Geesh, Justin thought, looking at the mounds of snow shoved to the sides of the road while more snow streamed from the sky, the bus inching its way along. He would've missed his connection to this bus if all traffic hadn't been slowed to a crawl by the near-blizzard conditions. His current bus was following a snowplow, which meant it was making forward progress as compared to the stalled traffic on the side streets. 

While they were en route, his wristwatch had suddenly stopped working, so the teen wasn't certain of the time. His fingers drummed nervously against his backpack as he fretted that he was going to be late. Dixon was bound to be there no matter what - he apparently lived within a few blocks of the school - and Justin knew the maths teacher would take great pleasure in reprimanding him in front of the class.

The moment the bus pulled into the stop near the school, Justin shot out the doors, shouting, "Thanks!" to the driver. His dress shoes gaining no traction, he skidded on the slick pavement but managed to remain upright. Heedless of the risk of injury, he loped toward St James, into the building, and then up the stairs at a dead run, barely noticing how empty the corridors were.

Justin heaved a sigh of relief, the bell tolling eight o'clock as he turned the knob to the calculus classroom. He wasn't late then. In fact, he noted as he walked to his usual desk, the only others in the room were Dixon and a female student, the one who constantly complained about having a full bladder.

"How kind of you to join us, Mr Taylor," the maths teacher greeted him sourly.

"Mr Dixon," the blond nodded in acknowledgement, biting down on his lip to hide a gloating smile. The bastard couldn't give him a chewing-out for being late, not that the teacher would've gotten much satisfaction out of it anyway in front of just one other student. He was curious as to what Dixon would do with only two of them in class.

When the eighth chime had died away and no one else had entered the classroom, Dixon begrudgingly announced, "The snowfall must've delayed your classmates. Unlike the public schools," he sniffed in disdain, "St James will remain open. We won't let a little snow force us to close our doors."

Typical, Justin snorted to himself. St James prided itself on staying open no matter the circumstances, boasting about always being ready to provide a quality education to its students. He felt a twinge of concern for Frau Rose, since the librarian had mentioned that she commuted into the city from West Virginia, deciding he would check on her at lunchtime.

After glowering at Justin and the full-bladdered girl for a few moments - Justin noticed she'd started to shift restlessly in her chair - Dixon announced magnanimously, "I'll give the other students until eight-twenty to arrive. If they aren't here by then, it will count as an unexcused absence and may affect their grade."

The teen blanched as he was reminded of St James' policy on unexcused absences. Although he hadn't racked up such absences for any of his classes, he knew Daphne had skipped out on calculus a couple times so she could hook up with Glenn. His friend could be in deep trouble if she missed math class for a third time and was docked half a grade for the semester - unless, of course, the administration bent its stringent rules enough to accept ‘a little snow' as an excused absence.

"You two," Dixon ordered, "open your workbooks and try to solve the problems in chapter thirty-one. You can hand in your solutions at the end of class, and I'll check whether you've managed to learn anything."

Staring at the teacher in disbelief for a moment - weren't the original midterm and the revision enough to assess their knowledge? - Justin pulled out his book and began carefully working on the problems. Shit, he reflected as he endeavoured to print extra neatly, he really should've practised that ‘computer writing' during the break.

The teen kept glancing at the wall clock as the minutes slowly ticked by, praying that Daphne would arrive before it turned eight-twenty.

8:07 and still no one else had entered the classroom. "I need to go," the girl began whining at a low pitch.

At 8:14, Hobbs' cheerleader girlfriend tumbled through the door with one of the other pom-pom girls. They scurried to the back of the classroom when Dixon glared at them and sat there in petrified silence.

No sign of Chris, but that was hardly surprising, the blond thought bitterly. Jocks like Hobbs got exemptions from many of the instructors, including Dixon. Without some creative assistance from the maths teacher, Justin doubted Chris could pass the calculus course at all. If Dixon could misread a ‘1' as a ‘7' on Justin's exam, he could certainly do the same with Chris' test so that it worked out in the athlete's favour.

Three minutes later, another student entered the classroom, water from melting snow dripping off his coat. "Sorry," he blathered, "my dad couldn't get the car to start and then-" The late arrival quickly closed his trap when Dixon merely stared at him stonily, and sunk into a seat near the front of the room.

Fuck, Daphne wasn't going to make it, Justin realized when more minutes elapsed, the second hand circling around until the clock read 8:21.

Dixon didn't say anything, his angry gaze roving across the five students seated in front of him. When the teacher's eyes speared him, Justin hastily looked down, his pencil scratching across the paper as he wrote down the answer to another problem.

"Mr Taylor, where's your little girlfriend?" the teacher sneered.

Knowing he couldn't afford to antagonise the homophobic jerk, or he'd likely end up in detention again, Justin gritted his teeth. "I'm sure Ms Chanders is on her way," he replied politely.

At that moment, Daphne yanked open the door and rushed into the classroom, her damp hair curling wildly around her face. Two other equally disheveled students hastened in behind her.

"How thoughtful - you've deigned to grace us with your presence, Ms Chanders, Mr Antonich, and Ms Watson," Dixon taunted the new arrivals. "I don't know how you can expect to pass this class if you can't be bothered to attend."

"I tried to get here earlier, I-" Jessica Watson, a ginger, spluttered, her voice dying out in the face of Dixon's withering glare.

"Spare me your feeble excuses," the instructor demanded. "They won't do you any good anyway, since I'm noting you down as absent." He pulled the student roster toward himself and made three marks on it.

A despairing Daphne slumped into the seat next to Justin, lamenting, "I'm never going to pass this class."

Justin only had time to send her a quick bolstering look before Dixon picked up the revision exams, slapping the stack of tests against the open palm of his other hand. "I'm disappointed," he declared mockingly. "I expected your results to improve markedly after I gave you a second chance, but it doesn't look as if any of you put much effort into doing better. To encourage you to study harder, I've decided there will be a test every Friday until the end of the semester."

Groans came from around the room.

"I'd better hear some thank yous," Dixon chastised, "for sacrificing my time to help you like this. Otherwise, the lot of you will undoubtedly be retaking the class this summer in order to graduate. I've graciously agreed to teach an intensive session then."

"Thank you, Mr Dickhead," someone at the back of the room had the temerity to say.

This was a rare instance when Justin found himself grateful that the sadistic teacher was looking directly at him and could tell he wasn't the wisecracker. Even so, he held himself as immobile as possible in the hope that Dixon wouldn't unleash his ire on him.

"There will," the instructor stated direfully, "be a special study session here in this classroom this coming Saturday at eight a.m. I expect everyone to attend. No exceptions. We'll review until I'm sure all of you are capable of achieving at least a minimum D- passing grade."

Since Dixon was still staring at him, Justin didn't dare protest. He didn't need the fucking study session, he thought resentfully, but he supposed it wouldn't hurt his SAT preparations - he had been intending to study for those upcoming, all-important exams on Saturday morning anyway.

"But I'm supposed to try on bridesmaids' dresses for my cousin's wedding!" one girl unwisely objected.

Transferring his baleful gaze to the bridesmaid-to-be, Dixon pulled out a test from the pile in his hands and read, "Farley, Vanna," with a gleefully evil look on his otherwise handsome face. Flapping the paper in the poor girl's face, the maths teacher tsked, "A dreadful performance if I ever saw one. Perhaps you should reevaluate whether a school like ours is for you, Miss Farley. You might want to look into Pittsburgh's beauty schools."

When he had finally brought the girl nearly to tears, Dixon looked at the next paper in his hands and acquired a sour expression. "Taylor, Justin," he sneered, eyes flitting over Justin's test.

"I'm sure you did great," Daph whispered to him, crossing her fingers.

The blond just nodded, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans.

"This was one of the weaker performances," Dixon announced loudly, slapping the paper in question in front of Justin. "Mr Taylor has only managed to improve by one single percent point. Better luck next time, I suppose - you're going to need it."

As the arrogant teacher turned his back on him, Justin glared. What a load of crock, he thought; he didn't need luck. Glancing at his test, he noticed there was no grade visible at the top of the page - Justin had to search for a good few seconds before he actually found the smallest ‘A' he had ever seen at the very bottom of the second page. 

Beneath the ‘A' was an even tinier score of ‘97'. The teen flipped through the test again, trying to find where the points had been deducted. Finally, next to one problem, he discovered a note in small print, stating, ‘Non-standard solution.'

The fucker! Justin swore to himself. The result wasn't incorrect, but Dixon had marked him down just because he'd gotten there in a way the instructor hadn't expected. If that had happened with any other student, he fulminated, Dixon would be singing their praises. Heck, he'd probably give them extra points for figuring out the solution.

"Chanders, Daphne," Dixon droned, causing Justin to look over as the teacher dangled a test in front of his friend. He couldn't see the grade because the teacher had the test turned round to the blank backside, extending the torture. "You'd better find a new study partner if you really want to pass the SAT," he jeered as he dropped the paper on her desk. "Your little boyfriend clearly isn't up to the task."

His face flushing, Justin had to dig his fingernails into the palms of his hands to keep himself from backchatting. He'd been back at St James for less than an hour, and the homophobic teacher was already getting under his skin with his mean-spirited insinuations.

With Dixon's body interposed between him and Daphne, Justin still couldn't see anything as his friend turned her test over, but he thought he heard a whoosh of relief. Thank fuck. It must've been an improvement over the last time, regardless of what the instructor had intimated.

A few more students darted into the room shortly before the class was due to end, and Dixon kept everyone for five minutes after the bell rang, lecturing them about the Friday tests and the mandatory study session on Saturday. Justin didn't have a chance to find out how Daphne had fared on the exam, Mr Dixon forestalling his exit from the room by calling out, "Your worksheets, Mr Taylor and Ms Brown. I'll check them over tonight."

Daphne mouthed, "See you later," while Justin waited to hand in his worksheet, Justin nodding in acknowledgement as his friend hurried away to her psychology class.

"Miss Brown, this is completely unacceptable," Dixon berated the girl, tossing the worksheet back to her. "You failed to solve a single problem."

"I'm sorry," the young woman whined, jiggling in place, "but I couldn't concentrate because I needed to go so bad."

"Bring the worksheet back tomorrow morning - completed," the instructor sternly insisted.

The girl fled - presumably toward the restroom - and Justin handed over his worksheet.

"I suppose that's the best I could hope for from you, Taylor," Dixon stated in a bored tone, barely glancing at his worksheet as he dismissed the teen.

Once he had his back safely to the instructor, Justin rolled his eyes. As if any other student could have performed so many calculations in less than fifteen minutes, he smugly thought as he trotted toward his Latin class.

Justin had a more leisurely walk toward his next class later that morning after the Latin lesson was over, Mr Sullivan having dismissed the students on time. As he was passing the last one in a row of lockers that faced onto the hallway, he heard someone gasping for breath and glanced to the side. Hobbs was smiling maliciously at a younger student - the same frosh Justin'd rescued the week before the Thanksgiving break - and removing his knee from the kid's midsection before pushing him down.

The blond looked around at the other students in the corridor, most of whom hadn't even noticed what was happening. A more observant student just shrugged and walked on, clearly not wanting to get involved.

"Hey!" Justin shouted, "If you need your dick sucked, why don't you ask your girlfriend?"

"You volunteering?" Hobbs sneered at Justin, fisting the younger student's hair in his hand and banging the kid's head into the locker.

"Why, Chris, I didn't know you wanted me to be your ‘girl'," Justin mocked, trying to distract the jock from his victim. "I'm afraid I don't have the right equip-"

He cut off when he noticed Dixon approaching, the teacher acting as if nothing untoward had happened. Looking down at the kneeling student, Dixon questioned, "Did you trip and fall, young man?"

"Yeah," the scrawny boy replied, his head bobbing up and down. He couldn't move far, wincing as the athlete's fingers pulled at the roots. 

"I was just helping him up," Chris averred with a smarmy smile for the maths instructor.

A few students had now stopped to watch the altercation, and the vice-principal could be heard calling, "What's going on down there?"

"That's very good of you, Mr Hobbs," Dixon commended the athlete. The teacher then turned away, waving at the vice-principal to indicate that there was no problem.

The bully tugged the younger man into a standing position before finally letting go. With a kick to the trembling boy's rear, Chris sent the lad stumbling in Justin's direction. "Cocksuckers United!" he crowed.

Justin knew he shouldn't aggravate the jock further, but he nevertheless taunted, "You must be the founding member."

Chris' scowl promised later retribution, but he stomped off without doing anything.

Much like the last time, the frosh had scuttled away as soon as he'd been freed, so Justin didn't have an opportunity to warn him to be more cautious in the future.

Shrugging in resignation, the blond continued on toward his creative writing class, where he saw Daphne waiting outside the door. He walked over to her and the two friends started chatting, speculating about what the cafeteria might have on offer for lunch, when Justin noticed Hobbs and Dixon walking down the hall, the calculus instructor companionably clapping the athlete on the back. 

"Asinus asinum fricat," Justin remarked, eyeing the two men.

"Huh?" Daphne questioned, glancing around to see what Justin was looking at. Raising her eyebrows, she attempted a clumsy translation, "Asshole causes friction with asshole?"

Justin snorted, still eyeing the two men. "Sort of," he agreed. "It loosely translates to ‘the jackass rubs the jackass'. It's meant to describe two people who are obsequious to each other." 

"You mean they kiss each other's ass, right?" Daph laughed. "You should just say that, Jus."

The blond reddened, excusing himself, "Too much ancient literature and poetry has muddled my brain, sorry."

His best friend shook her head fondly. "You're doing some reading for the SAT, huh? Good for you."

"Sure," Justin joked. "You never know what questions there may be about Cicero, Ovid, and Virgil."

"Cicero? Is that the French guy who's got a hotel named after him?" she asked, scrunching up her nose.

Justin stared at her, speechless. "Wha?" he breathed out in disbelief. "I- no! Cicero wasn't a French guy, he-"

Daphne started snickering softly, then giggling, and in the end burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. "Ha! You should've seen your face! You actually thought I was serious!"

"You... you-" the blond stuttered. "You got me," he admitted finally, poking his friend in the ribs softly. 

"How about trying some modern-day, creative writing?" Mr Crowley recommended, smirking as he held open the classroom door. The instructor had evidently overheard some of their banter.

The two friends looked at each other sheepishly before entering the classroom. "So, what are we doing today?" questioned Daphne, striking up a conversation with the teacher.

"We'll take turns critiquing your midterm projects," Crowley responded. It was his turn to look abashed as he muttered, "Although I'd rather not discuss what you saw during the delivery of your paper, Mr Taylor."

"Uh, no need for that sir," the teen spluttered, recalling both the awkwardness of Mrs Shy's greeting when he'd knocked on the staffroom door and then Mr Crowley's state of dishevelment.

"Good. Good. Just what I wanted to hear," the teacher replied briskly as he followed them inside.

The three then sat in the otherwise empty room in an uncomfortable silence until the rest of the students started to trickle in a couple minutes later. When chatter filled the room, Justin leaned over to Daphne, whispering into her ear, "I hope I get to critique yours."

"Why?"

"So that I can get revenge for that Cicero stunt you pulled," the blond explained.

His best friend shot him a disbelieving look. "You serious? You're acting like I killed your puppy; it was just a joke."

"A stupid one," Justin insisted. "You made me feel really bad for you because if you didn't know who Cicero was, you would never pass the SAT. Now I want to show you what it's like to feel betrayed by your best friend."

Daphne looked confused. "Jus," she pleaded. "It was just an innocent joke. I'm sorry if you-"

Justin couldn't hold it in any longer and burst out laughing. "Got you!" he chuckled. "Payback's a bitch!" 

The girl narrowed her eyes at him, fuming, "You won't be on top for long, Jus," which only made the blond laugh harder.

Crowley started parceling out the midterm papers then, and once the bell rang, the students quieted as they listened to his instructions on how to constructively critique one another's work. Justin didn't get Daphne's essay, instead having to critique a rambling effort of one of the cheerleaders, in which there were more gel-pen headlines than there was substance.

Not wanting to completely throw the girl under the bus, he tried to come up with some positive points but in the end probably didn't manage to save her from Crowley's C minus.

Justin hoped his essay hadn't been received equally as poorly. As the class ended, he glanced around in an attempt to discern who might've been reading it, but he didn't have a clue.

"Please return the essays to me," Crowley requested, "and I'll review your comments later today. Tomorrow, I'll return your papers, and we'll discuss revising your work. We'll continue to critique and revise over the next two weeks, and at the end of the term, you'll hand in a revised essay that I'll use to determine your final grade."

"I wonder who got mine," Daphne said as they headed downstairs to the cafeteria.

"It wasn't me," Justin said. "I was trying to figure out who was reading mine, but all I got was a sore neck from craning it around so much," he jested.

"Whose did you get then?" Daph asked curiously. "And more importantly, was it any good?"

"It was pretty disjointed," Justin revealed. He glanced around to make sure no one was listening, before confiding, "That blonde cheerleader wrote it. I'm surprised Crowley didn't mark her essay down even more."

"He must've been distracted by her giant bazookas," Daphne joked. Glancing down at her chest, she sighed. "I wish she'd give me some of her excess."

Justin rolled his eyes. "You have a naturally pretty face; you don't need tits."

"Says the man who likes cock," Daph exasperatedly replied. "Straight men want big boobs, Jus. It's the first place they look."

"Yes," Justin agreed before adding, "when the face doesn't interest them."

Daph shook her head. "You are such an idealist."

Justin protested, "Hey, I noticed Brian's face first, not his package."

"I can't compete with ‘The Face of God,'" his friend laughed. "And you certainly didn't have any complaints about his other attributes."

His member hardening in his pants as thoughts of Brian invaded his mind, the blond hastily redirected the conversation. "The right guy is going to appreciate your beautiful face and your brains, Daph," he assured his friend.

Justin didn't know what to make of the speculative look Daphne sent his way, but he forgot all about it as they neared the cafeteria. The door to the refectory swung open, the young woman screwing up her nose as they both got a look at the tray another student was carrying.

The blond stared at Daphne in dismay. "It can't be-"

"-that horrid dill cream sauce with undercooked potatoes and hard-boiled egg." his friend recited with him, looking like she was going to retch.

"Oh, man," Justin moaned, "the sauce is disgusting; the egg whites are rubbery; and the potatoes are always stone cold."

"Oh, wait!" Daph's countenance brightened. "I have a package of Oreos that we can eat."

"Thank fuck," the blond uttered in relief. "You've saved the day again, Daph."

Daphne grinned smugly. "Your turn to rescue us next time, Jus. In fact," she frowned, "weren't you going to make us sandwiches from the Thanksgiving leftovers?"

"There wasn't anything left in the fridge after the garage sale yesterday," Justin informed her.

The girl's eyebrows rose in amazement. "I know you eat a lot, but-"

The blond huffed out a laugh. "We had so much food left on Thursday - even after we all stuffed ourselves silly - that we could barely close the fridge. But then the garage sale morphed into a bake sale too. By the end of it, the only thing left in the house was a box of stale cereal."

"An Oreo lunch it is then," Daphne stoically announced. "I expect lemon bars from the diner tomorrow, though."

"You've got it," Justin promised. "Listen, could you grab a couple seats for us? I want to quickly look in on Frau Rose, check that she made it in okay from her home in West Virginia."

"You'd better make like the Road Runner with Wile E. Coyote nipping at his heels," Daph teased, "or the Oreos will be gone when you return."

"On my mark, get set, go!" Justin yelled, taking off at a run as his friend's peals of laughter followed him.

Less than two minutes later, the somewhat out-of-breath teen reached the library. He leaned against the door jamb, inhaling deeply as he recovered from his mad sprint. He'd become rather out of shape since being kicked off the soccer team, he ruefully mused. The go-go dance gig helped keep him fit to some extent, but it was only two days a week, not at all the same as running around the soccer pitch six or seven days in a row.

"Justin?" Frau Rose called out from her desk, where she was working on the computer. "Why are you loitering in the doorway? You know you're welcome here at any time."

"Trying to catch my breath," he admitted. "Daphne threatened to eat all the cookies if I didn't return quickly." He knew his friend wouldn't do that, although she might pretend like she had - just to get a rise out of him.

"You mustn't be eating in the cafeteria then," the librarian remarked. "I can't remember the last time they had something that tasty on the menu."

"It's only Oreos," Justin disclosed. "If Daph hadn't had the foresight to put a package in her rucksack, however, we'd be stuck with nothing."

"That obnoxious a meal, is it?" Frau Rose asked.

"It's that icky dill sauce around half-raw potatoes with an overcooked egg," Justin said in a disgusted tone.

"That is one of the more abominable repasts St James has on its sadly limited menu," the woman agreed. "I wish I had something more palatable to offer you and Daphne for lunch."

"I didn't come here to bum food off of you," the blond hastily replied. "I just wanted to be sure you didn't have any problems with your drive in this snowstorm."

"How nice of you to check on me." The teacher beamed at Justin. "The interstate was terribly congested, so what's usually no more than a forty-five-minute drive took well over two hours. I didn't open the library until nine-thirty this morning."

Justin glanced out the window, where the snow appeared to be falling more thickly than before. "Will you have any problems getting home?" he inquired, still concerned about his favourite teacher.

"I'm planning to head out early," the woman assured him, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "I'm officially off at two o'clock since I open up at seven o'clock to serve early-bird scholars and faculty. I usually stay till three-thirty or four, but today I'm going to make an exception."

The teen's stomach emitted a noisy rumble right then, making Frau Rose laugh. "Off with you," she ordered, her eyes twinkling. "You wouldn't want Ms Chanders to gain weight from ingesting all those cookies."

"I'll let her know I'm saving her from that awful fate," the blond laughed, waving at the librarian as he jogged back to the canteen at a slower pace than that at which he'd departed.

When he arrived at the cafeteria, it was to meet a glum-looking Daphne sitting at an empty table in the corner. "What's up?" he asked her.

His best friend scrunched up her face in distress. "I forgot the Oreos at home," she told him. "I put them on my bed before I went to brush my teeth after breakfast, and then I just left them there."

"Oh," Justin sighed in disappointment. "So I guess we'll fast?"

"Nothing else to do," Daph shrugged apologetically. "We can't even go and get something from the vending machines outside, since the school's not allowing us to go out during this weather."

"Bummer," Justin muttered, flopping down next to his friend. A few seconds later, his stomach rumbled. "Shut up, you beast," he chided the insatiable organ. "I can't feed you now."

Daphne tittered. "You do realise you're talking to a lump of tissue, right?"

Justin grabbed his midsection protectively, giving his friend his best offended look. "Quiet! He might hear you," he lectured. "Poor thing is sensitive."

"Like hell it is," countered Daphne. "Don't forget I saw you eat a whole bag of Cheetos, a bowl of cherries, and then follow it with Oreos and milk - all in one sitting."

Justin's stomach made itself known again, as if reacting to the girl's words. "Nice, Daph," he said sarcastically. "Tease him with ideas of food, why don't you?"

Before she could come up with a retort, his friend's own stomach joined the grumbling symphony. "Oops," Daphne grinned. "Mine's now angry too."

"Let's talk about something else," Justin suggested. "Maybe we'll forget about how hungry we are."

"Did you make it on time for calculus?" Daphne wondered. "Dixon didn't seem to be riding your arse any more than usual."

"Are you trying to make me hurl?" Justin complained. As if I'd let Dickhead anywhere near my spectacular bum."

His best friend chuckled. "Now that's a visual," she teased. "He's not all that bad looking, you know?"

"His attitude makes him look like a troll," the blond riposted. "There's no way to ignore that. Would you want him to touch your tits?"

Daph tilted her head in consideration. "Hmm..."

Justin swatted her. "Are you serious or are you just pulling my leg again?"

"If it would raise my grade, it might just be worth it," Daphne reflected.

Justin snorted. "Yeah, well... too bad for you that he's a closeted fag. Has to be with how much he enjoys Hobbs being up his arse."

The young woman tittered. "Then maybe you'd have a chance?" she suggested jokingly.

"I've already got an ‘A' in the bag," Justin boasted.

Daph sighed. "You're lucky; I'm still worried I might flunk out."

"How'd you do on the test?" Justin asked. "You still haven't told me. You did improve, right?"

"A nice big C," she announced, grinning. "I never thought I'd be this happy about getting a C but here I am, jolly as a rancher."

"Are you expecting candy as a reward?" Justin quipped.

"Oh, shut up, Jus!" she remonstrated. "You'll see, one day the phrase ‘jolly as a rancher' will be a household saying."

"Uh-huh," the blond giggled. "Along with the tagline, ‘Learn to eat ‘Ranchers' and you'll be branded with a big, fat C.'"

"Yeah, right," Daphne snickered. "Don't give up your day job, Jus, because you're no advertising genius."

"Yes, I am," he objected. "I've supplied Brian with the perfect name for his new ad agency."

Daphne's eyes glittered with interest. "Really? Gimme."

"Can't tell." He pouted.

"What? Why not?" she whined.

"The name belongs to him now, so it's proprietary information," Justin explained. "If he doesn't use it, I'll tell you. I promise."

She narrowed her eyes at him, scrunching up her nose. "Did he pay you for it? Because if not, shouldn't it be yours still?"

"I suppose," the blond allowed. "But I just wouldn't feel right about it, you know?"

She folded her arms across her chest, pouting. "You just don't want to tell me," she complained. "Me, your best friend."

Justin winced. "Don't, Daph. You sound like Michael."

"How can you say that?" the girl squawked. "I'm nothing like that prat!"

"I'm your best friend," Justin imitated Michael's nasally whine.

"Ugh, fine," she grumbled. "I'll stop with the whinging. But you have to promise to tell me the name as soon as you can."

"I already said I would," Justin replied. "When have I ever gone back on a promise?"

Acquiring a queer expression on her face, Daphne assented, "That's true."

"Give over," Justin protested. "What's with the doubting look?"

"Well," the girl drawled, her stomach rumbling, "you did promise to bring me a ham and turkey sandwich..."

"Circumstances beyond my control," he muttered, his tummy emitting a sympathetic grumble.

"No more talk about food," Daphne reminded him.

"Then it's back to the joys of calculus," Justin joked. "Seriously, though, congrats on improving your score so much. You have every right to be proud."

"Thanks, I feel really jammy - it seemed to me like I really screwed up on that test," she admitted. 

"All that studying paid off; it usually does," the blond smugly asserted.

"Yeah, but I can still get screwed over by the unexcused absences policy," she complained. "If only Dixon wasn't such a dick..."

Justin nodded. "Yeah, you better not have any more absences since just five will lose you a full grade," he explained. "Maybe you should take the bus from now on?"

Daphne let out an annoyed breath. "I guess. I'll have to take a bus on Saturday anyway, since my parents are both taking their own cars. Fucking study session," she complained.

Justin shrugged. "I'm not exactly enthusiastic about it either, but it's not gonna kill us. The weekly tests might actually help some of the students too."

"Not everyone wants to write a hundred stupid tests, Jus. Some of us don't like maths, you know?"

"Well," Justin tilted his head. "It's only really two Friday tests since the exam is on the fifteenth," he informed her. 

"What?" Daphne freaked out. "That's way too soon!"

"You didn't know?" Justin asked, surprised.

"Of course I knew," she retorted. "But there's a difference between knowing and knowing, you know?"

Justin laughed. "Yeah, I know," he said. "So, are we still up for studying on Wednesday?"

"Sure, as long as you stop talking about maths immediately," Daphne agreed. "The diner again?"

Justin hmmed in affirmation absentmindedly. 

"What?"

"Just calculating," the blond jested.

"You're so lame, Jus," Daphne groaned, throwing a wadded-up napkin at her friend.

Justin caught the napkin and lobbed it back at Daph but - distracted by the view out the canteen windows - his aim was off, the napkin flying over her head. 

Daphne hooted, "Lame!" again, balled up another napkin, and tossed it at the blond.

"Shit," Justin commented, staring outside, barely noticing the missile bouncing off his nose and falling into his lap. "I can't even see the spindly pine tree in the quad."

Daphne looked in the same direction, gaping at the heavy snowfall, which obscured everything a few inches from the building. "Geesh, I hope my dad won't have trouble getting back here to pick me up," she fretted.

"Huh?" Justin asked. "I thought your mum was the one to ferry you to and from school."

"She is," Daphne muttered, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth. "The weather doesn't usually faze her, but she was a bit freaked out about driving me in this heavy snow, so my dad ended up giving me a ride. He had to go really slowly, though, what with the ice building up under the snow."

"I barely got here on time," Justin commiserated. "Thankfully, after I transferred, the bus ended up following right behind a snowplough. We may have been moving at a crawl, but at least we were moving, unlike the stalled cars on the side streets." Contemplating the driving snow, he remarked, "I remember your neighborhood" - his neighborhood as well not so long ago, he thought a bit sadly - "having priority for snow removal."

"Not this time," Daphne shrugged. "The city was apparently overwhelmed by the severe conditions, so they concentrated all resources on the main roads. It was pretty impressive, really, the way my dad manoeuvred his BMW on the slick streets."

"I probably wouldn't have gotten out of the driveway," the blond self-deprecatingly admitted.

"Me neither," the girl agreed. "Bad enough having to shovel snow," she declared, poker-faced.

"Har de har. Like you've ever shovelled snow!" Justin accused. Belatedly aware of the rolled-up napkin in his lap, he scooped it up and launched it at his friend, who was now cackling in mirth.

Daphne glanced toward the wall clock at the back of the cafeteria and whimpered, "Do we hafta go to physics? I'm sure I bombed that bloody midterm."

"What do you mean by bombed?" Justin questioned as they got up and slung their backpacks over their shoulders. "Surely nothing like maths."

His friend winced as she looked at him. "Uh, maybe?" she mumbled. "There goes my bonus."

"Bonus?" the blond parroted. "Mr Horner didn't offer anything that I can recall."

"Ehm," Daph flushed, "not Horner. My folks said they'd give me two Ben Franklins if I got an A or A-. I only get one for a B-range grade, however."

Justin whistled enviously, teasing, "One Franklin isn't so bad. He was supposed to be quite the ladies' man."

"Ugh, the only place Ben looks handsome is on a C-note," his friend objected. Visibly wilting, she joked half-heartedly, "Dad'll probably make me pay him a hundred dollars for any kind of C or two of them for a D."

"That'll never happen," Justin asserted, knowing how much Mr Chanders doted on his daughter. "Your mum, now..." he trailed off.

"Yeah," the unhappy girl responded. "She's liable to ground me for the rest of the semester, especially if she finds out I'm struggling in calculus too."

"Why don't you up the ante?" the blond proposed. "Act all confident and tell them you want five Benjamins each for end-of-term A grades in calculus and physics and four for B grades. If we study our asses off, you should be able to get a B in each class. The final counts for the largest percentage of the final grade, after all."

"That's not a bad idea," Daph mused as they entered the physics classroom and settled in at their desks.

A few minutes later, the bell having chimed the one o'clock hour, Mr Horner began returning their midterms. Attendance was fairly sparse, Justin noted, a number of students apparently opting to stay home for the entire day, given the snowstorm.

Unlike Dixon, the physics instructor didn't belittle any of the students, simply offering a few words of encouragement where he deemed they were needed. "Relatively impressive, Mr Taylor," the instructor drily remarked as he handed Justin his test.

The young man beamed as he looked down at the exam, which had a large 100% and an A+ at the top. Relative to what? he thought smugly.

He looked over at Daphne, who had face-planted onto her desk. "Well?" he hissed.

His friend turned her head and gave him a mournful look, tilting up her test, so that Justin could read 67% and a D+ along with a message, ‘I know you can do better, Ms Chanders.'

"It'll be okay," Justin mouthed at her. "We'll study together."

Daphne nodded, perking up a bit and opening her textbook as Horner stated, "Let's review the theory of relativity."

As they exited the classroom at the end of the hour, Daph clutched Justin's arm and inquired, "You're sure you can help me raise my grade to at least a B-? You just reminded me at lunch that there's only three weeks left in the semester."

"Positive," he reassured his friend, "as long as-"

Hobbs' cheerleader girlfriend interrupted, pushing Daphne aside. "If he's gonna help anyone, it's gonna be me," she proclaimed.

Justin stared at the blonde pom-pom girl in shock, but then he rallied. "Sure," he drawled, "have Chris drop you off at the Liberty Diner after eight tonight, and we can study together."

"Lib... Liberty Diner?" the girl stuttered, looking utterly appalled. "Isn't that where the cocksuckers, uh, I mean, uh, the fags go?"

"Dykes and trannies too," Daphne helpfully chimed in. "Maybe you could find someone who'd like to have a threesome with you and Chris."

"Nuh-uh," the cheerleader denied. "Chris doesn't want anyone except me."

Daphne sniggered, patting the other girl on the back. "Enjoy living in the land of delusion."

Chris' girlfriend glared at them before demanding of Justin, "You can tutor me in the cafeteria at lunchtime." Pointing at Daphne, she magnanimously added, "I'll even let your little friend join us."

"Nope," Justin refused. "It's the Liberty Diner or nothing. Now I've got to get to my last class." He scooted around the cheerleader, who'd flushed an angry, mottled red. Leaving the outraged girl behind, he trotted down the hall toward the IT classroom, while Daphne headed off to her German lesson. He heaved a sigh of relief at getting rid of the annoying twit; she'd never dare set foot on Liberty Avenue.

While Justin was settling himself at one of the school computers, powering it up, Brian was pacing the length of his loft, sulking. He had spent the past two-and-a-half hours researching possible premises for his new business and had still come up empty in the end. It was like the brains of Pittsburgh's realtors had been frozen by the cold weather. He'd called a couple of them, and they'd been completely unhelpful. One agent had claimed, "We don't have any properties to show at the moment." even though their website had three new listings. From another realtor, he'd gotten a prerecorded message, "The office is snowed in. Call back tomorrow."

"Pussies," Brian grumbled to himself. How did such milksops stay in business? The only good thing was that none of the properties he'd seen online were all that appealing. Most of the buildings had boring, cookie-cutter facades. He wanted something edgy that would make his agency stand out, but none of the listings he'd seen would do that. There had to be a defunct theater, an abandoned church, or something else interesting out there.

Frustrated, he decided to head to the diner and put a bug in Debbie's ear. She'd be more likely to come up with possibilities for him than realtors who couldn't deal with a little snow. After dressing himself in a ridiculous number of layers so he'd keep warm - he ended up looking like a mummy, albeit a hot one - he made his way downstairs.

Brian snarled when, after opening the door to his building, he discovered that the sidewalk hadn't been cleared. "Fucking super," he growled. Should've been a real estate agent, he thought; the bloke was that useless.

The adman trudged through the snow to his jeep, which he'd had to park three blocks away from his loft on Sunday evening. "Of fucking course," he grouched, eyeing the vehicle, which had a snow bank piled up against the driver's side. Murphy's law was clearly against him, a city snowplow evidently having come through, heaping the snow against vehicles parked along the street. 

"Fuck," Brian groused again; he'd have to leg it to the diner. Turning up the collar of his coat to better protect his neck from the falling snowflakes, he was almost tempted to buy one of those Russian fur hats with the ear flaps. They had some weird name he couldn't quite remember, although he thought ‘hunk' or something like that was part of it. As he slogged through the snow, however, he decided against the hat - it would make him look like a grizzly bear. Reminded that he'd forgotten to check for stray hairs which the wax lady might've missed, he made a mental note to do so when he got home; no way did he want to be mistaken for any kind of bear. 

It seemed to take him forever to reach the eatery, although it was probably no more than fifteen minutes. There was very little foot or vehicular traffic, the only other pedestrian so bundled up that Brian couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman - or even human for that matter. 

After the brunet pushed open the door to the diner, he didn't move for a moment, shutting his eyes and basking in the warmth of the place. "Aaah," he moaned loudly.

"Are you having a fucking orgasm?" a well-known voice wisecracked. "Even if you are, you'd better shut the fucking door."

Brian glared at Debbie through slitted eyes, but obligingly moved forward enough that the door swung closed behind him. Musing that the heat surrounding him was almost as good as that to be found in a tight arse, he snarked, "You should know better than to interrupt a good climax."

The redhead cackled, "Saved you from damp jeans, haven't I? Knowing you, Buster, you ‘forgot' to put on underwear."

The adman smirked at his surrogate mother, shrugging in wry acknowledgement that she was correct.

"So what brings you out in this weather?" Deb inquired, as Brian seated himself on one of the green stools at the counter. "I doubt you're keen on driving in these conditions. Most of queer Pittsburgh had the sense to stay home," she added, waving a hand toward the nearly empty diner.

"Couldn't drive if I wanted to," Brian grumbled. "Idiot manning the local snowplough socked my car in."

Her eyes twinkling wickedly, the waitress suggested, "Maybe you could fuck him into doing a better job."

"With the way my luck's going today, the guy's a troll, or even worse... a dyke," the brunet muttered, causing Debs to almost bust a gut laughing.

"Fuck, Brian, that look on your face," Debbie gasped. "Gus has that same pout when he's not getting his way."

Brian grinned impishly, averring, "He has all his old man's best qualities."

"Holy fuck," the woman chuckled, "you just referred to yourself as old."

"C'mon, Debs," the offended advertising exec protested, "‘old man' is a synonym for ‘dad.'"

"Uh-huh," Debbie agreed, "with emphasis on old." 

Admitting to himself that there was no way he was going to win this exchange, Brian took the upside-down cup from the saucer in front of him and turned it over, before lifting an eyebrow at the redhead.

"Yes?" Deb inquired in a dulcet tone.

Brian arched his brow higher and gestured toward the cup.

"What's the magic word?" Debbie teased.

"Fuck?" Brian essayed.

The redhead chastisingly shook her index finger at the adman. "Try again, Kiddo."

Since it didn't look as if Debs was going to budge, Brian finally harrumphed, "Please."

"Did that hurt?" Debbie asked as she removed the coffee carafe from the hotplate.

"Fuck, yeah," the brunet groused, rubbing at his chest as if soothing a pain. He couldn't quite suppress a smile, though, which undermined the intended snark.

Debbie set a full sugar canister in front of him, before reaching out and patting him on the cheek. "Jesus, Brian," she remarked, "all you have to do is smile and bat those gorgeous hazels of yours, and you can have whatever you want."

"Right now, I'd settle for coffee," Brian drily retorted.

A crimson fingernail tapped against the sugar dispenser.

Sighing, Brian poured out just enough sugar to adequately sweeten the coffee.

Deb courteously decanted coffee into his cup until the liquid nearly reached the brim.

The adman batted his eyes at the redhead and smiled winningly. "Whatever I want?" he asked coyly.

"If it's on the premises," Debbie qualified her earlier statement.

"Huh." Brian glanced around consideringly before shaking his head. "Too small," he regretfully commented.

"What are you on about?" Debs questioned.

"These premises won't do the trick," the adman joked.

The redhead narrowed her eyes in irritation. "What for?"

"My new ad agency," Brian clarified.

"Well," Debbie adopted a serious expression, "you could have the manager's office at the back of the diner; I hardly ever use it anyway. Since the way to a man's heart - or pocketbook, in this case - is through his stomach, you should get plenty of high-rolling clients if we serve up our fine cuisine during your presentations."

"Like I said, not enough space," Brian quickly demurred, blenching at the notion of subjecting his clients to the diner's carb-laden food.

"Gotcha!" Debs gloated.

Brian scowled at her. Fuck, he was really off his game today to have fallen for that pathetic ploy.

Obviously taking pity on him, the motherly woman patted him on the cheek again. "So you're looking for property for your new business?" she asked.

"Yeah," Brian acknowledged, "and there's fuck all available from what I can tell. I need something at least somewhat avant-garde, so I'd appreciate it if you'd keep an ear to the ground for me."

"Of course, Kiddo," Debbie readily agreed. "Not even a mouse farts on Liberty Avenue that I don't hear about it. "We'll find you something innovative, just you wait and see."

Glancing out the window and noticing the snow was coming down even harder, Brian determined he needed to fortify himself before heading back outside. He took his refilled coffee cup and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette over to one of the empty booths and settled in for a while, absentmindedly nibbling on the lemon bar that Debbie dropped off at his table.

Hmm, he mused, it was already gone three o'clock, so it wouldn't be long before Justin turned up for his shift. Maybe he could entice the boy into a quick shag in the men's room and then follow it up with an all-night fuckfest at the loft.

Justin stared as his bus disappeared in the distance behind a curtain of falling snow. Well, shit, there went his ride home, he thought in frustration; how was he going to get home now?

Looking around the emptied out school parking lot, the blond cursed his bad luck. It just had to happen on the day Daphne didn't have a car with her. He paced back and forth in front of the bus stop, trying to figure out what to do. He couldn't walk home, since that would take hours. And if he travelled Shanks' mare, his body would probably be found frozen on the roadside months later when the snow finally melted, he self-pityingly brooded.

There wouldn't be another bus for at least an hour - if then - given the stormy weather. Justin tucked his mittened hands into his armpits in a futile effort to warm up his fingers; the cheap mittens were nearly useless, so that made yet another thing he needed to buy once he had some spare cash. A coat that actually had some insulation would be nice too, but he remained determined to set aside most of his wages to repay Brian.

Fleetingly, he also wished he had a mobile so he could call someone to pick him up. Justin frowned in consternation, however, as he realised he had no idea who he could call. Debs was working; Vic had looked rather peaked this morning, so there was no way the teen would roust him out of the comfort of their home; Mr Chanders would never circle back to the school to pick him up; and his former lover was still barely civil with him.

Justin brightened as he suddenly remembered the gruff detective's promise to help him if he needed it. He hesitated, hating to bother the detective, but since he was fresh out of options, he jogged over to the nearby phone box to give the policeman a call. The teen searched through his pockets for coins, sighing in relief when he pulled out sufficient change. He cursed, though, when one of the dimes slipped through his numb fingers, scrabbling around on the icy sidewalk to find it.

Three tries later, he finally managed to insert the coins into their slots and waited as the phone rang and rang. Fuck, he worried, the call would probably end up going to voicemail, and Carl wouldn't get the message till much later.

After the seventh ring, however, the call connected, a voice simply announcing, "Horvath."

"Ehm, I'm really sorry to bother you, sir," Justin rambled, "but I just didn't know who else to call. The bus is gone, Debbie's working, and no one else can help."

"I take it this is Justin?" the copper good-naturedly teased. "And that you've just gotten out of school?"

"Uh, yeah," the teen stuttered, embarrassed that he hadn't even thought to identify himself.

"I gather you need a ride?" Horvath inquired.

Justin felt like a total dolt for not making himself clear. "Yeah," he confirmed in an apologetic tone. "I know I shouldn't be bothering you at work, sir; you've got far more important matters to attend to." 

He was just about to tell the detective to forget it and try to hoof it home despite the inhospitable weather, when the copper assured him, "I'll be there as soon as possible, son. It's a slow day at the precinct; the criminal element is lying low in this weather that would freeze the balls off a pool table."

The teen giggled at the witticism. He'd have to share it with Debbie later; she was bound to appreciate it. "My balls are already icicles and about to fall off," Justin concurred, mortified when he realised what he'd just said.

The detective wasn't offended, however, responding with a hearty chuckle. "Why don't you wait inside St James?" he recommended. "You can watch for my car from there."

"Sure," Justin agreed. "Thanks again for coming to get me, sir."

"Enough with the ‘sir'," the policeman chided. "It's Carl, remember?"

"Uh, right, Carl," the teen awkwardly mumbled. It was going to take some getting used to before he'd be able to address the detective so familiarly.

Once he was off the phone, Justin looked for some more change so he could call the diner, but he didn't have enough money. Irritated, he dialed the operator and asked to be patched through.

"Justin?" Kiki's voice questioned moments later. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, sorry about the collect call," the teen apologised. "I'm going to be late for my shift because I missed the bus. I'll get there as soon as I can."

"No worries. The diner can handle the fifty-cent tab," Kiks laughed. "There's no reason to rush anyroad, since there are hardly any customers. Seems like lots of people stayed home to ride out the first really heavy snowfall of the season."

"Ta. That makes me feel better about leaving you in the lurch," Justin replied.

After hanging up, the blond trotted up the steps to St James, only to discover that the front doors had been locked. "Fuck," he grumbled, shivering in the icy air, before heading back to the bus stop and huddling on the bench.

Half an hour later, Horvath's car pulled up in front of him, Justin staggering slightly as he unbent his slender frame, stood up, and shuffled over to the vehicle. "Christ, that feels good," he mumbled, his teeth chattering as he sank into the passenger seat, the warm air from the vents caressing his skin.

The detective notched up the heat, explaining, "It took longer than I expected to get here; the streets are a total mess." As he carefully steered his car away from the curb, he remonstrated, "I thought you were going to wait inside, son."

"I wanted to," Justin defended himself, "but they must've locked up as soon as the last student left the building."

"Don't the faculty and administrators work till four or five o'clock?" Horvath queried sharply.

"During first period - that's my calculus class - the instructor made a big deal about how St James would never shut down because of a little snow, but I guess that doesn't apply when the students aren't around," Justin cynically commented.

"Hypocrites," the detective muttered under his breath, possibly not intending for Justin to hear. "Where to then?" he asked in a louder voice when he was sure he was securely back on the slippery road. 

"The diner, I guess," the teen hesitantly responded. "I'm late for my shift, although Kiki did say it doesn't really matter since there aren't many customers." At that moment, his stomach emitted a thunderous rumble, causing him to blush profusely. "And I guess I could use some of Debbie's lemon bars too," he added sheepishly.

Carl shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. "Lemon bars? That's what you kids live off of these days?"

"Ehm, today's cafeteria meal was absolutely revolting," Justin explained. "Hardly anybody touched it." As his stomach growled some more, he continued, "I didn't have time for breakfast this morning either, what with leaving the house super early so I could catch a bus that would get me to school on time."

The older man took his eyes off the road briefly, looking at Justin in shock. "You mean to tell me you haven't eaten at all today? You're going to give yourself some digestive problems if you screw with your body like that." Shaking his head, he looked around. "We're stopping for a normal, hot meal," he decided resolutely.

Another loud growl from the teen's stomach announced its approval of that idea. "Uh," Justin turned even redder, "Ta. That sounds great, sir." At the detective's admonishing frown, he stuttered, "I mean, Carl."

"How's that restaurant over there?" the copper suggested after a few moments of driving quietly, nodding his head at a posh-looking establishment at the corner of Bayard Street. "It looks good, doesn't it?" he asked the blond, before tagging on, "Most importantly, it's open."

"I've never been there," Justin replied, "but I'm sure it'll be good. Any food sounds good at this point," he stressed.

Pulling up to the curb carefully, minding the huge piles of snow everywhere, Carl turned off the car. "Let's go then; I could use a bit of grub myself."

The teen eagerly followed the copper into the fancy restaurant. They were greeted by a hostess, who guided them to a linen-covered table, handed them menus, and assured them that a server would be there shortly.

"Um," Justin mumbled after opening the menu, stunned by the astronomical prices, "maybe we can go Dutch?"

Horvath snorted. "As if I'd even contemplate letting you pay, son."

Squirming in his chair, the blond said, "I'm really not all that hungry, you know. Maybe I'll just have a salad; this French one with goat cheese sounds good." Naturally, his belly again rumbled loudly, making his blatant untruth apparent.

Horvath shrugged. "Sure," he agreed. "As long as you get some real food afterwards."

"Um, I think apples, cranberries, and cheese are real food," Justin insisted, "and certainly healthy."

"I disagree," the cop said with a slight frown. "All that fruit is what I call ‘hungry food'. You're going to feel full for all of five seconds and soon you're hungry again."

"Yeah, but..." the teen trailed off, before confessing in a low voice, "It's not right for you to pay for me. I've already intruded on your day, and you've been kind enough to give me a ride, but-"

"Justin," Carl interrupted him, leaning forward. His eyes were insistent as he continued, "You are a kid. You might be very mature for your age, working, living away from home... but all of that doesn't change the fact that you're still a child. And children shouldn't provide for themselves; that's what adults are for." He paused, before adding with a less serious face, "So shut up and let me be the adult, okay?"

For a moment, Justin feared he might break down and cry at how caring Horvath was. This must be how a real father behaved, something the teen wasn't used to. "Uh, okay," he managed to get out in a reedy voice.

"Good, pick something you think you'll like then," he nodded towards the menu.

Since there wasn't a single inexpensive item on the menu, the teen finally decided, "I'll have the tri-tip with the scalloped potatoes."

Carl hmmed, perusing his own leather-bound menu. "I'll have the sesame ginger chicken," he declared after careful consideration. "If it's any good, I'll have them pack some to go and bring it to Wen."

"Is that a favourite of hers?" Justin asked.

"I think so?" Carl answered uncertainly. "Who really knows what she likes? She mostly lets everyone know when she hates something."

"Haven't you been partners for years?" the perplexed blond persisted. "You must have some idea of what she likes by now."

Horvath chuckled softly. "I'm mostly joking, but she's not really one for praise," he explained. "Sesame ginger chicken doesn't usually get any complaints, though."

Justin grinned at the detective. "Sounds to me like she's using a sort of reverse psychology to train you," he jested.

"Well, today her strategy just made me want to leave the office, so I was glad when you called. She's all kinds of pissed today."

"Why?" Justin inquired, hoping for an entertaining bit of gossip.

Carl bit his lip, hesitating for a second, before revealing, "Got hurt on a call. Her ribs are bruised like hell, so she can't do her usual morning Tai-Chi - leaves her in a perpetually bad mood."

"Will she be okay?" the teen wondered. He couldn't help feeling concerned, even though he knew the diminutive detective was as tough as nails.

"Yeah, she's had a lot worse than that - always throwing herself in danger, that one," the detective assured him. Then he disclosed, "Wasn't her fault this time, though. She was chasing a suspect when one of the officers on the scene rammed into her accidentally - it threw her against a wall and made us lose the perp."

"What's she planning to do about him?" Justin asked, waiting with bated breath for the detective to divulge more details.

The cop shrugged. "We'll get the guy eventually, don't wo- oh, you meant about the officer," Carl chuckled self-deprecatingly. "Well, Officer Healy is in for a treat, because you know what Ming is going to do?"

"What?" Justin breathed out.

"Nothing," Horvath deadpanned. "She's gonna let him stew in his misery, just waiting for her to finally strike. Works like a charm."

"Yikes!" the blond exclaimed. "I'd hate to be in that guy's shoes. Detective Wen must be frustrated, however, not to have anyone to, uh, you know, intimidate in the meantime."

"She'll let it out in a boxing ring," the older man shrugged the matter off. "Now enough about Ming's sore ribs, how are you doing?"

The waiter came over, interrupting their conversation, and both men placed their orders before Justin belatedly responded to Carl's question. "I'm counting down the days till the Christmas break," the teenager stated seriously. "One week off wasn't enough, especially with the maths instructor terrorising the students first thing this morning. He tore into the ones who were late - as if they shouldn't have let a little obstacle like a snowstorm prevent them from making it to class on time - and then he disparaged everyone's efforts on the calculus revision midterm."

Raising his eyebrows, Horvath asked, "And how did you do?"

"Not bad, although I only improved by one percentage point over the original exam," Justin volunteered, scowling as he recalled Dixon's latest trickery.

"Maths was never my strongest subject, so I'd have been satisfied with a C," Carl remarked. "Is it like that for you?"

"Uh, not exactly," the teen stammered. He hadn't meant to mislead the policemen into thinking he'd done poorly on the test; now it would seem like bragging if he revealed that he'd gotten an A. "It's just that the teacher is always on my case because I'm gay," he explained bitterly. "He marks me down by deliberately misreading a ‘1' as a ‘7' or for reaching the solution in a way he never thought of."

"Maybe he's just hard on you because he thinks you can do better?" Carl suggested mildly. "It might not have anything to do with your sexuality."

"Oh, it's definitely because I'm queer," Justin countered. "He has selective hearing and vision, somehow never catching it when Hobbs or the other jocks call me derogatory names in class or bully me outside of class. Dixon's really clever with his behaviour and insinuations, though, never quite crossing the line in supporting the ‘macho' students or outright slandering me."

The detective narrowed his eyes at the teen. "Is Hobbs the student you mentioned to me and Wen in conjunction with your torched locker?"

Discussing Chris and his cohorts - and their constant bullying - almost made Justin lose his appetite for the succulent sirloin which had been delivered a few minutes earlier. "Yeah," he replied, his shoulders slumping in discouragement. "But even though it was right before the start of classes, with the locker still smouldering, no one will say they saw or heard anything."

"That may change after Wen has a chat with Dr Perkins. My conversation with him went nowhere, so she will be paying the principal a visit soon," Carl disclosed, a slight smile on his face.

"I'm sure she'll put the fear of Wen, uh, God, uh, the law, into Jerk- that is, Perkins," Justin fumbled his response, delighted by the idea of the scary Asian woman taking the headmaster down a peg or two. 

"The ‘fear of Wen'," Horvath chuckled, before sobering. "There's not a person in homicide," he asserted, "from the rawest recruit on up to the captain, that hasn't experienced that."

The teen entertained himself with a vision of Jerkins pissing his pants when confronted by Detective Wen... and wondered whether the Chinese detective might like a sketch caricaturing that meeting.

"What other classes are you taking?" Horvath inquired. "Anything you particularly enjoy?"

Justin mulled that over for a few minutes, before replying honestly, "There's some interesting subject matter in all my classes, but I suppose the one I like the best is IT. We get to work pretty independently, with guidance from the instructor. It'll look good on my college applications too, since I want to study art."

"Any kind of art in particular? I already know you can sketch, judging from that, er, drawing of Brian I saw at Thanksgiving." Horvath reddened as he referenced the nude drawing above Justin's Latin poem, which lauded the beauty of Brian's body. "I could see it was very good, although I tried not to study it too closely."

"Erm." Justin squirmed in his chair again. He would never have shown that drawing to the bluff detective, if he'd had a choice. Contemplating the courses he could take at university, however, the teen quickly forgot his embarrassment, babbling, "I want to experiment and see what suits me best, so I'd like to take a broad range of classes during my freshman year. I not only want to try out different mediums with painting, I also want to learn more about animation and graphic design, as well as illustration, film production, maybe some photography..."

"What other art-related classes are you taking besides IT?" the detective questioned. "You must be hard at work assembling your portfolio."

The blond's excitement fizzled as he divulged, "No other art courses." At the detective's baffled expression, he elucidated, "I'm lucky to be taking IT. My dad always insisted that I take courses that would fast track me toward an MBA at Dartmouth. I, um, kind of hoodwinked him into letting me take the IT course, by not revealing that it focuses on art rather than business applications."

The blond had been wolfing down his food while they talked, barely taking the time to savor the food because he'd been so hungry. He looked down forlornly at his now empty plate, shocked to realise he'd eaten the last bite of his steak and potatoes.

After staring in amazement at the plate that Justin had polished clean in a very short time, Carl offered, "Here, have some of mine. I've been putting on a bit of timber lately anyway, so it's best I don't eat so much."

"If you're sure..." the teen hesitantly replied, nudging his plate toward the copper. Horvath promptly scooped up some rice and deposited it on Justin's plate, following that with several chunks of the sesame chicken, before pushing the dish back toward the younger man.

Horvath commented wryly, "It's been too many years since I was a teenager, although I vaguely remember that I was a bottomless pit back then. My mum used to complain that my brother and I had her running to the grocery every day because we ploughed through the food so fast."

A pang of guilt briefly assaulted Justin as he worried that he was eating Debbie and Vic out of house and home. Then, remembering how Vic had said that she always cooked for an army, even when it was just for the two of them, the teen relaxed. "Yeah," he admitted, "I really landed in the clover, living with Deb and Vic. There's always shedloads of food, way more than even I can eat."

"That's the way it should be," Horvath approved before returning to their previous discussion. "So tell me, what else are you doing in terms of college preparation?"

"Well, I've got the SAT coming up soon," Justin disclosed, "so most of my spare time will be spent studying for those."

"Hmm, it's been donkey's years since I was in high school," Carl said. "What do those tests look like nowadays?"

"Probably not all that different," Justin shrugged. "The maths sections concentrate on algebra, geometry, and some trigonometry. I've had all those and I'm doing pretty well at mastering calculus, so I don't anticipate any problems. As far as English, it's all about reading comprehension on a variety of topics, plus grammar, vocabulary, and editing skills. There's also an optional essay, to demonstrate you know how to build a persuasive argument."

"Will you be writing an essay?" Horvath wondered.

The teenager rolled his eyes. "Yeah, along with every other senior student at St James. Since we were freshmen, the teachers have been drumming into our heads that we need to hone our writing skills if we're serious about going to college. So, really, it's mandatory, not optional."

"It sounds to me as though you're already all set to do well on the tests," Carl remarked. "Are you worried for some reason that you won't achieve good scores?"

"I should say I want to do as well as possible for my own satisfaction," Justin confessed, "and that's partly true. Mainly, though," the lad cheekily added, "I want to outscore Daphne. Bragging rights, you know?"

The detective chuckled. "A little competition isn't a bad thing, as long as you won't be a sore loser if she does better than you."

"Not even if she rubs it in mercilessly," Justin promised, "which she definitely would do."

Carl laughed again. "That's the right attitude, son."

Justin beamed at the older man. Made up that Carl was taking such an interest in him, he thought for the second time this afternoon that this must be what it felt like to have a dad. The blond couldn't recall Craig ever taking much interest in his son's achievements, even before he found out Justin was gay. He immediately dismissed the wish that Carl were actually his dad, however, fearing the man would be weirded out if he knew what Justin was thinking.

Most likely seeing Justin's strange expression, Carl raised his eyebrows questioningly. "What's wrong?"

"Uh, nothing?" the teen hurriedly replied, making it sound like a question.

The cop narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Uh-huh," he uttered skeptically, searching Justin's face for something before deciding to change the subject, "How's the chicken?"

"Yummy," the teen claimed, popping a piece of chicken into his mouth. "Are you gonna bring some to your partner?"

Horvath shook his head. "It was good but it didn't exactly taste authentic; I don't think Ming would appreciate it. I'll just buy her some of those lemon bars you mentioned." 

While Justin was chowing down with Carl, Brian was getting roused by insistent nudging to his shoulder. "Stop shaking me," he complained. He had been sitting slumped in his booth, enjoying a deliciously erotic daydream. No more than fifteen minutes could've passed, he thought, resenting being so rudely manhandled.

"Brian, wake up," Debbie insisted.

"Wasn't asleep," the brunet protested, trying to focus on Debs through bleary eyes.

"Yeah, right," Debbie refuted. "The cute little wheezing sound wasn't you snoring then?"

"I don't do cute," Brian objected, "and I don't snore either."

The redhead rolled her eyes. "My shift is over, and I'm going home. I thought you might want to head back to the loft before it gets any later."

Brian frowned as he looked around. The diner was even more deserted than it had been earlier, with the blond brat nowhere in sight. "Where's Justin?" he asked.

"He's been delay-" Debbie began before the brunet cut her off.

"Delayed? By what?" Brian snorted. "I heard on the radio that all the schools closed down because of the severe weather. Is the twink busy painting his toenails?"

"Liked that red nail polish on Justin, did'ya?" the woman questioned knowingly.

Brian shifted uneasily. In his daydream, the blond's fingernails had been tinted red, and he'd had on that damned corset...

"Anyhow," Deb continued, "the school shutdown doesn't apply to private institutions - those can decide themselves whether to close or not, and St James is apparently famous for never closing for anything. The roads are completely fucked up, so it may be a while still before Justin gets here.

"Fuck," the brunet muttered testily. There went his plans to fuck the twink - again. At this rate, his dick was going to wither and fall off from lack of use.

Debbie raised her eyebrows, teasing, "Why? Did you need Justin for something?"

"Nah," Brian tried to play it off as if he'd merely been curious, "I just thought he might be slacking off. Otherwise, he'd be in my face, like always."

Debbie cackled. "In your face? Sure, Honey, just tell yourself that."

Bloody woman knew him too well, Brian thought. Manoeuvring his lanky frame out of the booth, he stretched, his bones popping. "Maybe I will head home," he remarked in an indifferent tone, "and check the real estate listings one more time. Who knows? One of those lazy realtors might have actually done a bit of work and listed something worth checking out."

As he stepped out of the diner with the redhead, reaching back to turn up the collar of his coat, an icicle broke off from the top of the door, fell onto the material Brian was flipping up, and slithered down his back. "Fucking perfect!" the adman yelled, whirling around like a dervish.

Debbie burst out laughing and provided no sympathy whatsoever, waving as she walked away toward her house.

Might as well go neck a bottle of Beam, the brunet decided. It wasn't as though he'd be necking anything else.

Back at the restaurant, Carl looked at all the empty dishes on their table, and asked, "You ready to go?"

"Sure. I shouldn't leave Kiki on her lonesome any longer," Justin responded.

Raising an index finger to subtly motion for the waiter, Carl pulled out his wallet. "Let's pay and we'll be on our way then."

As they walked out to the car, the teen inquired hesitantly, "Would you be interested in looking at more of my sketches? I'd like to have your opinion on my character studies; I've been trying to capture people from all walks of life."

The copper's eyes brightened. "Of course!" he agreed readily, then paused, adding, "As long as there are no more nudes, that is."

"Would you object to naked women?" Justin teased.

"I don't want to see any nudes from you, son," Carl replied, immediately looking around to see if anyone had heard him. Thankfully, the street was empty. "Well, that sounded weird," he commented. "Could've been worse - I could've said I wanted to see some."

"You'll have to pick up the latest issue of Playboy if you change your mind anyway," Justin quipped. "I only draw naked men." Specifically, naked Brian, he thought to himself.

"I can understand that, I suppose," admitted Horvath. "I wouldn't want to draw something I don't find attractive either. However, I think you're going to have to draw women - even naked ones - once you're in arts school. I imagine it's part of the curriculum." 

"I'll manage somehow," Justin sighed as he climbed into the detective's car, "although I'm not looking forward to dealing with those floppy bits."

"Floppy bits?" Carl asked with a chuckle, turning a key in the ignition.

The teen screwed up his face and spat out, "Their tits. They're all gross and squishy. I mean, they're literally just sacks of fat - like a camel has! What's the point of them anyhow? I've yet to meet the woman who's happy with what she's got."

Scrunching up his nose, the detective admitted, "Sounds horrible when you say it like that." Then, looking sideways at Justin, he continued, "But as for their use - you should know that if you're such a good student."

"Of course, I know," Justin protested. "But it's nothing I want to su-" He abruptly stopped speaking, mortified at what he'd been about to say.

"Right, let's change the topic," Carl decided resolutely, looking a little uncomfortable.

"Heck, yes!" the teen vehemently agreed. How they'd ended up talking about boobs, he had no clue. Stupid false biological advertising, he thought bitterly. Quickly searching for something to say, he remembered Carl had said he'd look into his stalker trouble. "Anything new about the alleged stalker?" he asked.

"Right before you called this afternoon, I completed my unofficial investigation," Carl disclosed. "One of my mates in IT helped me track the buyer of Brian's mattress, and based on that plus talking to various parties at Babylon, I was able to determine that there was no stalker, that it was all wild gossip."

"You mean this whole stalker business was just a case of gossiping fags making up stories?" Justin inquired, becoming angry. "I've been scared out of my wits since Thanksgiving just because some queens were bored and started rumours?" His voice had escalated as he spoke, until he was almost yelling.

"Calm down, son," Carl advised. "Rumours do get blown out of proportion sometimes. You should just be glad there's no danger."

"You're right," the blond acknowledged, muttering, "At least I won't have to be accompanied everywhere I go any more."

"I'm partly responsible for that," Carl revealed. "I talked with Debbie and then made arrangements with Officer Reyes to drive you home from Babylon. I won't apologise, though - it's far better to be safe than sorry."

"Um, thanks, Carl," Justin mumbled. "I should've said that right off instead of griping about being escorted to and from Babylon. I really am grateful for all your help."

"You're welcome," the older man muttered, slowly pulling to a stop at a red light - the car sliding several more metres even after the wheels had stopped. "Jesus, these fucking roads," he swore.

"Fuck. I'm glad I'm not driving," the teen breathed out. "I'd have rear-ended someone by now."

"It's not usually this bad," Horvath reassured Justin, who was gripping the dash with white-knuckled fingers. "Once city maintenance gets its shit together, the roads will be more navigable."

The detective's car slowly made its way through the icy Pittsburgh streets until it arrived at Liberty Avenue. Surprisingly, the road was much better than elsewhere. "Well, I'll be damned," commented Horvath. "They already cleared it here."

Justin looked around in surprise. "Weird. Why would they-" he trailed off as he noticed a group of queens dragging a wheelbarrow with a couple large white bags on it, pouring rock salt onto the street out of one of them. "Oh, I get it now," he told Carl, pointing at the group.

The policeman huffed in laughter. "Are they wearing heels?" he questioned, staring at the men in wigs, wearing long fur coats and knee-high, high-heeled boots.

Justin laughed. "Yeah, I guess we've figured out why they're salting the street - it's hard to walk on ice when your feet are on thin needles."

Finally stopping in front of the Liberty diner, Carl commented in a low voice, "A bunch of crazy women."

The blond teenager felt a pang of pride at how readily the older man called the transvestites ‘women'; it seemed old dogs could learn new tricks after all.

"Thank you for the ride," Justin said appreciatively, unclasping his seatbelt and reaching for the door handle. "And the meal," he added with a smile.

The copper gave him a small smile. "You're welcome," he told him, before undoing his own seatbelt. "I'm coming in with you to buy those lemon bars," he reminded the blond.

"Oh, right." Justin opened the car door, and immediately a violent shiver racked his whole body. "Fuck that's cold," he complained. "How did you say it? It would freeze the balls off a pool table?"

Carl chuckled. "Yeah, it's like Siberia out there. Maybe you should buy yourself an ushanka," he suggested.

"A what?" asked Justin. "Ush- ush-anchor?"

"Ushanka," the policeman repeated. "That furry Russian hat with ear flaps."

Justin scrunched up his nose. "Why give it such a weird name?"

Carl raised an eyebrow at him. "It's derived from a Russian word for ‘ear', I believe. Now come on, let's get inside or we'll really freeze out here." 

It was much later that day that found Justin sitting at the small wooden desk in his room, finishing up his homework. It was nearing nine o'clock, and mouthwatering smells were beginning to leave the kitchen as Debbie cooked downstairs. Closing his physics textbook, the blond teen stretched his back and rose from the uncomfortable chair.

His stomach grumbled. He shook his head in amusement, looking down at his belly - if his life were a book, today's chapter would be called ‘Of grumbling stomachs and frozen balls'. He decided to go and keep Debbie company as Vic had announced he was tired earlier that evening and was already in bed.

"Finished your school work?" Debbie asked as soon as he came downstairs.

"Yeah, it wasn't really difficult. Whatcha cooking?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

Debs tittered. "You forgot the ‘good looking' part, Sunshine," she complained jokingly.

Justin shrugged. "I figured I shouldn't flirt with a taken woman - I actually like Detective Horvath; I wouldn't want to step on his toes."

"Oh shush, you," the redheaded woman blushed. "We're not dating."

"Yet," the teenager added, making a kissy face at his surrogate mother. Then he went a little more serious and told her, "He's a really great guy, though - he actually cares, you know?"

Debbie gave him a soft look. "That's great, Kiddo. What did you two talk about anyway?"

Shrugging, he answered nonchalantly, "Just school and stuff." Then, remembering, he exclaimed, "Oh! He did say that the whole mattress stalker situation was just a result of unruly gossip. Apparently some bored queens just basically made it all up."

Had he thought Debbie would be angry on his behalf for uselessly worrying, he'd have been wrong. "That's a relief," she sighed with a large grin. "I'm so glad, Sunshine!"

He rubbed at his forehead. "Yeah. Well, I was a little pissed at first, but now I'm just relieved - I won't have to constantly look over my shoulder anymore."

Debbie gave him a tight side-hug. "I know, Honey. It's good in a way, though, if it's taught you to be more cautious," she added. "There are all sorts of nutjobs out there."

"Yeah," Justin agreed, remembering the jizz-o-graph weirdo who'd approached him at Babylon. He hoped he'd seen the last of that creep.

"Pour yourself some milk and sit down," the redhead ordered. "This goulash is just about ready."

The teen readily complied, quickly inhaling one bowl of the stew once it was set in front of him before starting on a second.

"Except for that minor snow problem, how was your first day back at school?" Debbie asked.

Justin shrugged. "Dickhead Dixon figured out a way to knock off a couple points on my maths midterm, but he actually did write an A in tiny print at the bottom of one page."

"I'm proud of you, Kiddo," the motherly woman said, "persevering in spite of all the hatred at that school."

The blond flushed, made a bit uncomfortable by the praise. It wasn't like he had much of a choice about going, not if he wanted to get into university. "Um, Dixon has called a mandatory calculus study session for this coming Saturday morning, so I won't be able to work my usual shift. Will that cause problems for you?"

"Nah, you were only going to work a couple of hours anyway, what with preparing for your SAT," Debbie replied. "It'll be no problem to schedule someone else."

"I'd rather work," Justin complained. "I hate losing the income."

"A coupla hours at the diner wouldn't make much difference in paying back Brian," the redhead observed.

"I know," the teenager concurred. "But there's so many things I'd like to buy..."

"If there's something you need, you'd better tell me," Debs insisted in a sharp tone. "We'll figure out a way to get it, no matter how much it costs."

"I don't need new underwear," Justin joked, "but I sure would like to replace my tighty whities." No way was he going to complain to his surrogate mother about his threadbare mittens or his inadequate shoewear. 

"Your cute tush looks better without undies," the redhead teased, laughing when Justin turned beet red.

The flustered blond was at a loss for a suitable retort, so he mopped up the remainder of his goulash with a piece of bread and shoved it into his mouth.

Later, as he crawled into bed, the snow continuing to sheet down outside his bedroom window, Justin decided he'd better catch an even earlier bus the next morning - no way was he going to let Dickhead gloat over his tardiness - even though it meant sacrificing an hour of sleep. He set the alarm accordingly, scowling at the dopey Captain Astro sticker affixed to the clock as he did so. 

The blond then rolled over onto his side, reached into the drawer of the nightstand, and pulled out Bob. He was so tuckered out, however, that he'd barely turned back over when he fell sound asleep, cradling his Battery Operated Brian to his chest.