Wesley's Bizarre Adventure Episode 1: Wesley's Bizarre Adventure

You are Wesley Keki, hot-shit destroyer of anime pussy and five time champion of the Palo Alto Prep E-Sports Team. Your seductive charm is the number-one cause of desperate thirst among otoge bishonen.

As usual, you get dragged from angelic dreams of Sky Freedom doujin yet-to-be by your pig of a mother. She wakes you with a hard rap of her knuckles against your forehead.

"It's almost 8:00," N-Mom says. "You're gonna be late."

You wincingly open your eyes as you rub the fast-bruising spot where she hit you. "This is child abuse," you tell her.

"There's a lot more where that came from, too," she says, "if you don't get your butt up right now."

"I'll call CPS."

"Try it. I'm friends with half the agents there. They'll take my side."

You untangle yourself from your covers and sit up. Your forehead isn't the only spot that aches. All your muscles are sore and soft with exhaustion. As you stretch and yawn, N-Mom decides to rip open your blackout curtains. You hiss, shielding your face in vampiric agony when the sunlight fills your vision. Motes of dust densely fill the beams.

"Air this pigsty out once in a while," N-Mom says. She pulls open the window next, and birdsong filters through. You hate it. "It stinks in here." She grimaces when, stepping back from the window, her foot nudges one of your toys on the floor, and as she looks from it back to you, she adds: "You'll go blind, you know."

"I won't have to look at you, then, huh..."

"Someone around here has to keep you from becoming a delinquent like your sister. God knows Kay can't."

"Amber is not--" you begin, but decide to drop it.

N-Mom tests the toy on the floor with one of her toes, rolling it just a bit against the carpet. "Wash these things when you're done, for godsakes."

"You have to season them. Like a cast-iron skillet."

N-Mom's grimace just deepens. "I'm keeping you on a short leash this year," she tells you. "A very short leash."

"So that's why I feel so smothered."

"You need to get your grades back on track. I'm not footing the bill for summer classes again, or listening to you whine about getting kicked off the video game squad because you couldn't do your homework."

"E-Sports is more than some video game squad," you insist. "Not that you would know anything about that. You were born before Pong came out..." you grope blindly on the floor for something halfway decent to wear. Finding a PAP skirt and top that are somewhat less crumpled than the others on the ground, you slide out of your nightie and begin to get dressed.

"Wesley!" N-Mom clucks. "Aren't you going to get some clothes from your closet?"

You tilt your chin towards your walk-in, as if to tell N-Mom to check for herself. She turns, opens the door, clacks the light on. What she finds is a rack full of empty hangers.

"I stopped washing your clothes with the expectation that you would start doing it yourself," N-Mom says.

"Sometimes you have to lower your expectations." You button your top. N-Mom tsks.

Downstairs, the adventure continues. K-Mom stands at the stove, grilling up something both sweet and savory smelling. You recognize it as chorizo.

She's been making it for breakfast all the time since Grandpa visited last time and browbeat her over abandoning her cultural heritage. It would be a perfectly wholesome image of motherly domesticity, if only she were wearing more than the apron. Tied-off in a bow at the waist, it leaves her entire backside visible. At least she's not chesty enough to have any sideboob...

"She's not washing your clothes either, huh," you say as you pass the kitchen.

K-Mom turns, and plates the chorizo, along with scrambled eggs and toast. You grab the toast, leaving the rest.

"I was doing my morning yoga. It's best in the nude."

"Don't you have any shame?" You demand.

"It's a butt, Wes," K-Mom says. "Everybody's got one. You don't need to lose your mind over it." She runs the emptied skillet under some cold water, talking to you over her shoulder, leaving said butt on gratuitous display.

"It's a pretty good butt, too," N-Mom says, brushing past you, taking a seat at the center island. "There are worse butts you could wake up to."

"Eugh," you groan.

When Guy trots proudly into the kitchen and K-Mom squats to feet him some chorizo from her palm, N-Mom adds: "see? Like that butt."

"Stop it," K-Mom says, scruffing Guy behind the ears.

"Mutt butt."

"Guy is purebred," K-Mom insists. She holds Guy's face between both hands, pinching it, and coos like the proudest dog mom in history: "aren't you, Guy? You yippy little piece of shit. Who's a good girl? You fucking pipsqueak."

You take a nibble of the toast and turn for the front foyer.

"Hey!" K-Mom calls, standing. "I spent way too much time cooking breakfast for you to just leave it sitting on the counter uneaten."

"I lost my appetite. Mom butts do that to me."

"You need to eat," K-Mom says. "You're getting scrawnier by the day."

"I'll eat when I'm dead," you tell her.

"Going all-in on the vampire act?" N-Mom asks between horking forkfuls of sausage. "Allergic to sunlight, eating after death..."

"It's the garlic, right?" K-Mom says. "That's why you won't eat my cooking?"

You leave before your mothers find more ways to mock and humiliate you. "Don't burst into flames!" N-Mom calls after you, and both of them laugh.

Amber meets you just past your house's drive. As you wordlessly pass, still gnawing your toast, she spins a full 180 and trots alongside you down the sidewalk. She holds her bookbag low in front of her, by one of its straps, using both hands. Lugging it like it weighs a metric ton. But you know she keeps hardly anything inside it. She walks with the exaggerated cadence of a young schoolgirl -- her entire upper body tilting forward a bit at the hips, before each subsequent step catches her legs up with the rest of her. She rants and raves about the tyranny of school uniforms, but she secretly digs the schoolgirl aesthetic. You should know.

"It's 8:00," Amber says. "You're gonna be late."

"I could do w--" you begin, but startle when Ophie appears on your other side as if from nothing. Seeing your frightened reaction, she gives you an "mm" -- this one coming in a more reassuring shade than its normal beige.

You give the adrenaline surge a moment to dissipate, and continue on with your sisters.

"What were you saying?" Amber asks.

"That I could do without hearing the whole, 'you're gonna be late' line ever again."

Amber swats you on the back, knocking the wind from you. "You better get used to it. You're gonna hear it about a trillion more times."

---

Sometimes PE is coed at Palo Alto Prep. On days when it rains, for example, the students get corralled in the basketball court and subjected to boys-vs-girls dodgeball. The boys are expected to go easy on the girls, as an unwritten rule, but it always descends into barbarism by the end of things.

Today is a coed dodgeball session. You have no interest in any team sports, or any sports, or any teams, or really any activity of any kind whatsoever. So when the game begins, you purposely pick up a ball and drop it, to eliminate yourself. You proudly take your place of shame by the bleachers to watch the other suckers still playing. Elbows on your knees and chin in your palms, you spectate without paying attention, longing for the cell stowed in your locker. You hate these baggy gym clothes.

PE isn't separated by year. You, a sophomore, share your PE period with juniors Ophie and Amber. You wish your older sisters were less enthusiastic about PE activities, more willing to whittle away the period sitting on the bleachers with you. At least they would be company. But Amber is competitive in this as in all other things, and Ophie follows her lead -- born follower she is -- or at least, tries to. What this really amounts to is Amber carrying Ophie. Figuratively but sometimes also literally depending on the day's activity. For coed dodgeball, Amber is forced to become an Olympic gymnast, not only dodging, catching, and launching balls as needed to keep herself in the game, but also deflecting any balls on an inbound trajectory towards the typically sluggish Ophie. Example: while already palming one red rubber ball, Amber leaps bodily in front of Ophie like an SS agent taking a bullet for the President, to catch a second ball in her free hand. Mission Accomplished, she lands on her feet in a froglike pose and then hops into the air again, to intercept yet another ball, firmly pinning it between her wrists. At last, literally backflipping, she kicks a fourth incoming ball, back across the net and into the uncomprehending face of Ophie's latest attacker. Initiative now belonging squarely to her, Amber unloads the cache of ammunition she's acquired: three balls, one after another, nailing three moving targets -- as she shrieks in orgiastic triumph over her fallen foes. Ophie meanwhile stoops to retrieve a stray ball rolling across the parquet, moving with all the urgency of a cow chewing cud. She uses both hands to lob it over the net. A listless toss, that does not even land in the same zipcode as any of the boys on the other team, but valiant, for her, nonetheless.

Sadly, this attempt of Ophie's to contribute leads only to her downfall. Because she has walked away from Amber's protective shield just at the moment when Amber is most preoccupied with a counteroffensive. Ophie therefore is a soft target. And, seizing on the opportunity, Raisin Brant chucks a ball at her. His precision is deadly. The ball bonks off Ophie's temple, knocking her glasses askew, eliciting a terrified muttered "oof" from the poor girl. There can be no doubt. Ophie's out. Auburn grins evilly, but it may be the last time he ever smiles at all. Even now, Amber is climbing over the net -- climbing over it, despite the fact that she could easily walk under or around it -- climbing over it, with purified murder in her eyes, and a single target in her sights. She chases Auburn around the gym for a solid two minutes and twenty four seconds (you time it) -- "What's the matter? Why are you running? I just want to talk! WHY ARE YOU RUNNING FROM ME?" -- amid the jeering chants of "fight! fight! fight!"

While Amber tries to commit homicide, Ophie takes a seat beside you.

"Why do you guys care so much about this stupid game?" You ask.

"Games are fun. Game playing and competition is etched into human DNA."

"Uh," is all you can muster. You fall silent. A few moments later, you think of a great rejoinder -- "that explains why humans care so much about this stupid game. Why do you?" -- but decide the moment has passed, and keeps the snark to yourself.

"I am... excited," Ophie says. She hugs her knees and smiles in that nearly undetectable way of hers.

"What for?-- oh," You almost forgot. After school is Ophie's first shift as a working stiff. Aunt Whitney made her get a job flipping burgers to teach her the value of a dollar. You pick at some dirt on your sneaker. "Why did Dad and Whitney make you get a job, but Amber doesn't have to?"

"Do you think Amber can be forced into anything," Ophie asks flatly. Amber currently has Auburn pinned to the glossy gym floor, and is testing the hypothesis that a soft rubber ball cannot give someone a concussion. His nose is already bleeding badly. The cartoonish plunking of the rubber against his head redounds off the gym walls. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.

"Fair enough," you admit. Plunk. Plunk.

"It was anyway Mom's idea," Ophie adds. "She insisted upon my finding a job. Papa was apathetic. So too was Mommy. That being the case, they allowed Amber to choose for herself whether she wanted to join me in gainful employment. Amber chose to remain unemployed."

"I could never have a job," you say. The boys' and girls' coaches are trying to pry Amber off of Auburn, to no avail, as Amber gives him a noogie with the dodgeball and shouts obscenities into his eardrum.

"You will need to get a job at some point in your life," Ophie says.

A statement like this would be almost insultingly self-evident, but you have a better plan for your life than being a wagie. "I disagree," you tell her.

"Disagree all you like. It is still true."

"President's gonna give us UBI. He said so on his show. I won't need a job by the time I graduate."

"UBI does not even have enough support to make it out of committee in the House. Do you read the news often? No, clearly you do not. You should not pin your future plans on such an unlikely scenario."

But what does Ophie know? It's not like she knows everything. "When Aunt Cerise is in the Senate, she'll make it happen. She told me."

"She lied."

"No she didn't."

"Yes, she did. She is a politician. Politicians lie to gain support. She lied to you. She gained your support. See?"

"That sounds like circular logic... I think."

"Circular logic is not necessarily fallacious," Ophie says. "Many things function in circular fashion. Positive feedback loops."

"Well even if I never get UBI, I'm sure Dad will pay for me. I still won't need a job."

"Possibly," Ophie says with a nod. "He is notoriously soft on us. And he would hate to see one of his daughters become a homeless bag-lady, or worse."

Amber plops down beside Ophie. She's fuming. "FUCK," she grunts. You startle at the suddenness of it, but Ophie is unperturbed. Auburn is being led from the gym, assisted by both the boys' and girls' PE coaches. Tissues plug his bloody nose, and the girls' coach holds an icepack over his head. The rest of the students mill around whispering and gossiping until an assistant coach whistles them back to regulation play.

"How did you not get sent home over that?" You marvel.

Amber shrugs. The truth is that the faculty here are petrified of taking real disciplinary action against Amber, for reasons you can only suspect, and most likely don't want to know.

"You ok?" Amber asks Ophie.

Ophie straightens her glasses. "I am fine. You did not need to batter Auburn on my behalf."

"Who said I did it for you?"

"Why else..." you mutter.

Up comes jogging Will. He's dripping with sweat and out of breath. He's the boys' team MVP when it comes to coed dodgeball: not afraid to go all-out on the girls, violating the tacitly understood gentleman's rules. But with Amber eliminated, he doesn't see half as much fun in it, and got himself eliminated in short order. "Nice going on Raisin Brant," he tells her.

"Thanks, buddy."

"How did you not get sent home, though?"

"Can nobody just appreciate seeing that fuckface take a beat-down without asking me a ton of questions? Do I need motives or consequences for beating up Raisin Brant?"

"Touchy touchy," Will says. He shakes his head, laughing. Then he glances your way: "Hey. Wanna go to homecoming with me?"

You're slow to react. And when you do react, you don't show much emotion. Not that the question isn't surprising. In fact it's so totally out-of-left-field that you have no way to process it. You roll your eyes ceilngward and stare at the rafters a moment or two. "Aren't you..." you begin, drawling.

"Amn't I what?" Will says.

"...you know..."

"Wes is asking if you're a fag," Amber says.

"Whether," Ophie is quick to correct.

Will goes red. "What? Who told you that?"

"Did anyone need to tell me?" You say.

Amber adopts a faux solicitous tone, turning in place and asking you: "Could it have been one of the last five boys who sucked his dick, maybe? Were they they the ones who spread this salacious, unfounded rumor?"

Will rubs the back of his head, and his voice softens. "Look, that's the thing," he says. "My parents don't know about my situation... I want to keep it that way for now."

"You want a beard," Amber says.

"Naw. I don't look good in a beard," Will says. "It comes in all patchy still. Maybe when I'm older, it'll fill in. But even then I'll probably keep shav--"

"It's fucking weird how you're so weird about your parents finding out you're gay," Amber says. "Have you checked a calendar recently? For fuck's sake, man. It's 20--"

"I'm not gay, you cunt punt. I... it's... I mean..."

"Complicated?" You say.

"Yeah. It's complicated."

"Is bisexuality that complicated?" Ophie asks.

"Why me, though," you ask.

Will shrugs. "You're free, right? No date yet?"

So that's how it is. You feel suddenly deflated. "I see..." you say. Amber chortles.

"I'd ask Amber to go," Will offers as if to smooth it over, pointing at her with his thumb, "but cunt punt here decided she'd rather go with Raisin Br--"

He can't even get it all out before Amber is kicking him in the shins. "How dare you! Fucker!" She wails. They get into a back-and-forth kicking match that neither seems to get the better of. Both end up with dark welts on their legs before the hostilities cease just as abruptly as they began. "We're on the planing committee!" Amber says. "We are obligated to be there as StuCo representatives! It's not a fucking date. It's one of the solemn duties I have now as your President. You don't like it? You shouldn't have fucking campaigned for me."

"You told me you'd abolish homecoming!" Will says.

"I lied! It got me your support, didn't it?"

Ophie gives you a meaningful look. No sir, you don't like it.

"I... have a lot of anime to watch," you try. "Like a lot a lot. I basically procrastinated all of the summer season, and now the fall season is already airing--"

"No, it's fine," Will says, holding up a palm. "You don't have to make up excuses."

"It's not an excuse..." (It really isn't.)

"Either way. I get you. If you don't wanna go, I'll find someone else." He glances at Ophie.

"I am doing the light show," Ophie says. "I will be above the dance floor all night, manning the controls. My apologies."

"Wes'll go with you," Amber says. When you make a displeased face, Amber growls: "do a favor for your friends just once in your life, you fucking degenerate psychopath. Anime can wait."

"You okay with that?" Will asks.

>[x] I'll go with you.

[ ] Sorry. Anime can't wait.

You shrug your consent.

"Eeeheheh," Will laughs. "Awesome. And uh. Don't worry about wearing anything fancy for me."

"Thanks..." you mutter, but he's already jogging off. You shake your head and sigh. "You never told me you were going to homecoming with Auburn."

"I'm NOT! It's a StuCo function! And -- as if I didn't have enough shit to deal with already, his fucking parents are gonna be there too, as chaperones. I have to deal with Raisin Mommy."

"Any further updates on the seance front?" Ophie asks.

"No," Amber says, looping her arms under her knees. "His mom is still dead-set certain that I'm her kid from a past life. Crazy bitch. Could you fucking imagine? Me and Raisin Brant, siblings?"

"Nope," you say.

"Agreed," Ophie says.

A depressed lull settles over the conversation. After about a minute, Ophie adds: "Cousins maybe."

"Don't you put that fucking evil on me," Amber says. "You think I won't beat your ass, Ophie? I will beat your ass every day from now until the end of time." For a few seconds, like a tapdancer, Amber rapidly stomps the parquet flooring of the basketball court using both feet. Settling down with some deep breaths, she says, "Mommy and Daddy are once removed, anyway. So your joke doesn't even work."

"Mm."

"Don't you mm me. Bitch."

"Mm."

Ophie's eyes begin to drift around the gym, but soon they settle on him: Noah. Fucking supergenius. He's just a high school student, but he already has several published mathematical papers in several notable journals, and he's had his acceptance letter to Oxford in hand for over a year. He might be the only person on campus with glasses dorkier than Ophie's and hair messier than yours. He's leaning against the bleacher seats with both elbows, his legs crossed at the ankles, staring up at nothing. A real contemplative kid, Noah.

Amber nudges Ophie in the ribs. "How cute is your boyfriend today? 1-10 it for me."

Ophie goes red. "Our relationship is platonic. How many times must I clarify."

"Go say hi."

Ophie wrings her hands in her lap. "I don't know."

Amber won't take that for an answer. "Hey Noah!" She hoots between cupped palms. "Ophie wants to tell ya something!"

Ophie takes a shuddering series of shallow breaths and clasps her knees, bowing her head low to avert her gaze, as Noah gathers himself to his feet and approaches unhurriedly. "What is it?" He asks as he saunters up.

"..."

Amber nudges her.

"My sister is being..." Ophie begins.

Noah stares at her blankly.

Amber pushes into Ophie's bubble, rubbing shoulders with her, so that Noah can see her wolfish grin. "Ophie wants to know what you're doing for hom--"

Ophie, throwing her head up, header Amber's question off: "I saw your article--!"

"Oh," Noah says. "What did you think?"

"Your concept of using orthonormal Hilbert spaces to model conformal boundary conditions was..." she swallows hard. A palpable moment passes. "It was good!"

Noah considers this for much longer than it should take, then finally nods and says: "I see." After another palpable moment, he adds: "I could not have done it without your insights. I hope you don't mind that I gave you an acknowledgement in the paper."

Ophie mutely shakes her head with such force you think it'll come off. And with that, Noah walks away.

Ophie crumples. She puts her head between her knees and rubs her crown like she's giving herself a noogie. "Good..." she mumbles. "He worked on that paper for a year and a half, and all that I could think to tell him was... good..."

Amber cackles.

---

In your US Government class, you take your usual just in front of Summer, but Summer isn't her usual self today. She goes a bit stiff-spined as you take your seat, seems as if she's about to say something, decides against it, and turns her head away. She's been standoffish and reserved like this for the past few days. You're not sure what's up with her. Not that you're complaining. Summer's usual bubbly bimboness has a tendency to get on your nerves within about 4 picoseconds of dealing with it, so you let her peer pensively out the window the entire time. She doesn't say a word to you. The quiet is nice.

You wish you could say your teacher is equally reserved today. But nope. He's his same old squirrely self -- and after class, he's right back at it again, exhorting you to join an extracurricular you've no intention of joining. As the students file out of the class, he leans his tailbone against your desk and, folding his arms, he asks: "so -- did you reconsider?"

"Consider what?" You ask, stalling for time before you inevitably have to tell him no.

"You know."

You shrug.

He takes his glasses off and wipes them with a lintless cloth. "You would be such a welcome addition to the team. You're a gifted girl. Your other teachers don't recognize it enough. But I see such intelligence in you, Wesley. You've got that same spark that made your father gr--"

"Ugh," you groan. "Sorry, but I'm not here to follow in my dad's quiz bowl footsteps, Mr. Langley..."

The thing you hate about Mr. Langley is how insistent he is that you're a "smart" and "gifted" student. If he's that blind, you don't know why Dad dragged him out of the public school system to teach at his daughters' private academy.

"Your sister could use the company," Mr. Langley says. "She could use a teammate of her own caliber, too. With the both of you, we would make nationals for certain--"

"Nationals, nationals..." you mutter. "You're just trying to butter me up."

"I haven't had a team get to the national championship since your father's senior year. People are saying I've lost the spark."

"What people? Who talks about this?"

"Quiz bowl people. People in the academic quiz circuit."

"Oh, well, you don't want to disappoint those people..."

"Exactly! I'd so love to prove them wrong. Now, if we make it to the national championship with your sister on the team, well, great. But folks will think that it's only because I brought along another member of the Soliloquy dynasty..."

"I hate to break it to you, but I'm part of that dynasty, too..."

Mr. Langley motions, a little wildly, with his arms. "Well, yes, technically, all right. But your surname is Keki, so... you know -- by appearances..."

"That's all it is, huh? Just want a ringer on your team..."

"But you're stupendous at trivia, too!" He says. "Just as good as your sister."

"No. No I'm not."

"Who was the 18th President?"

"Ulysses S. Grant. Just because I know--"

"What did the S stand for?"

"Simpson. Look, just because you can ask me--"

"What was his birth name?"

"Hiram Ulysses Grant. He changed it because he didn't like having the initials HUG." Mr. Langley grins at you. You throw your hands up. "Just because you ask me stuff that everyone on the planet knows, doesn't prove anything!"

"Not everyone knows that. Not hardly."

"I'm not joining the f-- I'm not joining the quiz team," you say.

Amber and Ophie interrupt this little argument before Mr. Langley can put on his puppy dog act. You stay seated at your desk as Mr. Langley goes to the head of the room and, from the drawer of his teacher's desk, produces some trifolded papers.

Ophie, in a highly unusual show of excitement, hurries and grasps for the papers. Mr. Langley steps back, holding them out of her inconsiderable reach. "Now don't get too greedy. I had to pull some strings to get these results back from the SAT board early for you girls, so you owe me some thanks."

"Thanks, teach," Amber says, not just a bit sarcastically.

"Thank you," Ophie says, tone betraying her impatience.

He hands them their results. They open them. For the first time in history, Ophie is faster than Amber in doing something. But as they stand there reading to themselves, Amber is the first to verbally report out: "1480. Damn. So close."

"Close?" Mr. Langley says.

But Amber declines to answer. She glances Ophie's way, nudges her. Ophie is turned to stone. Only when Amber prompts, "Uh... Ophie?" does she speak:

"1590," Ophie says.

"An excellent score!" Mr. Langley says, sitting down, folding his hands on the desktop. "I'm so proud of you."

"I missed a question."

"A nearly perfect score," he cuts in. It's clear that he's trying to divert her focus.

"What question did I miss."

"They -- don't give a breakdown of that. Just your scores."

"I see. What question did I miss though."

Her brain is breaking apart at the seams, and she isn't comprehending what her poor teacher is trying to tell her. "Ophie... 1590 puts you in the 99.999 percentile. Focus on that--"

"What question though. What question did I miss."

You rise to action. Together, you and Amber grab her under her arms, and haul her backwards. But with unbelievable strength, Ophie lurches forward, bears down, and marches back towards Mr. Langley's desk while toting you both behind her like a rickshaw. "Was it a bubbling issue. Was that it. Did I bubble in one of the circles too lightly, or leave it only partially filled."

"Ophie... I don't know," Mr. Langley pleads.

"But you score the tests."

"I didn't score yours. Even if I did, I wouldn't know it was yours. The scoring process is anonymized -- please understand--"

"Who scored my test. Do you know. What is their home address."

You and Amber adopt a different tack, then: you both get on one side of Ophie and jointly push her towards the door like rolling a boulder. Ophie budges, but does not break her steely glare at Mr. Langley until you have her all the way out in the hallway. You can hear Mr. Langley's sigh of relief when you do.

"I will find out the source of this discrepancy," Ophie promises to no one in particular.

"You do that," you tell her.

"In the meantime," Amber says, "we gotta get you work-ready." She leads her down the hall by the hand, and calls back at you: "See you at the diner, Wes!"

You sigh.

When you come home, K-mom is cross-legged on the living room couch, typing on her laptop. N-mom is on a tall ladder, trying to place a potted fern on an alcove in the ceiling. The ladder is just barely not tall enough for her, and N-mom teeters, trying to extend her reach a little bit farther than is strictly safe. You pause to gawk, open-mouthed but passive, holding your bookbag over one shoulder. The way her butt sways to and fro is weirdly hypnotic... not in a sexy way, of course... just attention-grabbing.

"How was -- school --" N-mom asks haltingly, trying not to lose her precarious balance.

"Fine," you say. You glance at K-mom. "Aren't you gonna help her?"

"Help her how?" K-mom replies, not tearing her eyes off her screen. "Anyway, her life insurance policy pays $10 million. Either this ends with a cool new plant up there by the ceiling, or we get rich. Win-win."

"Love you too, Kaytricia," N-mom snips. K-mom puckers her lips and makes a "muwah" sound in response.

As N-mom just barely get the edge of the fern's planter across the edge of the alcove and nudges it the rest of the way across, she asks down at you: "Anything interesting happen today at school?"

"No... uh, someone asked me to homecoming..."

N-mom almost falls backwards off the ladder. She windmills her arms before she catches herself again, grabbing hold of the ladder's sides. At the same instant, K-mom tosses her laptop away, letting it clatter across the living room's tiled floor, and bounds underneath -- bracing the ladder from below, to hold it firm, and standing at the ready to catch N-mom should she fall. When the danger has passed and the two have gotten their panic under control, N-Mom says: "That's... great. That's great, Wes! Congratulations!"

You shrug. You let your bag down off your shoulder and slouch towards your bedroom, dragging it behind you. But K-Mom calls out: "Hey. Does this... date of yours... have a name?"

You stop at the mouth of the hallway, turn towards your loving mothers. "Will."

K-mom frowns. "Will?"

"That's Amber's friend, isn't it?" N-mom asks, much perkier than her wife. "The soccer player?"

"Yeah."

N-mom grins down at K-mom and rubs her thumb in circles against her index and middle finger.

"One date doesn't mean anything," K-mom says testily, stepping away from the ladder, collecting her laptop, and sitting down again on the sofa. "You cracked my fucking screen, too..." she mutters.

"I cracked it?" Still atop the ladder, N-mom peers over her shoulder at her wife. "And, oh, I guess it's not like you asked her that question because you were ready to collect on me if she said something else, huh?"

"It's not over yet. That's all I'm saying."

"Am I missing something..." you grumble.

"Don't worry about it," N-mom insists.

"We think it's great that you're putting yourself out there," K-mom says. "You're a real catch."

"Just don't do anything too crazy, okay?" N-mom says.

You shrug and go to your room. You have no earthly interest in deciphering your mothers' latest bicker-fest. There's always another one on the horizon, anyway. Behind you, you can hear them still bitching at each other in hushed tones.

You change out of your school uniform, tossing it on top of the pile of dirty laundry littering the floor already. You find a rumpled sweater and jeans that are halfway clean enough to wear out, and leave again. On the way back out, you see N-Mom and K-Mom on the couch, and they're *still* arguing -- but they quit just as you come into view.

"Heading out again?" K-mom says.

"Yeah."

"Seeing that boy you like?" N-mom prods.

"...huh? Oh. No. I don't really like Will... not like that, anyway. He just wants me to go to homecoming with him so his parents don't think he's gay..."

Somehow, this seems to make N-mom upset and K-mom very happy. As you shut the front door behind you, their arguing seems much more animated.

---

You drag your feet - literally - on the way into Shake 'Em Up. Amber stops just past the chiming door, turns on you, and asks: "What's your problem?"

"I already told you I didn't want to be here..." you complain.

"And miss your own sister's first day of work. You're unbelievable, Wes. Piece of fucking shit."

You make a noise from the back of your throat that sounds sort of like a whispered "ugh." Amber doesn't press you any further. She just shepherds you into one of the booths, and sits beside you, locking you in. Wonderful.

The decor at Shake 'Em Up has a 1950s kitsch aesthetic, with checkerboard tiling on the floors, newspaper clippings and records on the walls, red vinyl seating with sleek black-and-white trim, half a Cadillac sticking out of the diner counter -- among other gaudy accessories scattered around. Shake 'Em Up is a national chain these days, but started as a blase Baskin Robins knockoff before aunt Whitney got her mitts on it. Her decorative flair is quaint beyond quaint nowadays but lends the place a charm all its own. It helped the company become a second-tier fast food joint competing against such noted notables as Dairy Queen.

Not your style. You slump forward in your seat. You lay your folded arms on the formica tabletop, and your head on your folded arms. You make another disgruntled "ugh" sound.

"I seriously cannot believe that you don't want to see Ophie start her first job," Amber says. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"It's not about Ophie..." you say, rolling your head -- rubbing first one cheek and then the other against your forearms. You enjoy the pressure of it. "I just don't want to deal with Summer. She works here too."

"Huh?" Amber says. "What's wrong with Summer? Did she bully you or something?"

"Ever since I tutored her in math--"

"Oh shit. You mean she bullied you into tutoring her! So THAT'S why--"

"--No. Stop. It's just that she keeps texting me for advice... it's getting annoying..."

Amber laughs. "Oh my god. Advice in math? Have you been doing her homework for her? Are you -- are you simping for Summer, Wes?"

"Advice in boys."

Amber gives you a dumbfounded look. "...You."

"Uh huh."

"Advice in boys."

"Yes."

"She wants advice in boys, from you."

"Yeah."

"Wesley Lynn Keki. Advice in boys. From you. Advice. In boys."

"It's--"

"Bullshit. Fuck you."

You take out your phone. "It's true. Look." You pull up your texts from Summer, and tip the screen towards Amber.

Amber, seeing what's on screen, grows wild-eyed, and snatches the phone away. "What the fuck? Summer sent you nudes?"

"...I guess."

"You guess!" Amber shouts. She can't believe it, but the evidence is right there on the screen: a lewd selfie from PAP's very own Summer Denali, a bronze-skinned, bleached-blonde member of both the cheerleading and softball teams. A total bimbo. She's an E or F cup, at least, and her index finger held up in front of her gaudy bedroom's mirror just barely conceals her nipples -- as well as, through a trick of forced perspective in the mirror's reflection, her pussy. That solitary finger, with its flamingo pink fingernail, is the only thing preserving her dignity as she stands there perky and grinning, her taut belly and her toned tan thighs and 99% of her massive tits on display.

Having seen the evidence with her own two eyes, Amber scrolls through the rest of the nudes Summer sent you, her face getting angrier and angrier as she does.

"What a fucking slut," Amber snarls, clutching the phone almost tight enough to snap it in two.

"Can I have my phone back?"

"No!" Amber shouts, pulling it toward herself like the last piece of bread in Leningrad. "Why the fuck is Summer sending you nudes?"

You shrug. "She wanted someone to tell her if they were cute."

"What?"

"She said if the photos were cute, she'd send them to some people she's into... she wanted my opinion..." You shuffle your feet a little. "I don't know why she thinks I'm the expert all of a sudden... but... so."

"Summer Denali wants to FUCK you, Wes," Amber says, loud enough for the whole diner to hear.

"No she doesn't--"

"YES, she DOES. She wants to FUCK. She's HORNY. For YOU." Neighboring conversations are halting amid clattering dishware. Fellow patrons are staring. You're mortified.

Amber composes herself and asks, using her most sweetest and nicest inside voice: "what did you text her back?"

You stare at her.

"Well?" Amber demands. The sweetness and niceness are draining from her voice by the femtosecond.

"You have my phone..."

Amber pulls the screen just barely away from her chest, and pushes her chin into her neck. It's the pose of a wild west gambler at a saloon suspiciously checking a poker hand so that the other outlaws at the table can't peek. She reads the texts aloud: "So? Opinions? /--/ I think it's cute. /--/ You think or you know? And I don't just want to be cute, Wes! I want to be hot! /--/ Anyone you're into would think it's hot. /--/ Do YOU think it's hot? Winky emoji."

Amber stops for a moment, then adds: "Message seen at 8:17 PM Tuesday... you didn't respond."

You shrug. "I answered her main question--" you begin, but then recoil, grunting, as Amber smacks you upside the head. The sound of it bounces off the walls. There's a long, motionless pause, with you still cringing and holding your hands in front of you in a defensive posture, Amber scowling and looming beside you on the bench with a hand still raised to strike. When you think it's safe to do so, you begin again to speak. Amber cuts you off by hitting you repeatedly, a barrage of rapid-fire slaps to her head, shoulders, and torso.

"YOU FUCKING IDIOT!" Amber yells. "RETARD! MORON! SHE'S LITERALLY THROWING THE PUSSY AT YOU, WES! SHE'S SERVING IT TO YOU ON A SILVER PLATTER! GOD! YOU FUCKING MAKE ME SO MAD!"

"Ow -- stop -- oof -- owww..."

Amelia, taking the order of a customer at a nearby table, stops what she's doing and approaches the scene of the ongoing assault. She pointedly clears her throat, interrupting Amber's blows. She points at a sign hanging overhead: NO ASSAULTING PEOPLE AT THIS RESTAURANT. VIOLATORS WILL BE ASKED TO LEAVE.

Every sign exists for a reason. Amber is the reason for this one.

She flips Amelia off. "Violators can suck my asshole," she says.

"You're the violator here," Amelia says. "I didn't realize you were so flexible."

"Go to hell."

"If she gives you any more trouble," Amelia tells you, folding her arms, "let me know. I can deal with her."

"The fuck are you gonna do?" Amber says. "Be lonely at me?"

Amber talks big, but the hard stare Amelia shoots her always shuts her up. Few other people can strike fear into Amber's heart, and none so easily. Only when Amelia returns to the customer she was seeing does Amber find her courage to speak again: "We gotta keep an eye on her now that Ophie works here. Any woman who stays unmarried by 30 is either crippled, crazy, a terrorist, or a pedo. Or all of the above. Add to that the fact that the most stable job she ever held before being a manager here was being an *assistant* manager at a *grocery store*? Major red flags. Major, major red flags..."

"She's fine," you insist.

"You can't see how she's grooming you. But I can. Woman caught a whiff of your unwashed teen pussy and now she white knights the fuck out of you every chance she gets. It's weird, okay, Wes? It's weird."

"What are you ta-- ow--"

Amber slaps you upside the head. "Shut the fuck up. Look."

Your eyes follow Amber's pointing finger. Behind the counter, from the kitchen, emerges Ophie. She's wearing the diner's standard uniform, a white-and-red checkered skirt with matching blouse, all frumpy and overlarge. Shiny black platform shoes, an apron over the skirt. She looks overheated and uncomfortable. Amelia, much more at home in the outfit, and much more buxom too, sashays up to her. The older woman whispers something in Ophie's ear, and gestures at the table where you and Amber sit. Ophie says nothing, but nods in understanding.

"Cool. Looks like we're customers number 1 and 2," Amber says.

Ophie, a bundle of live wires buzzing with mousy nervousness, draws near. She has a pen and a flipped-open yellow notepad in hand ready to go, but she stays mute. You're too used to the normal routine of ordering at a restaurant to speak before the waitress asks for your order. And Amber isn't going to let Ophie off the hook so easily. So the three of you wait around in awkward silence. When Amber does make a move, it's only to drum on the tabletop and whistle, as if Ophie isn't even there.

This continues for half a minute, and feels like half a decade. Even you've got a limit to the awkwardness you can tolerate before you take action. "I guess we'll ha--" you begin, then let out an 'oof' and stop talking when Amber stomps your foot under the table.

Another, longer silence settles now, punctuated once again only by Amber drumming the table and whistling. She examines the salt shaker and straightens out the porcelain dish where the sugar packets are kept. She sings to herself: "Czolgosz, working man, born in the middle of Mich-i-gan..." she lilts, to herself, as she swivels her head this way and that, casting her eyes all around the diner, checking out each and every detail except for Ophie, who stands there wilting more and more.

Summer swoops in to save the day. She's just getting on shift herself, judging by how she's still hurriedly tying her apron off behind her back. She smells of grass and sun underneath a thin coating of perfume. Up close you can almost feel the heat radiating from her skin.

"You're an asshole, Amber," is the first thing she says.

"Huh?" Amber says. "Oh. Hey, Summer. Back from another photoshoot?"

Summer's head bobs a little, and she blinks a few times, confused. Then she narrows her eyes and glares at you. You squeak, and can't bring yourself to meet her gaze. But Summer drops it there. "Are you gonna let Ophelia take your order or what?"

"My--? Ohhh," Amber says, and literally smacks her own forehead with the heel of her palm. "She's here to take our order! That's why she was standing there. She should have said something."

"Is bullying your sisters the only way you can get off or something?" Summer says.

"I dunno. Is getting left on read the only way you can get off? For someone's sake, I hope it is."

"Bitch!" Summer snarls, stomping.

Amber scratches her ear.

"Ophelia honey," Summer says, turning in place, running a hand down Ophie's forearm, "When you wait on a table, you have to introduce yourself first. Tell them your name, say that you'll be their server today -- ask if they need a little more time with the menu or if you can get them anything right away. You've been to a restaurant before, right?" (With Ophie, it's more than rhetorical -- Summer is actually uncertain).

"Mm."

"Do you know the shorthand for taking down orders?"

"Amelia showed me."

Summer nods, and presses further. "Did you take notes?"

Ophie taps on her temple with her pen.

"...Right," Summer says. "Well, give it a try."

"Greetings. Welcome to Shake Them Up. I am Ophelia, and I am your designated server this evening. If you would like to place an order now, please do so. If you need three to five additional minutes to browse our menu selections, please indicate as such, and I will return within that timeframe."

You and Amber stare at her, dumbfounded.

"Please make a choice between the options I have presented. I am obligated to remain here until you do."

Summer clears her throat. "Would you like some water or something else to drink to start you off?"

"Pepsi," Amber says.

"Does Coke suffice?" Ophie asks.

"No. Pepsi is better. Why don't you run across the street and buy me one from the Circle K."

"I cannot--"

"I'm asking you as a sister. I hate Coke. Can't drink the stuff. Death squads, you know -- nasty shit. You hate to even think about it. But I can't help myself when I have one."

"We'll get you some water," Summer growls. "Wes?"

"Mello Yello," You say.

"I bet Wes would rather have some water," Amber says. "Can you strain it through your panties first, though, Summer?" Summer pulls a disgusted face. "Oh be a doll," Amber says, "it would make Wes's whole day. Year!"

"...Two waters," Ophie murmurs.

"Vanilla malt," Amber adds. "Chocolate syrup, cherry syrup, cherries, walnuts, sprinkles, marshmallow fluff, whipped cream, banana -- ooh! bubblegum flavor syrup too, and extra malt, and pop rocks with the sprinkles, and strawberry. And two straws. We're sharing it. And go heavy on the cherry, okay, the actual cherries, not the syrup, light on the syrup. Oh, and peanuts -- peanuts and walnuts -- you like walnuts, right, Wes? What am I thinking -- you hate walnuts. No walnuts. Only peanuts. And some cinnamon. Peanuts, no walnuts, cinnamon. Are you getting all this, Ophie? You're not writing our order down. I don't want you to mess up your first order."

"I have it."

"Good. That's great. Hop to it."

Ophie turns for the kitchen, scrawling on her notepad.

"You're a cunt," Summer says.

"It's better for Ophie to have her trial by fire with people who care about her and won't actually get mad at her. Rather than some hoity toity stuck-up fuck from around the valley who thinks he's better than her and who'll actually get mad at her if she makes a mistake. I'm training her. Unlike you schmucks. And she's doing good."

"Doing well," Summer says.

"Spare me the grammar lesson, little miss C average."

"Are you upset about something?" Summer asks. "You seem upset."

"Why would I be?" Amber says. "Love is in the air! Blossoming like lilies!"

"Amber..." you say.

"All your favorite girls get your nudes, huh?" Amber barks. "And now my own sister over here is showing them all off to me, just begging me to know how she can get into your pants. When she's too STUPID to see the fact that she already got inside them! It's a beautiful thing to see. Even my uggo little sister can get some action from the town bicycle." Amber wipes a trickling tear away from her cheek with the pad of her thumb. "I'm fine! I'm not upset at all!"

Summer huffs. "You need a therapist." She looks accusingly your way. "And YOU need to learn something about privacy. I sent you those pictures because I wanted opinions, not because I'm.... interested... in you. Trying to get into my pants? Pathetic... as if. Eugh. Fucking gross. You make me puke. Both of you do. Creeps."

By the time Summer leaves, you feel like you're in a pottery kiln, and you just know you're the color of a ripe tomato as you drip with flop sweat. The pained smile you force has the falsity of a doll's and you're trembling all over with shame. "Amber... why..."

"The seeds are sown," Amber says, so fucking proud of herself, spider-walking all ten of her fingers across the laminated tabletop. "When you left her on read, Summer definitely thought she struck out. But now she thinks that the way you so rudely ignored her advances was only the nervous indecision of a mutually-interested but oblivious little virgin, trying to formulate the perfect reply. And on top of THAT, she gets to think this whole thing is already making another girl jealous. The trap is set and baited. She literally cannot resist you now. The second she gets you alone again, Summer Denali is gonna be jamming her tongue down your throat like she's depth sounding the Mariana Trench. Watch."

"I never asked you to d--"

"It's what sisters do. You can thank me when you're cumming on her face."

You want to vomit.

Amber cracks her neck. It's loud. You're surprised she doesn't die. "I'm gonna go get a Pepsi," she tells you.

"--seriously?" You say.

"When am I ever not serious?" Amber asks you. And she seems serious about it. She scoots herself out of the booth, fingernails clacking against the table as she stands up again. "You want anything from the Circle K? Something to drink, a snack? Some condoms? Oh, what am I saying. You don't need condoms where you're going. But watch out, ok, that Summer doesn't give you super-AIDS." She puts her hands in her pockets and whistles on her way out of the restaurant. "Don't cum to death while I'm gone!" she says. An old man chokes on his food at this, and Amber dislodges it by smacking his back as she passes.

You close your eyes and try to will yourself awake again. This is all just a nightmare, right? You can wake up, right? Wake up, Wes... wake up...

When you open your eyes, you're still sitting there by yourself at Shake 'Em Up. Joy.

Ophie is behind the serving counter, cleaning some of the glasses and silverware. Amelia is sitting by herself at a booth in the corner, reading a book -- a paper book, an old-looking one at that. Must be on her break. Summer is busily taking orders... such a worker bee... and she's giving you a wide berth.

[ ] Go say hi to Ophie.

[ ] Go hang out with Amelia.

[ ] Follow Amber to the store.

>[x] Try to smooth things over with Summer.

[ ] Dip, and go home to your lesbian moms.

[ ] Stay there by yourself, awkwardly, like the loser you are.

When her circuitous, never-ending path through the diner forces her past your booth, you summon all the courage you've got, and say: "Summer..."

She pretends she doesn't hear you, and continues to the booth adjacent. She's even more chipper than normal: "Welcome to Shake 'em Up! I'm Summer. Today's special is tiramisu! Mmm-mmm. Can I get y'all started with something to drink?"

You make a dejected little sound and stare hard at the sugar packets on your table. Summer takes her customers' order, and breezes by you again as if you don't exist. But she gets interrupted before she can circle the corner on her way toward the other half of the diner.

"I think your two-top wants something," Amelia says, not looking up from her book.

"Who?"

Amelia, still reading, points your way.

"That's Ophie's two-top," Summer says.

"It's yours, too. Especially when the customer asks for you by name." Amelia flips the page. "Get to it."

"You are such a--"

"Get to it," Amelia says, much more menacingly.

Summer, an empty serving platter in hand, stomps over to you. She stands before you, but doesn't say a word, just waits for you to speak.

"I..." you begin. You start over. "Amber grabbed my phone. She got the wrong idea."

"Seems like you got the wrong idea, too."

You shake your head. "No -- no, see -- I didn't. I mean I'm not. Trying to get into your pants, that is."

Summer's face untightens. "You're -- not?" she says softly.

"I mean... no," you say. "Why would I be?"

"Oh." She purses her lips. "Of course. That would be crazy. Someone like you, thinking they could get with someone like me -- absolutely insane!" She laughs, hard and forcefully. "I should have realized Amber was just being all talk, like always. You know?"

"Uh."

"I'm -- so glad you're not trying to get with me! God. I'd never be able to wash your stink off me!"

"Thanks," you tell her.

She turns her serving platter sidewise and stows it under her armpit, hugging it tight to her midsection. You can see the indent it makes against her squishy body. "Is that all you have to say to me?"

"Did you... want me to say more?"

"NO!" She yells. "OF COURSE I DON'T!"

"...Oh," you say. "Well."

Summer grabs the platter with both hands again, and slams the table with it like she's trying to break it in two. People gasp. You jump. She grabs you by the collar and lugs you towards her, getting her face inches from yours. She snarls: "when I text you, you fucking answer me. I'm degrading myself enough just talking to you. I'm not getting left on read by the loserest virgin weeaboo at PAP again." She lets you go, and you fall back against the paneled side of the booth. "You understand me? Are we understood?"

"...Understood," you mutter, swiveling your head in a motion somewhere between a shake and a nod. "I understand... understandable."

She storms off.

When you get your bearings again, you spy Amelia grinning at you from over the top of her book.

Amber comes back with a 64-ounce slurpee cup of Pepsi. She plops down beside you. The ice in the plastic cup bounces noisily around. She looks you up and down, assessing your still rumpled appearance. "Who beat you up?"

"You did... then Summer..."

Amber takes a slurp. "Cool. Cool shit." She calls over to Amelia, who's just closing her book, standing and donning her apron again. "You wanna beat Wes up? It's Beat Wes Up Day."

"Mind the sign," Amelia says, pointing to it as she passes.

Ophie comes out of the kitchen, carrying the most absurdly over-topped sundae you've ever seen. "Here you are," she says, and sets it before you. She takes two straws from her apron and inserts them into the gooey ice cream, one and then the other. "Enjoy."

"Holy fuck," Amber breathes, pulling the ornately decorated crystal dish, halfway between a bowl and a cup, towards her. "This is perfect. You're the best."

"Mm."

"Summer didn't spit in this, did she? I'm not into that, so I'll have to let Wes eat it all if she did."

Ophie blushes.

"Hey, can we get a doggie bag?" Amber asks.

"...For ice cream," Ophie says flatly.

"Yeh. Why not."

"...Coming right up."

Ophie departs for the kitchen again. Amber grins toothily at you. She spins the dish around a full revolution, admiring it. You admire it, too. In its appalling excess, it's a work of art.

"Did she get everything in the order right?" You ask.

"Huh? Fucked if I know. I gave her the library of Alexandria of orders. But I'm sure she got it all. ... Ooh, cinammon." Amber closes her lips around one of the straws and sucks with all her might. "Sho good," she slurs, as she pulls back, her mouth full of dripping cream.

---

On the way to school the next day, Ophie is watching the news on her phone. Because of course she is. But when you notice a familiar face on the screen getting interviewed, you ask to borrow one of her earbuds, and listen in too:

"--ganista is such a silly term. I'm not ideologically -- just because I'm friends with the President, doesn't mean I believe every single thing he says. I'm friends with you too, Chuck, and I don't believe everything you say. Far from it."

"Whoa now! I'm just asking--"

"No -- no -- now listen here. I'm friendly with lots of people in Washington. But I make my own way in the world. You know that. In the Senate, it'll be the same. I've been friends with the President for a long time. I agree with him when I agree, and I speak up loudly when I don't. That goes for any and all of my other colleagues too. And I put the people of California first. Always."

"She's going to be President herself, one day," Ophie says.

"Mm hmm," you agree.

"You know that if aunt Cerise becomes President, I'm obligated to assassinate her, right?" Amber says. "Not that I want to. But I have to."

You rip the earbud out. "What? Why?"

"I can't have access like that to the President of the United States and NOT assassinate them," Amber says. "Are you nuts?"

"Oh my god," you breathe.

Amber, still keeping pace with you, leans in and puts her face as near Ophie's phone as she can. "That is a genuine threat," she says directly into the speaker, enunciating as clearly as she can. "I mean every word of it."

"No she doesn't," you tell the phone.

"Shh," Ophie hisses, waving her palm at you both. "I want to see this."

You gaze at the sky and pray for strength.

Your day is blessedly uneventful, up until math. Math is uneventful too, up until Amber starts texting you.

Out of fucking nowhere, she decided to send you a bunch of dick pics, along with some running commentary on said dick pics. You completely didn't expect this, so when you check your phone to see the first batch, you choke on your surprise -- "ghh--!!" and quickly flip your phone face-down to hide it. You glance all around. All you see is a sea of uninterested faces staring blankly at the teacher. But behind you, you hear a brief snicker, and although your rational brain tells you that the snickering is probably unconnected to what was on your phone screen just now, you can't shake the uneasy feeling from the irrational part of your brain screaming that it was. You want to melt into a puddle of goo.

When Amber's insistently lewd messages won't quit, you finally text her back -- shielding your phone by hunching over it -- and so begins a back-and-forth that's more suited to Amber's style. As always, it leaves you quivering and breathless. You can hardly focus for the rest of the day.

When Amber comes to your house after school, you go through the usual song-and-dance of pretending that you didn't invite her over for the express purpose of doing it with her. Instead, she has to suffer through the tedium of watching you play some GTA VIII. Getting the jet-mecha is a lot of work.

"Where are those lesbo pigs, anyway?" Amber asks, stretching luxuriously against the backrest of the couch. The way she can drape herself over something like she's something liquid is honestly so... erotic, if you're being honest. "What kind of time do we have to work with here? I don't want to miss my nut because you spent too long beating up hookers."

"K-Mom's at some press gala. I don't know. They'll probably stay overnight at the hotel."

"That's hot."

"Ugh."

"Dude, your moms are hot," Amber says. "Don't deny it."

You give her a blank stare that communicates the deepest possible weariness.

Amber, of course, doesn't get it. "Do you think when they--" she leans way in, cups a hand to her mouth, speaks in a whisper that nonetheless attains completely normal volume: "when they, you know..." She leans back and continues: "Do they..." She makes two peace signs, and interlocks them at a 90 degree angle, rubbing them together. "Or do you think one of them gets out a strap-on and..." She makes an OK sign, and repeatedly pokes an index finger in and out.

"Do you hate me?" You ask.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You must hate me. You're trying to disgust me to death."

"Ok, whatever, Wes. You're disgusted by that like I'm disgusted by ice cream. Don't kid." You ignore her. But Amber won't let up: "Hey. That wasn't a rhetorical question. Genuinely curious. How do you think your moms *fuck*?"

You figure the best way to shut her up is with honesty: "They use strap-ons. Sometimes they 69."

Amber cackles, long and loud. Her blue eyes glimmer. You pretend you're unfazed at the mockery, but Amber isn't going to let it pass. "What! You -- oh my god. How do you know? I was only asking you to speculate! Here you come with the goods. Are you *peeping* on your mommies, Wes? Are you watching them fuck?"

When you reply, you have a bent of frustration in your voice, try as you might to keep it civil. "...I've walked in on them a few times. They like to do it out here in the living room."

"That's wild," Amber says.

"Uh huh."

Amber wedges one of the throw pillows under her butt and leans way in again, weight propped on the balls of her hands. "Do you think they want you to catch them?"

"No..."

"I think they want you to catch them."

"Judging by how they react when I catch them, that can't be true..."

"How do they react?"

"They yell and tell me to get out."

"And what do you do?"

"...I get out..."

Amber slumps against the couch's backrest again with exaggerated momentum. "Ugh. So boring."

"My life isn't a hentai, Amber. Weird enough that I do it with my sister... now you want me to do it with my moms too."

"Fuck yeah," Amber says. You moan.

Amber grows increasingly impatient as you play the game. You ignore her sighs, tsks, and snide comments -- too focused on the missions at hand. But at long last you hear a familiar rustle, and glancing over, you see her spreading her legs all akimbo, shoving a hand down the front of her shorts. The obscene motion visible through the thin denim leaves no doubt what she's up to.

"Amber..." you mutter.

"If you're not gonna get me off, I'm gonna get myself off," she says.

You glance worriedly towards the front door. You expect your moms to stay out all night, but there's always a possibility they could come back early. You definitely don't want them to see this.

Amber curls up onto her back, lifting her legs into the air just enough to kick her shorts off her body. She's naked from the waist down, now -- no panties -- right here on your living room couch. "I'm waiting," she says.

You pause the game, and stand. "Okay... my room..." you say.

"Of course," Amber says sweetly, taking her fingers out of herself. She pokes a wet index finger in the air. "To the masturbatorium!"

You and Amber have a ritual. Your room, messy, musty, and blacked-out by heavy curtains -- whenever you're both in a lewd mood, is the masturbatorium: a sexual laboratory where you can experiment together with any kind of depraved porn and weird fetishes you can think of, no reservations, and no judgment. Some of the things you've tried have been a lot of fun, like letting Amber hogtie you. N-mom's red silk shibari ropes are surprisingly sexy to play with. Other experiments weren't nearly as fun -- the less said about Amber eating sushi off your back, the better. Amber doesn't like sushi to begin with, and it gave you a rash. Well anyway. In the privacy of your bedroom -- nothing, between you two, is off limits.

>[x] Amber, I need some help sending Summer the reply she really wants...

[ ] I may not be into my own moms, but that doesn't mean I'm not into mommies... generally speaking...

[ ] Let's explore one of your fetishes, Amber.

[ ] Let's just have a normal family movie night together.

Amber has her top off before you even have the bedroom door closed. "Lie down," she commands.

"Uh."

She grabs the collar of your hoodie, spins you through a 180, and pushes you onto your bed. "I said lie down."

"Aren't we gonna..." you begin, rising a little, but Amber straddles you, and forces you fully flat again.

"You told me you wanted me to sit on your face. And I want to sit on your fucking face." Using her fore- and middle fingers, Amber spreads her little pussy so that her clit is poking out at you. Her juices drip freely out of her, down her thighs, and against your face. From so close, can smell the sweet tang of her hole. It's puffy, shining with her arousal. Her clit is throbbing. And her scowl leaves no mistaking that she's going to use you hard, fast, and dirty.

Your own cunt juices up from being treated like this. You feel your underwear and shorts becoming sticky for the third or fourth time today. You want to touch yourself, but Amber's knees pin your shoulders. And you wouldn't dare do something without permission when Amber is like this, anyway. Doing things without her permission, when she's like this, is a surefire ticket to getting smacked around. Which... come to think of it... maybe you should do something without permission, to provoke her...

Amber palms your forehead, forcing your head backwards. Without warning, she spits on you. A fat, hot gob of saliva runs down your features in a million disgusting rivulets. You cringe and recoil at the slimy sensation of it. Degrading -- humiliating. "Are you as stupid as you look? Put your tongue inside me already, you fucking dyke pig."

You open your jaw and let your tongue loll out, and as Amber squats over your mouth, you kiss her on the twat. You feel the full-body shiver it causes her. She pets you sensually, once, twice -- and then cruelly grips your hair down by the roots for leverage as she begins to grind. She gyrates atop you like a belly dancer, using her free hand to rub herself from her board-flat chest, down to her little navel, and to her mons, then back again, over and over. She rubs herself all over. And the more she fucks your face, the wetter she gets -- not just her juicy pussy, but the rest of her too -- she becomes damp with sweat as she works herself into a sexual high. She's dripping, getting it all over you. She drips onto your clothes, onto your face, and directly into your mouth. You drink her cum and sweat alike, the way she wants you do. You swirl your tongue around her finely textured insides, over her vulva, rake it across her clit. After years of practice, you're a pro pussy eater. Your efforts get Amber's knees knocking in no time. She's cumming down your throat in a near-continuous stream of salty, sugary, delicious juice. You love the way your older sister tastes. You love the way she uses you like a toilet. You're her toilet. You never want her to stop.

Amber's smooth, slippery cunt slides back and forth across your face. You can't see clearly anymore, but through the film of slime coating your eyelids, you can tell that Amber is gritting her teeth and going rigid. There are other signs she's getting closer to orgasm, too. Her thighs are gripping your ears like vice grips. Her twat is fluttering open and closed around your tongue. Her tiny puckered asshole is, too. Her fingers laced through your hair grip down harder, like she's trying to rip it out. But you know she isn't really cumming until--

"That's it -- that's fucking it --" she pants. She lets go of your hair, and lays her palms flat against your pillowtop on either side of you. Getting down on all fours now herself, and curling up, she starts to hump your tongue like she's a man fucking a pussy. Your bed thuds and your venetian blinds clatter against the nearby window. Out in the hallway, Guy barks like mad. The whole house shakes. "Eat me," Amber grunts through her teeth, fucking herself silly on your mouth. "Fucking eat me, slut. Stupid faggot slut. Eat my fucking cunt. God... god... ungh--!!" Her neck muscles go taut, she throws her head back, she howls in delight. Then she goes totally still as she squirts on you in torrents. The only motion between you is her spasming cunt, pressing down directly against your lips, nose, and tongue. That, and the endless spurting streams of her salty cum. It's like she's pissing on you. She may as well be. You think you'll drown, and you don't care. You cum too, in your pants, without even touching yourself.

Only when she's done riding her cum out does Amber let you breathe. She rises to her knees again, pulling her sticky cunt from your lips. You gasp like a dying animal. Droplets of her cream go flying off your lips in all directions. Amber giggles at your distress. "God, you lick pussy so good."

"I try..." you heave. You've gone hoarse from the abuse.

Amber looks over her shoulder. She can see the obvious wet spot spreading across your crotch. "Did you fucking cum yourself just from being sat on?" she spits.

You nod.

"You're such a masochistic little piggy," Amber marvels. "God."

You nod again.

"Take your clothes off," she says. She fully dismounts you, and watches grinningly as you obey. When you're naked, she commands: "play with yourself." So you do. You dig your fingers through your sloppy hole and revel in the feeling of being nothing but a used cum-rag. Your orgasm is a bit less spectacular, but no less intense than Amber's. You pinch your masturbating fingers between your weak legs, and silently grunt as you feel the warmth radiating from your clit, through your vagina, into your belly and beyond. You gasp and sputter, and enjoy the stink of Amber's cum still lingering in your nostrils. Your pussy creams up -- you get all creamy, you're creaming -- your clitoris pulses, and cums. You almost choke on the pleasure.

At the peak of your ecstasy, like the Buddha attaining Nirvana, you have a revelation. Jolting up, scaring Amber back a bit, you announce:

"I think Summer wants to have sex with me."

"Really?" Amber breathes, putting a palm to her lips. "No way! For real? I had no idea!"

You cringe. "Did I ... did blow it?" You ask. "With her."

"You didn't blow it. Summer would get on all fours and bark like a dog for just a look at this pussy of yours." She runs her slender fingers across your mound for effect, and punctuates it by lightly spanking it. You gasp.

"What do I do?" You ask.

"She showed you hers..." Amber drawls.

You stare blankly back at her.

"Generally," Amber explains, patient and caring, "when someone sends you a picture of their genitals, and you're interested, the proper thing to do is pay them the same kindness in return. I think that's in Robert's Rules of Order somewhere."

You close your eyes. "What if I'm wrong? What if she isn't--"

"You're fucking with me. Don't make me slap you again."

"But--"

Amber yanks you by the wrist, forcing you standing, and gets you turned around facing the foot of the bed. "Bend the fuck over," she says.

"I--"

She spanks you. You yip in pain, and do as Amber tells you. You bend over, hands flat on your mattress.

"More," Amber says.

"Like this?"

"That's it. Stick your butt out. Like that."

You feel completely humiliated. Then Amber throws your lightswitch. Being naked and exposed in the dim half-light of your room is one thing, but under bright LEDs it's entirely different. You can see the disgusting wet spots you and Amber left on your bed, and somehow you can smell the reek of sex even more strongly.

Amber has your phone in hand. She has the camera pointed at you.

"Amber -- no--"

"Shut the fuck up," Amber says. You shut up. "Keep your ass up. There we go. Shake it. Good girl."

You begin to feel like an admonished dog, and knowing that Amber is taking pictures of you only heightens the sense of helplessness gripping you. "Are you really going to send these to Summer?" You plead.

"What do you think? Dumb bitch. Come on, spread your ass. Show Summer Denali your asshole, too."

Shuddering, you let your weight rest on your cheek against your bed, and spread your ass open with both hands. You feel disgusting -- you can tell how scrawny and underfed you are, how cavernously the globes of your spread-open ass are yawning, how twig-thin your legs are, how anemic and unhealthy your skin looks. You can feel every drop of sweat on your skin, and you know you fucking stink, and you know the pictures Amber is taking make it obvious just how bad you stink. Summer's gonna smell you through her phone. She's gonna be so revolted by you, so turned-off, and so disgusted. She's gonna spread your pictures all around campus and make you into a laughingstock. They'll all be laughing at you for ever thinking that a goddess like her would have anything to do with a nasty little bitch like you. Your pussy won't stop dripping. It just keeps getting wetter.

"Yeah, yeah, like that," Amber says. "You're so fucking ugly. So beautifully fucking ugly. God, Summer is going to destroy you. Do you realize that? You think *I* get rough? I bet Summer is one sadistic fucking bitch with girls like you. Do you wanna be Summer's victim, Wes?"

"Uh huh..." you moan, digging your fingers into your ass cheeks even deeper, spreading your tiny ass even further open.

Amber grabs a marker off your desk. She uncaps it, and soon you feel the cold felt drawing trails across your back and ass. You try to look at what she's writing, but Amber forces your face into the bedspread. "What does it say?" You demand.

"Just some cute stuff. Don't worry." She goes back to snapping pictures. Even though you're scared beyond all reason, you keep wagging your hips and holding your ass open for the camera's violating eye. You hope Amber wrote something really mean and gross on you. Your twat lips drift open, coming unstuck from one another, as your cunt puffs up and softens in its desperate need for stimulation.

You hear a plop, then suddenly Amber's wet finger is invading your asshole. "Amber--!!"

"Shut the fuck up. I wanna get a picture of this."

"Of your finger -- in there? For Summer?"

"Yep."

"But she's... she's gonna..."

"She won't know whose it is. Just that it belongs to some girl. Some girl not her. She'll be banging down your door in about two seconds after I send it."

"Amber, please... no..." you gasp as she adds a second finger into your already overstretched hole. "Don't send them," you beg, "I changed my mind -- stop--" you writhe and squirm as Amber molests you.

"Too late," she says. She sets your phone down on the covers, right in front of your half-buried face. You can see the screen. Every dirty picture has already gone out to Summer. Your ass in the air, pussy on full display. Your winking rear hole. Your hands digging into your flesh as you spread yourself like a slut. The things Amber scrawled on you: "FREE HOLE" and "DYKE WHORE" and "COME RAPE ME" -- with helpful arrows to indicate your obscenely gaping orifices. Amber's fingers stuffed inside you. All of it. Amber sent all of it to Summer. And Summer is typing something. And Amber has her fingers in your gash now, too, not just your butt.

"Can I eat your ass, Wes?" Amber asks, rubbing your pussy, and kicking her fingers around in your guts.

"Okay," you mewl.

She goes to her knees, spreads your cheeks, and helps herself. Amber's rimjob is as mindblowing for you as your rug-munching is for her. With both her hands free to focus on pleasuring your greedy cunt as she licks your rear, Amber has your tongue hanging out like a bitch in heat. Your chest, so flat it's almost concave, raggedly rises and falls against the bed, and your tits run wet with perspiration.

Your phone dings. You're too scared and humiliated to check it.

"What did she say?" Amber asks, voice muffled by your ass.

At Amber's command, you force yourself to look. "Gross," you read aloud. "That's it... that's all it says... she called me gross."

"She's right," Amber says. "You're so fucking gross. Gross little dyke."

Ding. As Amber's tongue roots around your anus, you read for her some more: "God, you're nasty... whose fingers are those?"

Ding. "Is that... your sister, Wes? Oh my god." you repeat that last bit, to yourself: "oh my god... oh my god..."

"She noticed, huh," Amber muses. "Oh well... might as well go for broke, then."

Amber snatches the phone again. You look wildly across your back at what she's doing. One of her arms looped around your legs, the other holding the camera up in selfie mode: she drags her tongue across your anus and snaps the photo, smiling with her eyes and flashing a peace sign for effect.

"Nooo..." you moan, powerless, and cum on your sister's face. Amber sends the photo. The text she sends with it is simple: "want some too?"

Summer's reply, immediately, is equally simple: Yes.

Amber texts her, "come and get it" and then tosses the phone aside. For the next hour, she eats your holes like she's starving. Her tongue swabs from asshole to taint to pussy and back, all over, devouring you. She bites you, and you're so scrawny that she can pretty much encompass both your fuckholes when she does it. Her teeth dig into your tender flesh. You can only clutch your bedsheets, buck your hips, and cum until you go stupid. Stupider. And sometime later, you're not sure how much, your fears from earlier come to pass: your moms get home early. You realize, too late, that you and Amber have really fucked up this time. K-Mom's muffled voice from the living room carries with crystalline clarity: "whose shorts are these?"

"Amber's?" Comes N-Mom's muffled response.

"Fuck..." you whisper. Amber either doesn't notice or doesn't care, and just keeps licking your asshole. She can be a piggy bitch, too. You clutch your sheets harder -- stuck right here, with your sister's face in your butt, caught aboard the ride until the end.

GIRLS FUCKED: 1/??

Amber pokes her head out into the hallway, concealing the rest of her behind your partially open bedroom door. She glances first one way and then the other, making sure the coast is clear. Satisfied, she tosses her shirt onto the ground there in the hall. Then she prances across the short stretch between your room and the downstairs bathroom, moving with the haste and lightness of a person dancing on hot coals. She escapes quietly into the bath, and soon the sound of running water fills your ears from the other side of the door.

"Wes?" K-Mom calls.

You step into the living room. "Oh, hey..." you say. "How was -- the -- thing?"

"Is Amber here?" She asks.

You cock your head in the direction of the hall. "She's taking a shower."

"Of course," K-Mom says with a frown. She goes to the hall and scoops up the discarded tanktop lying there. She holds it with a pinky, by one strap. "You wanna tell your sister that if she's going to use our bathroom, she at least shouldn't toss her clothes all around our home like it's her own private laundry hamper?"

She hands you the shirt. "Uh huh," you say.

N-Mom brings up the rear. She gives you shorts. She's a bit less harsh: "Maybe go set her clothes on the toilet for her. She probably doesn't want to go streaking now that we're back."

You nod.

"The thing was pretty nice," K-Mom adds, finally answering your limp small-talk. "The food was better. How does leftover fettuccine Alfredo from a buffet sound?"

"Sounds great," you say.

K-Mom heads for the kitchen. You start towards the bathroom.

"Wes," N-Mom calls.

You turn. "Yeah?"

"Those shorts--"

You gulp.

But after a brief pause, N-Mom finishes: "...your mother's right. Tell Amber not to toss her clothes all over the place. It's bad enough you treat your bedroom that way, right?"

"Right."

She goes. You breathe a sigh of relief.

---

On Monday, you're late to school, like usual.

Your first period of the day is chemistry. You share this class, like most of your other ones, with Summer -- and so, slinking tardily down the halls of PAP, you dread the awkwardness you're sure you'll be dealing with. Summer never texted you back all weekend, and you sure as hell weren't going to initiate any exchanges of you own. So the most recent interaction you've had with her was pictures of your sordid relationship with your own sister getting beamed into her phone, and then her sextually demeaning you in return. What will she say? How will she react? Can you even face her again? You can just picture her disgustedly taking her things and moving to a seat on the other side of the classroom the moment you sit down.

When you shuffle through the door, the teacher glances at the wall clock and says: "Ah, only 20 minutes late. You must have really rushed." Your classmates snicker. You flush.

Unbelievably, Summer is back to normal. She smiles brightly, holds up her hand, waves at you with her wiggling fingers. Then, gathering up her couture purse and the sweater that she only ever wears as a belt tied off by the sleeves, she doesn't switch seats -- but sets these things down on the ground, to make room for you right beside her at her black benchtop table near the back of the room. Far from wanting to distance herself, she saved you a spot.

You slouch your way to the bench. "Hi..." you murmur.

Summer makes small talk like she didn't last see you getting fingered by your older sister: "We're playing EPA tomorrow. Are you gonna be there?"

"The -- environmental protection agency...?"

"East Palo Alto. Softball, you dummy." She makes a fist, and, using her same whispering-in-class voice, chants: "Gooooo Shoebills! We'll show those Diamondbacks who's boss."

"Go Shoebills," you agree, somewhat less enthusiastically, although you do also hold up your fist.

"I'm pitching. You'll come for me, right?"

You frown with one side of your mouth. "Tuesday... what time Tuesday?"

"Game starts at 3:00."

"I have E-Sports practice, is the thing..."

Summer purrs her frustration. "It's video games, Wes. You click on people's heads. How much practice do you need for that?"

"How much practice do you need for throwing a ball past someone's bat?"

Summer laughs, and makes a ducklike quack of playful frustration as she wraps her hands around your neck and lightly shakes you as if throttling you. Somehow it all feels less jokey than it looks. "You're killing me, smalls!" She says.

"I'll see what I can do..." you say when at last she lets you go. You hope such a noncommittal reply will get her to back off a bit.

"And I'll see you there at the game tomorrow!" Summer says. Ohhh man. Summer puts her hands on her head and leans back in her chair, unconcerned that her short-cropped sleeves bare her armpits to the whole wide world. "I totally didn't do my trig homework last night. You've got me covered, right?"

You've found, with Summer, that acquiescing is the only solution in the end. Pay her now or pay her later -- she'll get what she wants. So you pull your trig worksheet from your backpack and pass it over to her. She squees and blows you an air kiss, then starts diligently to copy your probably mostly-wrong answers.

You don't mention what happened over texts last Friday, and neither does she. Maybe you two can put the whole episode behind you. Chalk it up to temporary insanity.

After first period, you hurry to the lockers to stow your lunchbag and backpack, so you don't have to lug them around all day. The lockers at PAP are in their own special atrium, a beautiful wide-open space with a sun roof and paneled glass walls, filling every square inch with the golden California sun. You despise it. But at least right now, it's empty and quiet. Not the way it usually is when you get to school on time, and the place is a sardine can of bustling students.

You're in a rush not to be late to second period health class. You swoop over to your locker, input the combo, stuff your shit inside. But when you swing the door closed again, your peripheral vision fills with tan and blonde: Summer looms beside you. She followed you out to the atrium. You gawp, beginning to turn her way, trying to think of something to say. But she heads you off -- pushes her palms against the lockers on either side of you, trapping you where you stand. Summer is a full head taller than you, so in this position, you're at eye level with her tits.

"I thought you were a virgin." Summer's teeth are impossibly white. Her breath reeks of wintergreen.

She pinches your face with one hand, holding you by the jaw, pushing your cheeks together like a fish. She turns your head one way and then the other like a pawnbroker examining jewelry for imperfections. "You look like a virgin," is her assessment. "You act like a virgin. You smell like a virgin. But you aren't a virgin. You're a fucking dirty little slut."

"I'm shorry...?" You try.

She lets go of your face, only to brace herself against the lockers and lean down in the pose of a bull about to charge you. She stares directly into your eyes, boring a hole into your skull. "I don't like mixed messages," she tells you. "This hot and cold act of yours is gonna stop. I don't want to rape you, but I will if I have to, Wesley."

Summer never uses your full name. It freaks you out.

Well, that, and the way she's pinning you against the lockers threatening to rape you. But the name thing really cinches it.

You try to play it diplomatically: "Summer-- i-if you wanted to have sex with me, a-all you had to do was ask..."

Summer's lip curls in disgust. "You really are a fucking slut. God."

Her palm snakes down, across your thigh, then past the waistband of your skirt. She feels you through the fabric of your panties. Her touch is at once light and desperate. She presses her lips to your lips, and jams her tongue down your throat like -- well -- like she's depth sounding the Mariana Trench. You whimper, directly into her mauling mouth, and it doesn't slow her whatsoever. Your tongue lies there limp and dead, but she's fine with that, and does all the work: she's raping your mouth with her own. She presses your spine hard against the lockers. From behind you can feel every little nub and poking protrusion of the glossy steel. From your front you can feel the squish of her cruelly pushing into you. Her irregular exhalations through her nostrils are as deafening as a wind tunnel and as hot as blowdryer. She tickles you under your skirt. You press your knees together, the tic you have whenever you're close to cumming, and you're so ready to give in completely right now. But the bell for second period rings, and just a moment after that, you hear the bum wheel of the janitor's push cart entering the atrium on the other side. Summer pulls her hand away from your heated-up crotch and her lips away from your wet mouth. "It's 9:00... we're gonna be late."

"...Yeah," you say -- a bit breathless, and a lot frustrated.

"You've got really greasy hair, anyone ever tell you that?"

You glance away.

"I'll see you in health class," Summer says, turning for the door. "I think we're gonna be starting sex ed today."

END OF EPISODE 1.