You

for adults? At thirteen, it’s hairy under-arms and an obsession with sex. At forty, it’s hair in your ears and an uncontrollable urge to tell people how things were better when they were a kid. Only with puberty you pass through it in a couple of years. This adult thing, when it hits, lasts the rest of your life.

He covers the usual points: clothing, music, hair-styles, chores, jobs, school, church, Scouts, cars, and respect.

“So tell me, Kyle,” he asks, “how are you doing in school?”

So you tell him. Why not? He’d probably call anyway.

He stares at you. And keeps staring at you. You’re about to stand up and walk out when he says, “Good for you.” Not a condescending “good for you,” the kind your father says when you mention that you’ve jumped three levels on an online game. He really means it, and now you’re staring at him.

“See, Kyle, most kids your age would lie. Okay, maybe not lie. They’d stretch the truth a bit or maybe blame the teachers, all that crap. You? You told the truth. Kids with good grades we’ve got. Honest kids? That’s something else.”

Now comes the standard hard-work/rags-to-riches/lots-of-opportunities-for-those-who-try speech, and you zone out a bit until you can sense it’s wrapping up. You sit a little straighter, mostly because your back is starting to hurt.

“I like what I see here, Kyle,” he says, tapping your worthless resume. “I’m sure we’ll have a few more applicants, but I’ll tell you right now, I doubt I’ll see anyone as good as you.”

You’re thinking, he has to be kidding, but apparently he’s not, and the next thing he’s walking you back to the service desk, telling you about the break room and how you’ll have an ID card.

“I can tell a lot by a handshake,” he says, working your arm like it’s a pump handle. “I can tell you’ll do fine here.”

Before he goes back to the office, he asks if you can stop back tomorrow, say around four. You say yes and the interview is over.

You said exactly twelve words.

You don’t want to walk past the Piercing Point again-well, you do, but you know you can’t- so you go the long way around the mall, past the Banana Republic and the pretzel place, and past what’s supposed to be Santa’s stable, complete with nine mechanical reindeer, one with a flashing red nose. Much more interesting, however, are the life-size photographs of sleepy-eyed models in red negligees in the store’s windows. So interesting in fact that you walk right into Nicole as she comes out of Victoria’s Secret.

It takes you both a second, but then you remember that night at Zack’s party. You remember her talking about Canada and growing up in Dawson Creek. She smiles at you, a beautiful smile, and then you can’t help but think about what Zack said about the webcam.

She holds up two armloads of bags. “Getting my Christmas shoplifting done early.”

You laugh, wondering if it’s true.

“I wish you were here ten minutes ago. I was trying on a bathing suit and could have used a second opinion.”

You make some lame comment about how you’re sure it looked great and then she says no and you say yeah and now you can’t stop thinking about the webcam.

“So,” she says, stretching the word out as she shifts her grip on the bags, “did he figure it out yet?”

You give her that blank look.

“Zack. Did he figure it out yet?”

“Figure what out?”

She sighs, but she’s still smiling. Obviously the boy is a bit slow. “Your weakness. How to get to you.”

You remember what that girl told you at school, the perfect senior who liked margaritas.

He finds your weak spot, then keeps pushing till you crack.

He pushed Brooke until she cried. And what he said to Nicole pushed her out of the house and into your fantasies.

But…

It’s different for guys.

Everybody knows that.

A guy pushes you, you punch back.

End of story.

“He gets to everybody. He’ll get to you. Trust me, he’ll figure you out.”

You shrug. “There’s nothing to figure out.”

“Funny.” Her smile shifts-not quite a smirk but not as warm as it had been. “That’s what I said too.”

You’re lying on your bed, lights off, hands behind your head, staring up at the ceiling. You’re still wearing the clothes you wore to the job interview-you were supposed to hang them up right away, but it’s not like you’re going on another one in the morning or something.

It’s early. Eight, maybe eight thirty. Too early to call Ashley. You could go downstairs and watch TV, but your father’s watching that shouting guy again. Now and then a “shut up” cuts through the mumbling white noise, either your father or the TV guy, you can’t tell. You could go watch the other TV, but there’s never anything good on, and walking that far doesn’t seem worth the effort.

What you’d like to do is play an online game, maybe World of Warcraft or Fallen Earth, but your computer is missing, one of your father’s brilliant motivation techniques. It seems you have to earn the right to have a computer in your room. And they think you didn’t do any homework before?

So you lie there.

You do this a lot, this lying on your bed, lights off, hands behind your head, staring up at the ceiling. It’s what you do when you think about things. Not things like school or getting a job or your future.

You do your best not to think about them at all.

What you think about are sold-out concerts and you up on the stage, or leading a ninja death squad into a shogun castle, or gun battles with alien predators, or racing stolen Ferraris through the streets of LA, a hardcore soundtrack shredding your ears.

Oh, by the way, your iPod? That’s gone too.

But mostly you think about Ashley.

Is that why you keep your hands behind your head?

So you’re lying on your bed, lights off, etc., and instead of listening to music you’re listening to your mom talking to Paige as she gets your sister ready for bed.

“I don’t wanna wear the blue dress to school tomorrow.”

“I thought it was your favorite?”

“Uh-uh. The pink one is my favorite.”

“You just wore the pink one today. You have to wear something different tomorrow.”

“Kyle wears the same shirt every day.”

Technically, she’s wrong. They may look like the same black T-shirt, but they’re different.

“That’s Kyle,” your mom says.

“I wanna be like Kyle when I grow up.”

There’s a pause-and you’re thinking, does she mean the clothes or something else, something she sees in you that no one else sees, that you don’t see, something she likes, something no one else has, something that means the world to her?

Then your mom says, “No, Paige, you do not want to be like Kyle. One in a family is enough.”

Your breathing changes first. Short, choppy breaths pulled in and out through flaring nostrils.

Next your jaw muscles lock up, then your teeth grind.

Your fists are held so tight your knuckles crack one by one.

She could have said anything.

Any damn thing.

But she said that.

To Paige.