We head opposite directions-she, toward her boyfriend. Me, forever away from mine.

That Seems More And More Like reality. Not sure why I thought maybe we'd get back together again.

Wishful thinking pretty much always comes back to slap you in the face.

I think about Conner all the way home.

Think about him and Mrs. Sanders while I curl my hair, and put on the kind of makeup that makes you look older in magazines.

My agent, Maxine, showed me how to do it. She is forty, trying to look twenty- five. And she wants me to look the same age. Easier for me. First, concealer, to cover those sleep-deprivation shadows. Wait. OMG.

Close inspection reveals embryonic tendrils at the corners of my eyes. Perfect. Wrinkles before I graduate high school. Oh well.

That's why they invented Botox, right?

Mrs. Sanders has great skin. Wonder if she's doing the Botox thing. Wow. Talk about irony. Wonder if she's had a b.o.o.b job, if that's why Conner chose her over me. d.a.m.n it. If I keep stressing over this, I'll really get wrinkled. The irony, like frown lines, deepens. I need something to take my mind off it. I'd hit the liquor cabinet, except alcohol is so fattening.

(One hundred calories per ounce for the hard stuff, and I'd want it hard.) But here in the medicine chest, between the ibuprofen and the Benadryl, is a little amber bottle, with Jenna's name on the prescription label. Percocet.

I Don't Know What It Is Exactly But I do remember that Jenna got it after oral surgery. Some kind of painkiller.

And I also remember it made her really giggly. I could use a good laugh. I read the label. Lots of warnings. Don't drink alcohol with. (No problem.) Don't drive while using. (Could be a problem.) Don't use for more than five days, as dependency is a risk. (Not enough pills left in the bottle to worry about.) There's a whole list of possible side effects, too. But I'm only going to take one. I wash it down with a huge gla.s.s of water. And by the time I finish my makeup-blush, liner, smoky eye shadow, mascara, lip gloss-I feel better.

By the Time I get in my car and drive halfway to the studio, I'm feeling great. No worry, no pain at all. And, in fact, my empty stomach doesn't bother me either. This stuff rocks, except it does make my eyelids heavy.

I turn up the radio, crack the window. Cool air streams over my face, fights a sudden desire to let my eyes close. Just for a second.

Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut. Whoa. That's why they put those b.u.mpy things in the yellow line.

Okay, I'm awake now. Lots of traffic around me, and this time of day, there are bound to be cops doing speed control. I signal, pull into the slow lane, and somehow I manage the last five miles without drifting off, arrive at the shoot all in one piece. And happy.

The Photog Isn't quite ready for me, so I sit in a big comfy chair. I'm not alone in the waiting room. The man, who is fit and tan and wears pricey clothes, stares without apology. "What?"

His smile reveals perfect predatory teeth.

Sorry. It's just that you've got a great look.

You here to do portfolio stills? His eyes- striking green-continue their a.s.sessment.

I shake my head. "Pre-pageant publicity.

Miss Teen Nevada. I've got a portfolio."

Of course you do. I'd love to take a look at it. He pauses. Then, You repped?

"Yep. I'm with Maxine Delgado."

The studio door opens just as he says, She's good. But I'm better. Here's my card. Call me. I think we need to talk.

Sean

We Need To Talk Four words. Twelve letters that strike terror like a hint of a slither through tall gra.s.s.

I.

know what she wants to ask me, know how I made her feel. But I am afraid to admit there's something wrong with me. Something fundamental. I'm not sure if it's fixable.

But without it, I am less than a man.

How can I possibly tell that to the perfect woman?

Can't Stop Thinking About the other night-Cara so coming on to me, and me unable to give her what she wanted. What I wanted too.

My body's betrayal is not acceptable. And the really bad thing is, nothing is making it work right. Not the girl I've l.u.s.ted after, but had to wait for since we were freshmen.

And not the hottest Internet p.o.r.n. Okay, probably not the best thing for me to be looking at in my spare time, but I figured if anything could encourage this piece of dead wood attached to my groin, that would be it. So far, no good. Not giant b.o.o.bs, not girl-on-girl action, not even the vilest three-way romp I've ever been not-quite- disgusted to view. The d.a.m.n thing just lays there, like a bored housewife. And now Cara wants to talk to me.

If she wants to break up over this, I'll totally freak out. Maybe I should go to a doctor. Except a blood test, if he wanted one, would not be a good thing. Can't talk to Dad. Embarra.s.sing.

That pretty much leaves Chad. He's a loser, capital L.

But I have to trust someone.

I've trusted him with other stuff, maybe even bigger (so to speak) than this.

After all, he is my brother.

Chad Is A Senior At UNR, majoring in nutrition.

Not that he cares much about it. He wants to go into sports medicine, and nutrition was the closest he could get without moving too far from home. He'll go to Vegas next year, if he can get into their graduate program.

Grades may be a factor.

Like I said, he's not the most ambitious guy, which explains why he never became Dad's best hope for a professional athlete son. Lucky me. I did.

Chad has been very helpful to me there. Glad he isn't the envious type. Then again, jealousy takes a certain amount of effort. Just saying.

I Could Call But a visit to his apartment is almost always an interesting experience. He attracts a certain kind of people. Partiers, mostly.

And that usually means girls.

Yeah, I'm already attached to one. But it doesn't hurt to look at other ones, especially hot coeds. Chad may be lazy, but I guess he's got charisma.

I go straight to his place after practice, stopping to pick up sub sandwiches-the healthiest fast food I know. Chad would probably prefer burgers and fries, but oh well. I do let him know I'm on my way, so if he does have a female there, they won't be mid-dirty. Wonder if watching it live would fix my little problem.

But Today He's Company-Free Good thing. His place is a sty.

I pick my way through piles of clothes-clean or dirty, I can't really tell-cereal boxes, crumpled Keystone cans, somehow make it to the kitchen, where Chad's actually studying.

Hey, bro. Thanks for bringing dinner. Have a brewski.

He gulps a big swig of his own.

I go to the fridge, grab a beer, sit across the cluttered table from him, unwrap my sandwich.

He waits for me to say something, but I'm not sure how to start.

Finally he jumps in. You look like you're bulking up pretty well. You ready for opening day? Uncle Jeff said you rocked during your exhibition game.

I take a giant bite, wash it down with bitter beer. "I did okay.

But I've got to do better to impress a Stanford scout.

I'm working my a.s.s off."

Work is a good thing, hence...

He points to books, stacked tall on the table. Only one is actually open, however.

Wanna tell me why you're here?

To the point, which is probably good. "Well, this is kind of hard to talk about. Like embarra.s.sing."

Like maybe it was a mistake to come. How do I say this?

He looks up from his sandwich, studies my face, which must be the color of pomegranates.

What? You got an STD or something? He shakes his head.

f.u.c.k it. Just say it. "Not an STD. I couldn't get one if I tried. See, the problem is, I can't get it up. Not even when I really want to. Not even when my girlfriend takes her clothes off and climbs all over me. I'm barely eighteen, and my d.i.c.k acts like it's eighty. What's wrong?"

Chad grins. Dude, you know about 'roids and nut shrinkage, right? At my horrified grimace, he says, Too much artificial testosterone makes the real deal go away. That's one reason why you don't want to do too many cycles in a row.

Stop using, things should work like they're supposed to again.

Chad, Steroid Expert Is also my supplier. And not just mine. He underwrites his living expenses dealing illegal substances. Steroids are just the tipping-off place.

I'm glad there's a sound explanation. Still, "So I can't have s.e.x until I quit, or what?"

What about all those pro athletes and their hot women?

Well, I wouldn't say that exactly. Haven't you heard of v.i.a.g.r.a? He's got to be kidding, v.i.a.g.r.a is definitely for eighty-year-old d.i.c.ks, right?

I Leave Chad's With a pretty good beer buzz, one more round of muscle enhancers, plus a p.e.n.i.s fixer.

Holy c.r.a.p. But it's just for a little while. I also got a lecture about not combining v.i.a.g.r.a with other drugs. About 'roids and high blood pressure. About probable acne, potential liver or kidney problems, and (this is a great one!) the remote possibility of growing b.r.e.a.s.t.s. About steroids staying in your system for as long as a year or more after you quit them. Chad is quite the lecturer, considering he's also the pusher. Guess he doesn't want to feel guilty if I wind up needing a bra.

Personally, I Think It's all hype. Well, other than the p.e.n.i.s problem. And I guess my skin has looked better.

That, at least, can be fixed without resorting to pill popping.

I have to admit I'm curious to see if the "little blue pill"

can fix me. If it can make me some kind of s.e.x superstar.

None of the times I've had s.e.x before were what you might call memorable. Easy.

Fast. Not much in the way of intensive foreplay. Nothing like what you see in movies.

I'm a total amateur. Time for some real practice, with a little chemical a.s.sistance.

Now if only Cara is up for it too, like the other night.

A Little Fuzzy (Foamy?) around the edges, I decide to wait until I get home to give her a call.

I manage the icy drive without incident, park mostly straight, make my way inside. I'm pretty much a lightweight drinker, so the four beers I downed at Chad's have blunted my motivation. Glad I already ate, because as soon as Aunt Mo hears me come in, she calls from the kitchen, We're all at the table. Were you going to grace us with your presence?

She's b.i.t.c.hy. I'm fuzzy.

A deadly combination.

"No," I yell. "I don't feel so hot." Not a lie. Suddenly bed sounds like a good plan.

Andre

So Hot Beneath her cool veneer, she's steaming. You'd think she was thirty, not just sixteen, and I can't help but wonder how she learned the dance of the cobra.

Sensuous. Dangerous.

Deadly venomous. And I'm the snake charmer who snaps out of a trance to find the serpent has tricked him into tumbling under her spell. I swore this wouldn't happen.

Never believed it was possible to fall so hard.