what mood Dr. Frye would be in that day. I hoped it was one of his better ones.

I knocked lightly on the doorframe. "What can I do for you?" he asked genially. I relaxed a tiny bit.

"I need to talk to you about App Comm," I told him, and pushed the door shut behind me. I left it propped just a crack so that the secretary would know that he was still in there.

"Close that any further and this'll turn into a whole different meeting," he said. Okay. I sat down in the chair next to the door. The office wasn't nearly as messy as most. The TV in the corner was tuned to DCTV but muted, while WWDC played on a tinny radio. His attention was focused on the TV, or rather the rap video that was playing. It was part of a College Network package.

"Look at that. What is it about rap songs that require there to be those barely-dressed, trampy women and hundred-thousand dollar sports car with ridiculous hydraulics?"

I turned to face the TV as well. "I…uh, I never really thought about it. I don't really watch music videos very much. And I live off campus, so I've never even seen DCTV. Except when we're taping it, of course." I was rambling and I knew it, but Dr. Frye was seriously starting to scare me.

"Dr. Frye, I need to talk to you about Under Fire."

"Ah, Under Fire. I've heard some dissatisfied rumblings about that program. All hearsay, though, on my end; no one's come forward as of yet, but I've assumed that Rachel and Morgan are handling the situation adequately." Organic chem. Textbooks are easier to read than this guy.

"Well, I know Jordan's upset because Alaina's so incompetent. He was venting about it to Rachel and Morgan when we were at the remote last week, but I don't really know what if anything came of that; it wasn't on the record or anything. As I said, we were just venting our frustrations. But what I want to talk about…I thought it would be better to bring it to you, because I don't know if Rachel and Morgan would have any idea how to handle it—oh, that didn't come out right. It's just something I'm pretty sure they wouldn't have experience with, and I figured they would just end up telling me to come talk to you anyway…did you see the show last week?"

"No, I've seen a frame here or there as I've worked with Alaina in the editing room, but I haven't seen it start to finish, as I assume that's what you're referring to?"

"Yeah…well, the show last week was very—uh, it had a lot of religion in it, and the overall tone was rather offensive to anyone who isn't Christian. I know I was pretty offended by it, and so were a couple of other people I talked to afterwards. I don't consider myself part of any religion and it bothered me, so I'm pretty sure that it would be terribly offensive to people who are Jewish or Muslim or Hindu or anything other than evangelical Christian."

"Yes, I suspected as much when I found out who the host would be," Dr. Frye mused, tenting his fingers in such a way that I couldn't help but imagine Montgomery Burns from The Simpsons sitting across from me. "I'll take a look at the show, and I may need to start exercising a bit more editorial control."

I exhaled loudly, not realizing that I had been holding my breath. "Thanks."

"Was that all?"

"Not really…" This was as good a time as ever, I supposed. "Dr. Frye, I don't know if you remember this, but I was in Erin Larson's video last semester—the one about being gay at Dreisden."

He looked me up and down a few times. "Ah, so that's how I know you. Yes, I remember that now. You were under the cherry trees."

"Uh, yeah, that was me. Needless to say…working with Grant is very uncomfortable for me. His religion isn't exactly too fond of people like me and Jordan."

Dr. Frye nodded slowly. "Well, I think we all know what his problem really is."

I practically fell off my chair. Had it been any other professor, I would have laughed so loud that the radio station mikes would have picked it up. As it was, I just sat there in stunned silence, trying not to let my mouth fall open. I forced out a comeback. "So you're thinking what I'm thinking, then."

"That he's homosexual and doesn't know it? Oh, yes. From the first time I met him, in fact."

I wished I had a tape recorder.

"Well, I've personally know he's said some pretty horrible things about homosexuals. I wanted to leave the show—I tried to, in fact, as soon as I found out I was on it—but Jordan said 'you can't do that to me' and I thought, 'you know what, he's right, I can't do that to him'," I admitted. "I decided to stay on, but it's getting harder and harder."

"Do you want to leave the show?"

"Not really. What I really want is to go on the show and get into a debate about it, but he shot me down. He says he too afraid of the consequences of people knowing his beliefs." I fought the urge to roll my eyes. It was pretty damn hard, too. "The irony is overwhelming."

I caught a hint of a small smile at that. "Indeed."

I grinned. "Oh yes. However…it doesn't change the fact that I feel like I'm basically forced to sit and listen to offensive religious dogma in order to pass this class."

"I'll make you a deal," Dr. Frye offered. "I'll keep a closer eye on what's going out on the air, and you come straight to me if he says or does anything that seems totally out of line. If you feel that you can't work on that show anymore, you won't have to. We'll take care of it immediately."

"Thank you. Thank you so much. It's a deal." I beamed and stood up. I hadn't felt this good about things at school in a long time.

"One more thing…" he called after me, and I leaned into the doorframe. "Don't take no for an answer. That's what separates you."

"From what?"

He never did answer that.

Chapter 4

2003-11-03T20:38:29Z

"Hey, Alaina? Do you know if Grant has the rest of the shows planned yet?"

"No, I don't think so. Why? Did you have an idea?"

I grinned, barely able to keep the anticipation from creeping across my face. "Yes. Yes, I do."

Just then, Grant strode past me into the news office. I quickly followed him. "Grant, I wanted to ask you something."

"Go ahead," he replied, not even looking at me.

"Do you have all your show topics picked yet?"

"No, not yet." He looked up at me, and I realized that this was the first time I had ever talked directly to him. He didn't seem to recognize me at all. Good. "In fact, I really need ideas. Do you have one?"

"I thought maybe you could do a show on gay issues. You know, like homosexual marriage and adoption and that kind of thing." My heart was pounding. I hadn't been in a good confrontation in quite a while. I missed it.

"Uh, I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why not?" Parry…parry…

"Because I don't really want the professors in this department, the people who have the ability to determine whether or not I graduate, to know where I stand on this particular issue." He was avoiding my eyes now.

"Grant, everybody already knows." Thrust.

His head snapped up. "What? What do you mean?"

"I mean, everybody already knows what your views are on this particular issue, Grant."

"How so?" His eyes narrowed. He was not happy. He was most decidedly not happy.

"Because you're not exactly discreet about who you tell them to." Touche!

He threw a desperate glance at the door. Luckily for him, Alaina and Jordan walked in at that moment. He slid out of the room and vanished without another word. I couldn't help smiling. "What's so funny?" asked Jordan.

"Oh, I'll tell you later," I answered, each word laden with tantalizing innuendo. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and walked confidently out of the office.

Jordan followed behind me, jogging to keep up. He jumped in front of me when I reached the door to the radio station. "No, you'll tell me now," he demanded.

I laughed. "All right," I agreed, sitting down at a desk. Rob was there with our friend Emily, and I motioned them over as well.

"I just asked Grant Patterson to do an Under Fire episode on gay rights. Guess how well that went over."

"Oh, no, you didn't!" Jordan exclaimed with his best diva finger-snaps. We all giggled. "No, seriously, what did he say?"

"Oh, he was all like, 'yeah, I'm afraid that the professors will fail me if they find out what I think," so I was like, 'yeah, everybody already knows."

Jordan gasped. "Oh my God, you're joking."

"Dude, you know me better than that. So he goes, 'how do they know?' and I go, 'because you're not exactly discreet about who you tell it to, that's how.'"

At that point, Jordan's jaw was literally hanging open. Rob threw his head back and laughed hysterically, leaning so far backwards that he nearly toppled the whole chair over. Emily just shook her head in disbelief. "I cannot believe you," Jordan muttered, more to himself than me. "I can't believe you actually did that."

"You are so awesome," said Rob. He held out his hand. "High five." He was still laughing. He had obviously encountered Grant before this.

"This is not even close to the end of this, either," I told them. "If I have to sit there and listen to him insult me and everything I believe in, I'm damn well not going to keep quiet about it. I'm going to keep after him until he gives in. Just watch me."

"Right on!" Rob yelled. If I didn't know any better, I would have sworn he was stoned. As it was, I think he was just overcaffeinated.

Jordan, on the other hand, looked like he had swallowed a bowling ball. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"No, but it sure will be fun," I replied, giggling. I'm sorry, but I love screwing with people like this—especially when they deserve it. And Grant most definitely deserved it.

Rob glanced up at the clock. "My shift starts in five minutes. I'll talk to you guys later." He pushed open the soundproofed door to the station control room with a whoosh.

I picked up my bookbag and rose to leave. "Are you going to dinner?"

"I have a meeting at 8:00," answered Jordan. "I'll walk with you, though."

We headed downstairs. For some reason, it surprised me that the sun had gone down. I realized that I had spent the past five hours in Lockhart. God, that's pathetic. I need a life. How do all the other Comm majors have lives? Did they cover that in the Freshman Seminar I missed?

"What's your problem?" I asked Jordan point-blank.

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on, Jordan. You know me better than anyone else on this campus, so don't even try to tell me that what I did back there shocks you."

"Look, I know you always talk about how you told off everybody at Madison-Alexander and the whole Residence Life office hated you and you were such a blunt, outspoken bitch, but to be honest, I didn't really believe you until now." He stopped and faced me. "It doesn't seem right. It's not really you."

"Oh, it's more me than you know."

"That's what you keep saying, but…" he sighed. "I don't like it. I don't think it's right."

"You're just jealous that I actually said it and you didn't," I shot back. Jordan was definitely trying to harsh my buzz, and it was pissing me off.

"Why do you think that? Why do you think that I feel the same way about him that you do?" He was gesturing so wildly that I started to fear for my glasses. "I don't think that Grant Patterson is the root of all evil at Dreisden College, and I really don't know why you do. What did he actually do to you, anyway?"

I took a deep breath. Jordan was winding up to full Drama Princess mode, and this was going to get messy. "He said that homosexuals should be rounded up and burned. He thinks we deserve to be treated the way Hitler treated the Jews."

Jordan froze. "When did he tell you that?"

"Well, he didn't say it to me," I explained. "I heard it from someone who works with him at the mall. I know what you're going to say, but I have no reason to doubt this person. He didn't even know that I was a lesbian when he told me that—he just knew that I was in GLBTA. He also didn't know that I knew Grant. We were all just bitching about our jobs, and it happened to come up. I tried not to believe it at first, but after the whole thing with Zach…you have to admit, it doesn't look good."

Jordan opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He looked upwards. "I really don't think you should judge Grant based on the thing with Zach. You said yourself last year that Zach had problems with perception."

"That's not the point. The point is, we both know how that whole situation started, and that statement certainly explains why it got as ugly as it did."

"But my point is that we don't actually know Grant's side of the story. We don't even know if Grant realized Zach was hitting on him. We don't know for a fact that anything Grant did was motivated by homophobia. Zach's not exactly the most tactful person around, and it's entirely possible that Grant just got fed up with his borderline-stalking and lashed out at him."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, it's possible, but look at the facts. Grant is a fundamentalist Christian. Grant is a hardcore Republican. Both those groups are notoriously anti-homosexuality. It's not like I'm adding two plus two and getting sixteen."

"I just don't think it's that simple," Jordan argued. "But I have to go, so we'll have to talk about this another time."

"Okay, fine." Everybody always does that. If they can't win, they just walk away and try to avoid it. There's no avoiding this topic, though. Grant himself had made sure of that.

amanowrimo @ 2003-11-03T09:29:00

2003-11-03T14:29:47Z

Chapter 3

2003-11-03T01:45:04Z

6119 words! w00t!

Notoriously Bad Ideas (a partial listing):
The Edsel
New Coke
Crystal Pepsi
Scheduling anything against Friends
Hersheyettes
Dumb and Dumberer
Monica Lewinsky
Jerry Falwell vs. the Teletubbies
The Jerry Springer Show
Assigning Jordan and me to work with Grant

Despite my overwhelming resentment at being put in Grant Patterson's charge, I promised Jordan that I would give Under Fire a chance and not assume the worst right off the bat. It wasn't really as hard as I thought. Once I realized that I already knew Alaina from my aerobics class, I felt a lot better about the whole thing. Alaina seemed, if not nice, at least genuinely harmless. She was the producer, director, and technical director, since Grant was considered the "talent" (insert massive eye-roll).

Right off the bat I volunteered to do the graphics. For one thing, it would keep me out of the studio and away from Grant—a definite plus. For another, I figured I wouldn't be required to pay that much attention to the actual show. A name card at the beginning, names for the guests, rolls the credits, pack it up. Not too much to that. Boy, was I wrong about that.

"This is going to be a run-through today; we're not taping an actual show," Alaina explained. "We have a mock script, and Doug can just jump into the guest seat." She nodded to the resident Technology Service staff guy, who was listed as the station's chief engineer. Most people either seemed to ignore him or tiptoe around him, but I liked him. I had talked to him a number of times in the computer lab and found that he played in a local bar band on the weekends. We had bonded over late-Dave-Matthews-bashing and guitar tips, and he had enlisted me to help him reformat the Mac cubes' hard drives. I now held the administrator password to every computer in the lab, even the PCs. I had to promise him to use it for good and not for evil, which wasn't hard--Dr. Sorensgaard had already promised me an "educational" copy of Photoshop.

"Trish and Rob, you guys come with me to the control room." Rob was the audio guy. He was also playing Rocky in our Rocky Horror Picture Show midnight showing. Both of us were doing the same jobs we did on the news, so we didn't really understand what Alaina thought she had to teach us.

"You do graphics for the news, right?" I nodded. "Then this is really simple. I already made up a set of slates. This little Under Fire graphic will be up the whole time. When he does his little rant--we call it Fire Away--you'll listen to the script and put up the words as he says them." She pointed to a slate that had "Fire Away" printed in yellow Comic Sans at the top right. I'm sorry, but it's impossible to look at Comic Sans without thinking of The Sims. I defy you to try and take anything written in Comic Sans seriously. I guarantee that you'll look at it for two seconds and then hear "Dis grole es fraidishay." Try it sometime. The next slate had "Church vs. State" written in white underneath the title, then "Freedom?" and "Moral Decline." If this kept up, I figured I'd need to have my eyes surgically removed from the back of my head after each show. "Then when he says to email him, there's an email title. Then you roll credits and we're done." Thank God. Something told me I would be breaking the land-speed record to get away from Grant after each show.

Alaina handed me two neatly typed sheets of paper. One was the familiar flow sheet, but the other was apparently Teleprompter copy. "I underlined the words that are on the slates, so you can follow along and know exactly when to put them up." She turned then to talk to Rob, and I glanced over the script.

"A group of Texas high school students was prohibited from praying before a championship football game. They were denied their right to express their love and respect for God because it would allegedly violate the Constitutional separation of church and state. Aren't we 'one nation under God'? Since when is the exaltation of God prohibited by the Constitution of a Christian nation? What happened to the First Amendment? What happened to freedom of religion? I'll tell you what happened to it; Clinton happened to it. As soon as we took Christian moral values out of our government, we ended up with an ungrateful, disrespectful, un-Christian nation. This country was founded upon the glory of God and pledged to uphold God's word. Telling teenagers they can't pray to God is not the kind of behavior befitting a nation that owes its very existence to God. I love my country and I am proud to be an American, but it's this kind of news that makes me ashamed of what America has become."

Jesus. H. Christ.

When I realized the irony of what just popped into my head, I nearly laughed out loud. If Grant had heard me say that, he probably would have gone around bragging about how he'd converted me. I could not believe that, in 2003, 20-year-old college kids were actually capable of being that utterly clueless. The boy was a living, breathing parody of the right wing--but he was serious! It blew my mind, it really did. People like Grant are the reason that people like me are expected to sacrifice babies and drink lamb's blood. No matter how many times I try to explain that atheists don't believe in Satan, ergo they obviously don't worship him, it just doesn't seem to get through.

For me, being an atheist is akin to being Italian; I was born that way, and it's been a part of me for as long as I can remember. My parents did just about everything right—they didn't baptize me, but they did enroll me in a Christian nursery school and sent me to Sunday school with the rest of the class every week. However, the last week they forgot to pick me up, so I ended up having to sit through the sermon with the teachers. It wasn't a coincidence that that was my last week on Sunday school. My Jehovah's Witness grandmother and aunt were thrilled, since "that wasn't a real Christian church anyway." They immediately started inundating my parents with kids' Bible interpretations and Watchtower collections. I liked Bible stories, don't get me wrong, but they were just stories, same as the Berenstain Bears or Dr. Seuss. I just never believed that there was this big grandfather-type guy up in the sky that could control the whole world, and I had no clue what all the guys with the long names and the hundreds of wives had to do with it. My parents loved Christmas and Easter, but only for the decorating and cooking and costuming possibilities. I didn't attend a real church service until I was 11, and I've been to three or four Kingdom Hall meetings. Religion wasn't a part of my life, and I felt fine about that. Everyone tried to blame it on my father's death, but that didn't really change my feelings about God at all. I never thought of him before my father got sick, and I never thought of him afterwards. My Catholic grandfather still thinks that I'll come around some day, but everyone else has finally decided that as long as I don't disrespect their beliefs, they'll leave me to mine. That wasn't an idea I expected Grant to share.

Alaina put on her headset. "All right, guys, let's get started. Breeann, ask Grant if he's ready for his intro." She paused. "Okay, Jordan, pretend you're rolling black. Get ready for bars, tone and slate."

I pulled up the production information slate that had to be placed at the beginning of every program. After thirty seconds of black, she called for the bars, tone and slate. Thirty seconds seems like such a short time, but when you're in media--whether you're filming, editing, or performing--each second seems like an entire production in itself.

"I can't find the slate. Where's the slate?" Alaina fumbled with a lever on the board. "Why can't I get the slate? Trish, are you sure you've got it on?"

I checked my monitor. I'd pushed the output button and faded it up, so it should have appeared. "It's on," I told her.

She hit a few more buttons and pushed the lever back and forth a few more times. "It's not here. Why isn't it here? And turn that damn tone off!" She sighed and yanked on an ash-blonde curl. "I thought I had this. Bars, tone, and this should be slate. Why can't I see it?"

Jordan shot me a "can you believe this?" look. I returned a "yeah, what a moron" eye-roll. I just don't understand why technologically incompetent people think they can make it in communications.

"All right, whatever, let's move on." I sighed. Now I had absolutely nothing to do except watch Grant be an asshole. "Taking camera 2, start the prompter, cue Grant's intro."

"Coming up tonight on Under Fire: Is there any church left in state? I'm Grant Patterson, and I'll have the answer for you next."

"Take VCR 1. Two minutes, guys."

I could have been clicking through the slates and following along, but since I'd been doing this all semester on the news—and because I wasn't a complete blithering idiot—I figured I could handle it.

"Take Camera 2. Cue the rant."

It was going to be a long night.

Chapter 2

2003-11-02T23:12:38Z

This was a tough one...the exposition is starting to seem really boring. half_double suggested that I start in the middle of the story, and in a way I am--there are two completely different plots with different timelines, and I'm currently writing the one that chronologically falls second. Feel free to tell me if it's getting bogged down in detail, though.

"No fucking way."

I wanted to punch through the computer screen. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It was absolutely unbelievable. What did they think they were doing? Who the hell could have possibly thought this would be a good idea?

Jordan and I were both assigned to Under Fire.

Jordan and I were working with Grant.

Putting all the gay people on Grant's show. That's a stroke of genius right there. Might as well just rename the show to "Hate Crime Waiting to Happen."

Even though I wanted to pick up the monitor, throw it against the wall and pretend this all never happened, I read the rest of the email.

Aha! Loophole! Under Fire tapings were scheduled for Tuesdays at 7:00. I was scheduled to tutor Dr. Sorensgaard's Intro to Media Production students at 7:00 on Tuesdays. I slammed my hand down on the mouse and hit "reply." In a matter of seconds I had dashed off an email explaining to the producer that I had a tutoring session and wouldn't be able to attend Under Fire tapings.

I jumped up and ran down the hall to the tape library, where I knew Jordan was cueing up the Freshman Lecture Series tape for the newscast. "I'm so getting out of Under Fire."

Jordan looked up, his face caught halfway between aghast and wounded. "What? No! You can't do that to me!"

I bit my lip and turned my gaze to the floor. He was right. What kind of friend would I be if I just ditched him? I really couldn't do that to him. We promised to support each other—that's what GLBTQA is all about. I couldn’t do it. I couldn't abandon him. I'd never been a really good friend to anyone before; now that I had the chance to do the right thing by Jordan, I knew I couldn't live with myself if I just threw him to the wolves.

"You're right, I can't. I emailed the producer—Alaina, right?—and told her I tutored on Tuesday nights, but I'll just tell her to ignore that." I sighed. "You know, you owe me big for this."

He smiled sweetly. "Oh, you love me. Admit it."

"Who wouldn't love you? Oh yeah—Grant."

"Trish…" He glared at me. The last thing I wanted was a full-on drama queen snit fit.

"All right, all right."

"You know, it might not be that bad."

I snorted. "You saw him at the panel last year. Tell me he wasn't the biggest right-wing conservative asshole you've ever seen. Hell, Grant makes Falwell look like Clinton."

Jordan glanced worriedly at the door. "You know, the producers and Rachel will be here any minute. Maybe you should keep it down a little."

"It's really not a big secret how I feel about Grant Patterson. Not at work, and not here."

"At work?"

I rolled my eyes. "I told you, he works security at the mall. How do you think I know him so well? It's not like I'm stalking him or anything."

"No, that's Zach," he retorted.

"Hey, be nice." Jordan's always whining about how he got "caught in the middle" of that whole thing, but he wasn't even an RA when it actually happened. Jordan shoved his way into the middle, and now he's all "pity me, I'm a martyr" about it. It drives me crazy when anyone acts like that, and Jordan's practically made it a profession. It's going to be a long semester.

Luckily, Molly the weathergirl/producer came in then. "Here's my forecast and current conditions," she said sweetly, handing me a large index card. "You can use the newsroom computer to download the weather maps from CNN. The Zip disk should be in there, but if it's not, check the Toaster drive."

For some strange reason, the program that controls the onscreen graphics is called the Video Toaster. Most people just call it "Satan." If you think Windows crashes a lot, it's the Rock of Gibraltar compared to this piece of crap. It's fantastic when it works, though—it looks totally professional on air. No one has ever volunteered to work graphics except me. Comm people tend not to like computers too much, I guess. Which sucks, considering how much time we spend using them for presentations and graphic design and editing. In a lot of ways I like computers better than people. Computers do what you want them to do a lot more consistently than people do, and they're a hell of a lot more timely and sensible about it.

I hesitated to go into the newsroom. I just didn't belong there. Nobody else seemed to have any qualms about it, but they all thought the board girls were really nice. To me they just seemed like all the girls I went to high school with—cliquey and shallow and image-obsessed. Maybe it was just the TV girls, though. From the little I'd seen of the radio directors, they seemed much more laid-back and casual. Something told me that it would be this way for the rest of my life. I thought briefly about becoming a Computer Science major, but that would involve high-level calculus. Ick.

Luckily, nobody was in the newsroom right then. I sat down at a purple iMac and pulled up the two weather maps. The only temperature map we can use is in Celsius—I don't know why they seem to think we're in Canada—so it's always less than 30 in Los Angeles. It looks utterly stupid, but there's nothing we can do. Copyright issues and all that. Whatever.

I went into the control room and sat down at the Toaster. It was freezing in there—gee, what a shock. I pulled a sweatshirt out of my backpack and shoved the Zip disk into the drive. It took me about half an hour to get all the titles and maps ready, so I was always there earlier than everyone else. However, I was also the first to leave at the end of the broadcast, which gave me about 45 minutes to grab dinner before jazz band. It wasn't the ideal situation, but at least it allowed me to go to the GLBTQA meetings.

GLBTQA, if you didn't know, stands for Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, Questioning, and their Allies. It’s the campus gay-straight alliance. Jordan's the vice president and I'm the secretary. The group isn't that visible on campus yet—they're kind of torn between being a support group that hides in a corner or being an advocacy group that makes things better for all the queer students that will come after us. I came from a group that was very activism-oriented and never hesitated to speak out, even though our campus wasn't the most tolerant place. I mean, we had a frat house on the corner that we would have to walk past in order to get to my very butch friend Sam's house, and the guys would throw beer cans at us and call us "fucking dyke bitches." But we never even thought about letting that stop us.

I don't understand why it's so different here. I mean, people here tend to ignore what they don't want to hear, rather than lashing out and trying to silence the opposition. You'd think that would make people less afraid. I guess they're more afraid of what people think than what they do. Personally, I think they're just lazy and chicken-shit, and I've told them that more than once in officers' meetings. Jordan just likes to create drama, and everyone indulges him because it's the only way to get him to shut up. I love the boy to death, don't get me wrong, but drama gets old fast—especially self-created drama that's only tangentially related to reality.

Morgan, Wookie, and Tara came in then. Jordan was trailing behind, flirting with Morgan and pulling his knitting out of his rainbow knapsack. If there's any way he could possibly look gayer, I don't think I want to know what that would be.

Wookie came up behind me and started fiddling with switches. "Hey, can you throw a weather graphic up?" she asked, nodding to Morgan.

I put the forecast map up on the screen and watched as Morgan tried to prevent the weather map from showing through Molly's eyes. "God damn it, why does she have to have green eyes?" She switched on the headset mike pack. "Molly, can't you get color contacts or something?"

Jordan was standing beside me at the VTR machine, punching buttons on a remote and trying to get the DV tape to rewind. He's not a big technology fan. Give him a pair of knitting needles, though, and amazing things happen.

Rachel leaned across Morgan, her low-cut camisole top revealing some pretty decent cleavage. "Here's the PSA tape with the show promos," she told Jordan, handing it to him. "It should be at the beginning, but you'll want to check and make sure." Jordan snatched the tape out of her hand and shoved it into VCR 2. He was starting to get pissy, and I wanted to head it off before he went into full-out bitch mode; otherwise, I'd never hear the end of it at dinner.

"Hon, calm down," I whispered. "It's fine. Everything will work fine. You can do it."

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "I know. I know. I can do it."

I shuddered inwardly when I realized what would happen when Grant Patterson was entered into the equation.

First chapter

2003-11-02T00:08:29Z

Well, one chapter down! In case any of you haven't wandered in from queernano or my flist, this story does feature mature (i.e. homosexual) themes, so you must be at least 18 to ride this ride.

Also, this is going to be a stream-of-consciousness novel, because I've spent the semester so far studying Joyce and Virginia Woolf and that's what's beating up the muses right now. If that's too annoying/pretentious/just plain crappy for you, then this probably isn't the journal for you.

I hate being late.

I don't know why. I've always been one of those people who has to be pathologically early to everything. I heard someone say that in Central Pennsylvania, everybody is always early. He never saw anything like it. People come a half hour early to movies and just sit there. At least in Lancaster County they have an excuse--you never know when you're going to get stuck behind a horse and buggy.

I tried to run up the steps, but gave up after about two. God, I need to start exercising again. Either that or stop carrying everything I own around on my back. I can't wait until I get a room on campus. I'm not looking forward to paying for it, though.

The TV studio was at the end of the hall. I glanced at my watch--4:30 on the nose. I tried to remember what clock I had set it from. It was two minutes faster than the clock in the pool locker room, and about four and a half faster than the one in O'Donnell's room, but it was slower than the clock in the computer lab. I didn't see anyone in the hallway. The station monitor was showing community bulletin board announcements over a soundtrack of acid rock. The studio doors were still open, and I heard Jordan's voice. Big surprise. I'm surprised I didn't hear him from the quad.

Everyone was already there. I knew it. I threw my bookbag at Jordan's feet and dropped to the frigid linoleum. The Lockhart Center was always a refrigerator, especially in the communications department. Heat may rise, but in Lockhart it apparently skips over the second floor and goes straight through the roof.

I tried to see who I knew. I recognized a couple of girls from Comm 120 last semester, and I knew Nathan from jazz band. The guys for the most part were interchangeable athletic-y types that I didn't think I'd seen before. Jordan was yammering on about the theater department, as usual. The boy is my best friend, don't get me wrong, but he bitches more than a cheerleader on the rag. He's got enough drama in his life for two community theaters and a summer-stock company besides. Fortunately, I've learned to tune it out or else I would never get any peace.

A cute brunette in a black business suit handed me a couple of papers. I'm not a big fan of girls who dress for every class as though it were a Barbara Walters interview--or an American Idol audition. I glanced over the sheets. One was a stripped-down syllabus with a schedule and a list of requirements on it. All this for half a freaking credit? This is insane. One newscast and one original program taping a week, plus membership on one of the committees, and two remote broadcasts besides? You're kidding me!

The other sheet had a list of programs on it: Hollywood Happenings, Education Station, You're On!, Sports Review, Video Variety, and Under Fire. We were supposed to list our top choices, apparently. I grabbed a pen from the front pocket of my backpack and scribbled a "6" next to Sports Review. Not that I thought I would get it anyway--there were too many boys in the room. I marked Hollywood Happenings number one, since I tend towards the obsessive when it comes to TV. I was a hardcore Trekkie back in the day. Never been to a convention, though. I always resented that. I tried to see what Jordan had picked, but the black-and-grey scarf he was knitting was in the way.

Business-Suit Girl had climbed up on the platform in front of the news desk and was clamoring for our attention.

"I'm Rachel Brunner, the Production Manager for DCTV. I'm in charge of all the original programming here at the station, and I'm also in charge of the Applied Comm class--that would be you guys. If any of you aren't in Applied Comm--if you're just volunteers--you don't need to be here." She glanced around the room, but nobody moved. "Okay, look at the syllabus I gave you. Everything listed on there must be done in order for you to pass and get credit for this rotation. If you miss something for whatever reason, you have to come to me to get a makeup assignment. If you're a no-show--that is, if you just don't show up for something and don't tell me or Morgan, the station manager--" She gestured to a tall, stringy-haired girl in a blue DCTV polo. "--or your producer, you can't make it up and you won't get any credit for that assignment at all. Two of those and you fail the class. Period. You have to pass all the App Comms to finish the major, and if you fail this, you keep repeating it until you pass. Dr. Frye doesn't fool around. If that means you take this four times, you'll take it four times. We've had people get up to three before." She paused, stepping down off the platform. "I don't like threatening you guys, but it's my job. Don't worry, it's a fun class. Really. It's better than lectures."

Morgan jumped in, grinning. "She's right, we all have a blast on our shows. Once you get the rhythm down, you'll really enjoy it. It stops seeming like work."

"Exactly," Rachel replied. "But enough about that. I'll introduce you to everyone else up here." She gestured half-heartedly at the group of blue-poloed students behind her. "These guys over here are the board members. Why don't you guys stand up and say your name and what you do on the board?"

"I'm Jim Christensen, Director of Remotes. I'm in charge of directing remotes." Annoying kid from the improv group. I had English with him last year. He didn't impress me, and from the whispers and eye-rolling I could see, my classmates seemed to share the sentiment. I heard one of the jocks whisper, "How the hell did he get on the board, anyway?"

"Tamara Norton, News Director. I'm in charge of all the live newscasts and all the news producers report to me." Bitch. She already had that plaster-faced, helmet-haired anchorwoman look. I hoped I'd never have to deal with her.

"Uh, I'm Tom Murphy, the Sports Director...I do the Sports Review and most of the sports remotes." He looked and sounded stoned. Great. Of course, I doubted I'd ever really encounter him, so I didn't really care.

"I'm Lauren Andrews, I'm the Director of Public Relations, which means I'm the head of the Promotions Committee that a lot of you will be assigned to work with. I promote the station and all the programs both here on campus and in the community." Thinks she's Katie Couric. Please get that girl some decaf.

"I'm the Programming Director, and my name's Jen Wokovski, but you'll hear everybody call me Wookie so you can too. I run the Programming Committee, and I've had to fail somebody every semester for three years now, so do us both a favor and do what I tell you to do so I don't have to fail anybody this time." I like Wookie. She and I are Dr. Sorensgaard's assistants, and I sometimes think that the reason he likes me is that I'm exactly like her. It's kind of scary.

"And last but not least is Matt Gordon, the Graphics Director, but he couldn't make it," Rachel informed us. "He basically designs the on-screen and off-screen graphics that we use. He doesn't have a committee or anything, so most of you probably won't see him much unless you do graphics for the news or the other shows." I guess that means I'll see him, since I plan to do graphics on whatever show I get in hopes of taking over his job next year. I wish I would have known that even idiots like Jim could be on the board--I wouldn't have chickened out of applying for the Graphics position last semester.

"That's it for the Board of Directors; the rest of these people are producers of the various programs we do here. They'll each tell you about their show and then you can decide which show you want to work on. That's on that other sheet."

The first girl was practically drowned out by the rattling of cheap Xerox paper. "I'm Tara Sellers, and I produce the Monday and Wednesday news with Rachel." Didn't like her. Couldn't say why.

I started to drift off after that. I doodled on the syllabus, stopping occasionally to mark or scratch out numbers on the program sheet. Video Variety was a music show--that seemed pretty cool. Education Station sounded like fun, but it didn't even have producers at that point, so it seemed unlikely that any of us would get to work on it. Even so, I put it down as number four. Hollywood Happenings was still number one, with Video Variety two. I put You're On! as a tentative three. It was supposed to be a late-night talk show with musical guests and such, but it was just starting this year so no one really knew exactly what it would be like.

Two words jolted me out of my daze: Grant Patterson. My head snapped up, and I looked for the first time at the gawky, angular girl on the platform. I hadn't heard her name.

"Under Fire will be a Crossfire-type show, with Grant debating his guests on current issues in both campus life and the national news. It's not really a political show, it's more a forum for current events. Grant should really be here to explain it, but he had a Student Government meeting."

Well, that was enough. Sports Review actually moved out of last place. I debated putting a negative sign in front of the "6" that I'd hastily scrawled next to Under Fire, but decided against it. I tried to catch Jordan's eye, but he was too absorbed in his knitting. He looked to be paying less attention than I was. I hoped he wouldn't ask me about any of this stuff later.

Grant Patterson. I'd seen him all summer at the mall where we both worked--he as a security guard and I as a counterperson at Edna's Ice Cream and Confections in the food court--and it had taken all my self control not to dump hot fudge all over that inflated head of his as he zoomed by on that pathetic Cushman cart. Grant is basically the only thing I dislike about Dreisden College. Everything else is great. I love it here. Transferring out of Madison-Alexander was the best thing I ever did.

Rachel handed out another sheet. This one gave us our news assignments. I was on the list for Monday. Uh-oh. GLBTQA meetings are Mondays at 4, and as secretary I'm most decidedly expected to be there. I started to raise my hand, but Rachel was already talking. "If you have a problem with sports or whatever, talk to Dr. Frye as soon as possible. He doesn't accept excuses." I sighed.

Papers were rustling again, and I realized that we were handing our program sheets to Rachel. "What was your first choice?" I asked Jordan.

"Video Variety. What was yours?"

"Hollywood Happenings. What was your last choice? Sports Review?"

He laughed. "Gee, how'd you know?"

"Just a wild guess," I replied, rolling my eyes. "Actually, it wasn't mine."

He gasped theatrically. "God, then what was?"

"Under Fire. If I had to be in the same room as Grant Patterson on a regular basis, there would be real fire involved before long."

He rolled his eyes. "You know, I really don't think he's as bad a guy as Zach made him out to be. You know Zach has some...interpretation issues."

"It's not just about Zach. You don't know what I know about Grant Patterson."

"What do you know? You never actually said. I mean, I know you think he's a homophobe, but--"

"No, I know he's a homophobe. A loud and proud one at that. I don't understand how you could have missed that."

"Well, he's never said anything to me." That should have surprised me, but Grant was involved in a messy situation with my friend Zach last semester that went all the way to the Dean of Students. In a perverse way, I'm kind of glad that Zach hit on him--and not just for the humor value. Grant's been a lot less outspoken this year. He just sticks to bashing people's religious beliefs. I wish I was joking. At the War in Iraq panel last year, he basically told everyone who identified as anti-war that they were going to hell, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. He also called us traitors to our country and a disgrace to the name America. You can probably tell by now that Grant is one of those cartoonish religious conservatives that gives the entire Republican party a bad name.

"You can thank Zach for that," I replied. Zach went through hell because of that bastard, and no one even believes that it happened. At first I didn't either, until I found out from a mutual friend just how much of a homophobic asshole Grant really is. I don't doubt that Grant and his friends did everything Zach claimed.

Jordan rolled his eyes, like he always did when the subject of Zach came up. I always wondered how Jordan, who has gone so far beyond drama queen that he can be considered a drama empress, could have such a low tolerance for other people's drama. Zach jokes that he has more issues than The New York Times, but he's a rank amateur compared to Jordan Keener.

Jordan's the BFOC--Big Fag on Campus. He seems to be regarded as the Official Homosexual of Dresiden College, even though there's at least three lesbians who could out-gay him any day of the week. I mean, the boy doesn't even have his ears pierced, whereas Kacey (now spelled Casey) Foster has been mistaken for a boy three times this week alone. I guess it's because Jordan is such a stereotypical Fag--he's a theater major with a high-pitched voice, a tendency to knock coffee cups over with his hand gestures, and a mincing runway-model sashay that Tyra Banks would envy. He knits in class and has scarves for every day of the week. He claims to be bisexual and molests the female bisexuals at GLBTQA every chance he gets, but I (and most of our friends) think he just hasn't realized that he wants to be them, not do them. It's actually the same thing we usually say about Grant. I mean, Grant wears Tina Turner tour t-shirts to class. He can out-gesture Jordan and me (I'm Italian, so if my hands are tied behind my back I can't even put together a full sentence) any day of the week, and he's got a nice little flounce going himself--complete with butt-wiggle and chest-extension. If that boy isn't gay, then George W. Bush isn't President. It's just that obvious.

As Jordan opened the door to the stairwell, I remembered that I needed to talk to Dr. Frye. "Hey, what news day did you get?"

"Wednesday. What about you?"

"I got Monday. I have to go see Frye. It's not like I can just not go to meetings for a semester."

Dr. Frye is kind of a weirdo. I guess every department has one resident kook, but Comm seems to have enough for the whole campus. Most people can only tolerate one or two professors and spend their time figuring out how to avoid the other dozen. Frye is definitely not one of my favorites.

His office door was open. I stepped tentatively in. "Um, Dr. Frye?"

He turned. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah...uh, Rachel said to see you if we had a problem with our news assignment? I'm an officer of a club that meets on Mondays, so I need to be at the meetings, and they run from 4 to 6."

"I just saw someone who needs to switch from Monday to Thursday, so that's fine. Just go talk to Rachel right now," he answered without turning around. I wanted to get out of there, fast.

"Thanks, then." I grabbed Jordan's sleeve and dragged him down the hall.

"Hey, what's up with that?"

"I have to find Rachel." We went into the studio, where Rachel was writing something in the big App Comm binder.

"You need to switch your news day?" she asked as soon as she saw me.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

She didn't answer. "Just don't tell me you need to be on Thursday. I already have two extra people there."

"I just can't be on Monday," I told her, looking down at my program sheet. I hate knowing that I'm annoying people. It wasn't my fault or anything, but I still felt guilty.

"I'll put you on Wednesday then. I just lost someone." She flipped through the book. "Sign this."

I looked over at Jordan. "You're on Wednesday too, right? That's what you said?"

He grinned. "You and me, baby, we're takin' over DCTV."