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From: "Gina Marie Wylie" <gmwylie98260@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Tom's Diary 4-12-02 {Gina Marie Wylie} (teen, cons)
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Date: Mon, 12 Apr 2004 22:10:02 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Tom's_Diary_4-12-02.doc" begin>

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	The following is fiction of an adult nature.  If I believed in
setting age limits for things, you'd have to be eighteen to read
this and I'd never have bothered to write it.  IMHO, if you can
read and enjoy, then you're old enough to read and enjoy.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	All persons here depicted are figments of my imagination and any
resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly a blunder on my
part.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	Official stuff:  Story codes: teen, con.

	If stories like this offend you, you will offend ME if you read
further and complain. Copyright 2003, by Gina Marie Wylie.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	I can be reached at gmwylie98260@hothothotmail.com, at least if
you remove some of the hots.  All comments and reasoned
discussion welcome.

Below is my site on ASSTR:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gina_Marie_Wylie/www/

My stories are also posted on StoriesOnline:
http://Storiesonline.net/

And on Electronic Wilderness Publishing:
http:// www.ewpub.org/

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++	

Tom's Diary

Friday, April 12, 2002
	
It's easy to get spoiled; I'd learned that a while ago.  Even
spending one night alone made me long to have someone else in bed
with me.  Having someone beside made me feel complete in a way I
didn't really understand.  JR complained I needed a bigger bed,
but I wasn't sure.  It was nice to feel the warmth of someone
beside me.  If I had a big bed, they could wander away...  What
would be the point of sleeping together then?

I heard a soft sound in my dream; I thought it was someone
talking behind me.  I tried to turn in my dream, but I was stiff,
and I couldn't manage it.  Frustrated, I tried harder, like I'd
done in the upside down car.  I still couldn't turn in the dream,
but I woke up.

I heard JR say in a quiet voice, "Thanks, Jenny."

"Sister Joanna, you never have to say that to me."

JR giggled.  "I don't think sisters are supposed to do what I
want you to do to me.  And vice versa."

I felt JR sit down on the bed, then move to lie down.
"We'll wake up Tom," Jenny whispered.

"He can watch if he likes.  But it was you I missed more than
Tom."

"Joanna, I love Katrina."

There was silence for a second; they were kissing.

"And I'm not sure who I have the hots for.  Shannon is so
confused, so desperate to have some guy to cling to for all time.
 She likes our love making, but it's not the same thing to her. 
Penny and I... we just plain like to do it.  God, sex is good! 
Sue Ellen... that was a surprise!  I was in the mood, but I never
figured her to be.  Wham!  Bam!  It was everything I've ever done
with Penny, it sure wasn't her first time!"

Jenny's voice sounded nervous.  "It makes me uncomfortable when
you talk about other people."

JR put her arm around Jenny, and there was another moment of
silence.  "It upsets Tom, too.  I don't understand why I do it. 
Once Mom and Kim found out about Penny and me, they had all this
history they told us about.  And when I wanted to do it with Tom,
there was more history.  They didn't mind talking about it, so
neither did Penny or I.  It was a really easy bad habit to pick
up."

Jenny giggled, and I felt the two squirming around.  Jenny
giggled again.  "How come such a small girl is so good at
tickling?"

I mentally answered that.  Because growing up our parents had
tickled us; we'd tickled each other.  For years, if either of us
were slow getting up in the morning, the 'tickle bugs' would come
for us.  It took the sting out of being admonished for not
getting up on your own, and provided a motivation down the line
to take care of it yourself.

They were still kissing when the alarm went off, and I reached
over and pushed it, without looking behind me.

"You got that awful fast, Tom," JR told me.  "Were you awake?"

"Yes," I said economically.

"Would you mind taking the first shower?" JR asked.

"No, of course not."  I got up, got my things and headed out the
door.  Behind me, JR said in a frustrated voice, "You could have
at least looked!"

I stood at the door, still looking the other way.  "Oh, think of
this as a more adult version of tickle bugs."

She started giggling, and I made the short trip down the hall. 
When I went back to my room to dress, JR was resting in Jenny's
arms.

"Morning, sleepy heads," I told them.  "Someone else's turn to
get wet."

"Tom, are you really cool with this?" JR asked, wrapping an arm
around Jenny, and kissing Jenny on her cheek.

"Very cool with it, JR.  I love the two of you.  In different
ways for each of you, but I love you.  Maybe it's my male ego
talking, but I think you love me.  JR, I understand about wanting
to be safe.  Oh my gosh!  Do I understand that!  I understand
waking up in the morning wanting to make love.

"I am not," I said emphatically, "going to be the one and only in
either of your lives.  I'm going to be there, now and then.  I
can deal with it.  And you know why?  Because if I can't make
love to you right now, there's later."

I stopped, realizing something.  I walked over to my desk and sat
down, then put my head down.

"Tom?" Jenny asked, now sitting up on the bed.

"You know, I keep thinking I'm getting a handle on life.  On
being grown up.  I said that about there's later.  I don't know
there's really going to be a later.  Hope that there will be,
faith that there will be; that's what sustains my belief.  But
it's not just faith in who I'll wake up next to, tomorrow, but in
all sorts of things.

"You, Jenny.  You knew a lot more despair than hope and faith.  I
thought I understood what drove you to Kim's, then here.  But I
think I have it backwards.  I thought you had faith the adults
could protect you; but it wasn't that, was it?  It was just
hope."

"You taught me faith," Jenny told me.  "You laid between me and
the door.  I knew that if Sam wanted me, you'd be there.  I knew
that you'd stand up to him and win.  With Kim, with your mom,
that was hope that they'd keep me safe.  You taught me faith. 
The promise of protection, not the hope of it.  Am I making
sense?"

"Oh yeah!"

"Too deep for me!" JR said.

I met Jenny's eyes.  I willed her to understand that I never
wanted JR to find out what the distinction was because in order
to understand, she'd have to pay the price.  I'd gotten off
lucky; Jenny hadn't.  Mary and her daughters hadn't been lucky. 
Or Gloria, or Janey.  Even Sue Ellen and Tony had paid to learn
about faith and hope.  What else is it, I thought, when you can
look a friend in the eye, and say, "Tomorrow we'll be back
together again?"

And of course, prognosticating about the future brought me back
to Elizabeth.  It would be impossible to believe in the future, I
thought, without faith and hope.

I was still quiet at breakfast; but Mom had questions.  "You
haven't really said what you are doing tonight.  'Going out.' 
Okay, that's fine.  When might we expect you back?  What are you
going to be doing and where?"

It would be, I thought, easy to get on my 16-year-old high horse
and say it was none of her business.  Maybe I could have done
that before I'd made love to my mom; I wasn't going to do it
now.

"I don't know for sure when I'll be back, and I'm not sure
exactly where I'm going to be.  I'm going out with a fellow who
does outreach for teens in trouble.  Late, almost certainly.  And
wherever it is he takes me."

"And just what is it exactly, that you're going to be doing?" 
Mom asked.

"That I don't know.  I went to an orientation Tuesday, but that
didn't work out as well as I expected.  Now, I'm going to be more
humble, and more interested in learning what I need to know."  I
paused, and smiled at her.  "If I'm going to be past two, I'll
call."

Dad chimed in.  "Thanks, but no thanks.  Calls at that time of
the night are too scary.  Just call if you need help, okay?"

"Okay," I told him.  I could see Mom was troubled, but I knew I
had to shake it off.

Finally, it was van pool time.  We picked up Penny, and then went
to get Elizabeth and Shannon.

I was mildly disappointed to still see Mr. Miller in homeroom,
but I didn't say anything.  I just sat down.

First on the morning announcements was the message that Dr. Stone
had retired 'for reasons of health' and that there was a search
in progress for a new principal; in the meantime Mr. Jones had
the job.  Later in the day Uncle Craig called and told me that
the school district had capitulated entirely.

April and May, I thought.  It really was too much to hope that
they'd find someone I liked and put them in the job for such a
short time.  That, and I wasn't exactly in charge; they, whoever
'they' were, had a job to do, and no doubt they'd do it.  I hoped
they found someone better than Dr. Stone.

At lunch, I talked to Tony, Sue Ellen, Elizabeth, Shannon and
Gloria about starting a college search group.  Tony just
shrugged.  "Man, next year the scouts come, Tom.  I may or may
not get offers, depending on how good a year I have.  If I get
offers, I can pick and choose.  If I don't get any offers, or
don't get any I like, then I have to decide if I really want to
play.  Because what I'll have to do is show up at a college, and
tryout as a walk-on.  That's really, really hard."

"I'm going to Cal Tech," Elizabeth said emphatically.

"Are you?" I asked.  "Have you looked at their catalog?  How
likely are you to meet their requirements?"

Elizabeth met my eyes; her expression was a little smug.  "I
don't want to sound like I'm speaking out of turn," I told her,
"but I think I'd want to make sure my 'i's' are dotted and 't's'
are crossed before I made my own predictions."

I saw a sudden wilderness in Elizabeth's eyes.  I felt
insignificant; a tiny pimple on the ass end of human existence. 
I'd popped the bubble of my true love's fantasies, and I'd
thought it was a joke; something she would have been sure to take
care of.

Elizabeth drew herself up, a fraction from tears.  "I'm only a
freshman, but I think you're right.  It's going to be a lot of
work; I should get started now on getting the job done."

"I think," Sue Ellen interjected, "that was a yes.  As for me,
I'm eager to join in.  Tom's right, if we go at this together, it
will be a lot easier than everyone for themselves."  She flashed
me a grin.  "Not to mention, more fun."

Everyone smiled, and I saw Elizabeth throw Sue Ellen a glance. 
The expression on her face said it all; Elizabeth had written Sue
Ellen off as the brainless girlfriend of a jock, a cheerleader
wannabe with big breasts.  I smiled inwardly.  You rely too much
on what you think you know; I could tell you a lot about how
wrong that is.  But there are times to let even someone you love,
find it out for themselves.  But not about going to Cal Tech.

"Freshman and juniors, and everywhere in between."

Steve Jones was sitting at the table again, and he laughed.  "And
what about us seniors?"

"It's April," I said with a straight face.  "If you haven't
gotten something lined up, you are pretty much beyond hope. 
There's always a community college or Arizona State."

Everyone smiled at that, but I knew it was true.  And if I'd kept
on like I'd have been, come next April I'd be sitting at a
cafeteria, wondering what the hell I could do to fix the mess I'd
made.  Better, I thought, to take care of messes when they are
little.

All too soon, lunch was over.  Elizabeth gave me a warm hug,
albeit brief.  I grinned at her, telling her I loved her in all
ways.

The afternoon seemed to drag on interminably.  The high point in
the afternoon came when Tony stopped me on the way to our last
class of the day.  "You know what Mrs. Walcott did in study
hall?"

I shook my head.  What did you do in study hall?  Pretty much
what you pleased, so long as it didn't include talking, getting
up or disturbing others.

"She announced a snap quiz."

I looked at Tony as if he just had to be pulling my leg.  A snap
quiz?  In study hall?  Talk about improbable!

"She told everyone that the class was pass/fail, and if we didn't
pass the quiz, we failed study hall.  So, when she handed out the
test, I went to the last page, looking for the 'Write your name
on the first page and don't do anything else," directions. 
Except she hadn't told us to read the directions, there weren't
any, really.  Just two hundred questions about virtually
everything.

"About half the class was still working on it, when the bell
rang."

"That's bizarre," I told him.

"I think Phil is right," Tony said.  I remembered Phil from the
orgy.  "She's really a pod person, come to snatch bodies. 
Anyway, I didn't think it was a very hard test; I had lots of
time."

I nodded, and he headed off for class, while I was left to wonder
what else could possibly happen in high school this year.

The last bell rang, and I gathered up my friends, dropping them
off at home.  JR, Jenny and Penny went to our house; there was
going to be a big dinner again.  Shannon and Elizabeth to
Shannon's music teacher's house, for Shannon's lesson.  I hugged
Elizabeth, and she clung for a second, communicating love
silently.

I went inside when I was dropping off my sister and the others at
home, and changed.  I put on an old pair of jeans, not that they
looked that old.  I contemplated a t-shirt, and decided on my own
that I wasn't going to do that.  Instead, I had a long-sleeved
tan turtleneck with North High on the back; I put that on.

I arrived at Marcus' office well ahead of when I was supposed to
be there.  He was sitting at his desk, talking on the phone.  He
waved me to a seat, and I sat down.

After a bit, he hung up.  "A little early."

"I'm not supposed to be judgmental.  Okay, I'll try to keep that
in mind.  I can't believe that's the only thing I need to concern
myself about."

"I kept waiting to hear from Eleanor; you jumping up and down
about how I was racist bigot.

"You sounded like one," I told him.  "I have a friend who told me
about what it's like for her being black.  I decided I didn't
know what a bigot was, so I kept my mouth shut.""

"African-American," he interjected.

"She's black," I told him, "but I think she just thinks of
herself as a human being first, and lets the rest of it go."

"Well, have you ever put on a pair of rubber gloves?"

My eyes widened.  Huh?

He reached into his desk, pulled out a box, and tossed me a pair.
 "Practice.  On and off, on and off.  See how quickly you can do
it."

It was awkward the first time, and I didn't do it very well.  It
didn't stop Marcus from talking.

"On the street, you want to avoid fluids.  You're not macho; if
someone spits at you, treat it like she fired a bullet at you. 
Try to get out of the way.  A lot of the girls spit.  Everyone
does, now and then, though.  You'll want to think long and hard
about touching someone who's bleeding."

"AIDS," I said, nodding.

He snickered.  "AIDS, Hepatitis, mono, valley fever; there's a
dozen things you can catch.  Better not to."

I looked at him thinking it wasn't that important.  Instead, he
thumped his stomach.  "I look pretty good, hey?  Right?"

I shrugged.  Six foot six black men didn't do much for me.

"I'm HIV positive, I have Hep A and C.  You think I look like
this because I work out?  My idea of heaven, boy, was ribs,
grits, fries; a baked potato slathered in butter and sour cream.
A huge stack of pancakes, drowned in maple syrup and dripping
more butter.  Lobster?  Love them!  More butter.  Crab legs and
butter!  Biscuits and butter!  Butter and just about anything you
name."

I swallowed.

"Still eager to go out tonight?"

"I was never eager," I told him honestly, "just curious.  I have
no idea what to expect.  None.  Gosh, I don't know what to
say..."  Just what do you say to a dead man walking?

Marcus laughed.  "The retrovirals have the AIDS in check, I beat
hepatitis, I beat mono and valley fever.  The only way I check
out is screaming and shouting, fighting all the way."

He waved around us, "Out there, what I care about are the kids. 
Kids who are lost, afraid.  Fucked up by themselves, their
parents, society and school.  Doesn't matter; they are out
there.

"You can talk to kids like that from now to forever; they've
heard it all before.  They wouldn't be out there on the streets,
if they were willing to listen, if they understood.  Nope, every
last one is sure, no matter how screwed up their life is, that
they are one of the ones that are going to beat the odds.

"And when it goes bad, I get them to the hospital.  Twice now,
twice in the last three years, someone lying in a hospital bed
held my hand and told me that they were giving it up.  They were
fucked up, and wanted out.  One of them actually did make it."

"I take it optimism isn't much more use than a whoopee cushion,"
I said, my voice bitter.

"You might get a laugh from one of those.  When someone on the
streets laughs, it usually means someone is about to get dead or
already is."

"So what do you do?" I asked him.

"I'm there.  They all know who I am; they all know I have little
tickets in my pocket to a shelter, to the kitchens.  I can get
them a safe place to sleep, a couple of free meals.  If they pick
the right time of year, they can get clothes and other things. 
Seasonal, you know.  Thanksgiving, Christmas, like that."

I nodded.  Christmas wasn't a big deal at our house, Thanksgiving
was the big holiday.  Maybe more people should give thanks.

"I can refer them to treatment centers for drugs and alcohol; I
can see that they get medical care for whatever ails them, and
that can be a mind-blowing list.  I routinely send kids to the
hospital with nutritional diseases like scurvy and beriberi. 
Abscessed teeth, you name it.  What can go wrong, does. 
Usually," he told me, "I find them before they die.  Not always.
It's a risk you'll face out there.  This time of year, it's not
too bad.  A cold snap in the winter... a week later and there's a
lot of kids in bad, bad trouble."

It would be easy, I thought, to believe he was making this all
up.  But I remembered Anna Jackson's comments.

"So, you will be careful out there," Marcus went on.  "Try not to
talk; if you do talk, be careful of what you say.  They can
detect phonies, do-gooders, cops, lies; you name it; all just by
looking at you.  They like to push until something breaks; that's
what a lot of their home lives were like.  If someone starts
ragging on you, pushing at you... back off.  Go sit in the van
and ignore them.  I'll deal with it.

"If someone has a weapon, back to the van.  I'll call the cops. 
I don't want you to think with your usual white liberal
goody-goody mindset; you see an African-American on the street,
headed towards you, you back away.  Let me know.  The kids in
trouble are mainly white, occasionally yellow.  Rarely brown,
virtually never black.  Blacks, browns, and now Orientals,
they're problems.  You want to be careful of them."

"You only help white kids?"  The thought was literally
mind-boggling.

"Tom, African-Americans are the pimps, the drug dealers, the
wheeler dealers.  Hispanics are into drugs, not as many pimps. 
Asians are the coldest, least emotional people on the street. 
They do it all, and with no heart at all.  You don't want to mess
with any of them; hell, I don't want to mess with them.  They
tolerate me, because dead kids bring cops; I clean up the
streets."

I sat silently, contemplating it.  "I'm sorry about Tuesday."

He shook his head.  "I pushed, boy.  You didn't push back, but
that's something that takes experience.  You came today; that
takes commitment.  Eleanor said you had that.  I just like to be
sure."

I shook my head.  "I'm not sure of anything."

He shrugged.  "Some nights, it's a piece of cake.  Nice weather,
no one's screwed up.  We have a few conversations, and come back.
 Nothing to it.  Other nights; well, it can be hell.  It seems to
run in cycles, even after nearly ten years out there, I can't
tell what it's going to be like on any particular night."


"And the bad nights?" I asked.

"People die," he said bluntly.  "People get really badly messed
up.  Usually, kids start on the edges, slowly getting in deeper.
It's like quicksand, pulling them in.  Once they get trapped, the
suction pulling them down gets immense.  Not many can pull free.
Almost no one can."

I contemplated that.  "The solution would be not to let kids get
out on the street."

Even as I said that, I saw his eyes flash and his head shake. 
"There is no solution.  'Let'?" Marcus asked rhetorically.  "We
don't 'let' kids get on the street, they go there of their own
free will.  And that's why they stay.  Granted, drugs and booze
cloud that, but that's what they think is true; you will never,
ever, argue a kid off the street.  Not unless it's their first
day.

"Scared straight?  Are you kidding?  They live on the street. 
Every day in every way, life on the street is worse than any jail
or boot camp.  The bottom line is that they are out there by
their own choice.  Arguing just gets their backs up.  They turn
you off; start to mess with you."

"I want to learn what it's like," I told him.  "I suppose that
sounds stupid."

He shook his head.  "Thinking you can stop it; that's stupid. 
Thinking you can save them all; that's stupid.  Learning what
it's like; that's not stupid.  Wanting to help them isn't stupid.
 The problem is, they are basically stupid.  The best thing that
can happen for most of them would be their parents doing whatever
they have to, to keep their kids safe at home."

A little after that we left in his van.

It was an interesting evening; I very carefully made as few
assumptions as I could before it started.  I tried very hard not
to be judgmental, or least not to voice or show it.  I asked
Marcus at one point if he'd varied his route because I was with
him.

"I go where the kids are," is what he said.  That's not really an
answer.

Our first destination was a camp near 35th Avenue and Buckeye
Road.  It was simply a cluster of various forms of shelters
ranging from a few tents to plastics sheets to, literally,
cardboard boxes.

"You can't put up anything substantial at a camp like this,"
Marcus told me.  "Every now and then the City or the police or
whoever decide to make them move.  Then they have to pack up. 
There's some sort of coordination between the campers and the
authorities, because almost always the campers show up the next
day at a new site."

There were about fifty people in the camp, ranging in ages from
infants to a number of older men, and one older woman.  Age
wasn't a factor in determining who was in charge, though.  The
leader was a large black man in his early thirties, named simply
'Mohammad'.  He was a physical presence when you were close to
him; instinctively you felt a strong urge not to mess with him. 
He had a number of assistants, all young, large and appearing
tough; most of his assistants were black, but a couple were white
as well.  I didn't see any Hispanics or other races at the camp.

Marcus told me he was going to look around, but that I should ask
Mohammad about life in the camp.  That turned out to be a plan
because Mohammad just plain liked to talk.  He was glib, he
didn't speak with any street accent; if he'd been dressed neatly
he could have read the evening news and there wouldn't have been
any raised eyebrows.

"We look out for each other," he said simply.  "We don't allow
anyone to beat someone else up.  We don't let people steal; we
catch a thief, we kick them out.

"We don't like drugs, much.  Can't do a lot about that, but if
someone gets wasted and starts bad-mouthing people, getting into
hassles with other people, we kick them out.  We just want to get
along, you know?"

I nodded like I understood.  I contemplated asking questions, but
I couldn't think of a way not to make them sound judgmental.

He laughed at my expression.  "You're asking yourself, why we
choose to live like this."

"I guess," I said, trying to be noncommittal and nonjudgmental.

"Marcus, he's a good man; he used to live in a place like this,
so he understands.  Sometimes life is a bitch, you wake up one
day with everything gone.  You piss away your life; that or suck
it up your nose, or shoot it in your arm, or drink it out of a
bottle.  We had one guy once who had been an executive in a
computer company; he lost a fortune, and came here to try to
forget, to drown in a bottle.

"Only way to really forget is to die; otherwise, you wake up
mornings, sober or getting there, and the world is still there,
what you did, what happened, it's still there too.  Worse, you
feel like shit.

"One day he looked around and laughed.  That's all, he just
laughed.  'Made a fortune once, it's not like I'm dead.  Just go
make me another.'  I don't know if that was talk or what, but he
walked away and I haven't seen him since.  I like to think he's
back living like he used to."

"Is that a good thing?" I asked.

Mohammad looked at me.  "Sometimes.  Sometimes, going back to
what used to be is like being eaten by tigers and lions.  No fun
at all.  Everyone here is different, everyone has an excuse for
why they are here."

Eventually, Marcus returned and we moved on.  "The seem well
organized," I told him.

Marcus laughed.  "A couple years ago, up in Oregon, Mohammad
nearly got the City of Portland to give them 45 acres for a
homeless camp.  I think he still has dreams of doing that.  Then
I expect he'll promptly sell it, and live off the money for a
couple of years."

That was, I thought, hard to square with a man who was such an
obvious force.  Marcus shook his head.  "Tom, the people who live
like that are like everyone else on the street.  They are there
by their own choice.  For every person in a camp you just saw, we
have ten or fifteen in local shelters.  Everyone in that camp
knows that if they want a roof over their head, a lock on the
door and hot meals, all they have to do is hold out their hand to
me, or someone like me, and we'll give it to them."

I thought about that.  "For some people, being in that position
must really hurt.  Maybe enough not to be able to ask."  I was
thinking about Mary, right then.

He shrugged.  "Usually after you get beaten or robbed, raped or
whatever, you decide that pride is a luxury for better times."

The next place was even further away from the city; it was a
migrant camp.  That is, mainly Hispanic farm workers.  There were
a large number of unattached males, a lot of women and a lot of
kids.

"Here, you just keep your mouth shut, try not to meet a woman's
eyes.  This camp is run by a local farmer; he's not the greatest
human being in the world, but at least these people have a built
outhouse, and a couple of water faucets with safe drinking
water."

Obviously, even if I hadn't thought about it, the first camp had
lacked those amenities.

We weren't there long; Marcus walked around, with me at his side.
 I don't think I heard a single word of English the entire time
we were there.

Then we went to another field, north of Tolleson.  Instead of a
rag-tag camp like the first one we visited, this one consisted of
a dozen vehicles, all of which, Marcus assured me, could run. 
Not often, not far, but as needed.  These were almost all
families, mostly white.  Several of them had what I'd call
'Southern' accents.  It turned out the Marcus also had some bus
passes, and maps to the county hospital.

A number of the kids had health problems; at the first two camps
I hadn't really noticed, but at the third camp I did notice.  He
talked to a few mothers, who listened to him explain that the
County Hospital was a little slow if you were a walk-in, but if
you got there early, they would see you before the day was done.

Then we were back downtown.  He parked his van, a van much older
and a lot more run down than mine, and we started walking.  The
kids we saw were white, more or less my age, more boys than
girls.  They were in small groups; some just two or three, some
as many as seven or eight.  Marcus would say hello, and ask if
anyone wanted to spend the night in a shelter.  Mostly the
replies were obscene, but good-natured for all of that.  Again,
Marcus was well known to them, and it was more like a game.  A
game that no one wanted to play, though.

We spent several hours walking the streets of downtown.  Odd, I
lived not that many miles away from downtown, less than five
miles.  I'd been downtown often in the last few weeks, and had
been there now and again before then.  I'd never noticed these
groups of kids.  Of course, this was the first time I was there
after dark.

It was after ten, Marcus and I were back to his van.  "This next
part is where life gets interesting," he told me.  "I have a
favor to ask."

"Sure," I told him.

"We're going to cruise down Van Buren, Washington and all that
for the next little while.  We're going to stop and chat with the
working kids.  They are going to walk up to your side of the van
and ask if you want to party.

"What I want you to say is that you're with me, that you have
shelter tickets if they are interested.  I'll give you a couple;
sometimes the girls come in pairs.  The guys are usually
singletons.  If they nod, just hand them the ticket; try to do it
carefully, because if their pimp sees it, they'll get beaten up.
With a new face, we'll fool some of the pimps, at least for a
while.  Then they'll get on their cell phones and spread the
word.  We'll know that's happened because when we pull up next to
them, the kids will walk away.

"Don't get out of the van, don't engage them in any conversation
at all.  Not all of them are kids, some are cops.  In theory, the
cops know me and leave me alone.  In practice, if they feel like
hassling us, they will.  Say anything about a party, anything at
all, and that gives them no legal reason to go after us, but
they'll try to use it anyway.

"Just say you're with me, and ask them if they want the ticket. 
If they nod or hold out their hand, slip them the tickets. 
Okay?"

"Sure," I told him.

"Can I ask another question?" I went on.

"Keep it simple," he laughed when he said that.  "Go ahead,
sorry."

"I've noticed there are good cops and bad cops.  Yet a lot of
people I've met seem only to have met the bad ones."

He simply looked at me, and then made a face.  "A good cop; I
suppose they exist.  I'm African-American.  Which means I get
rousted a lot.  Stopped and questioned.  How many times have you
been stopped on the street and asked questions by the cops?"

"Once," I told him. "It was late at night, when I was walking,
trying to think."

He laughed, "Well, there goes that illusion!  I get stopped a
couple of times a week, Tom.  I'm hauled off to jail, on average,
once a month or so."

"What for?"

"Being black.  For having been in trouble before, for everything
else that I am.  No reason that I understand.  I've changed; it
happens, whether cops believe it or not.  Not often, but
sometimes you reach the pits of the Abyss.  You look around and
you get really, really scared.  Then you do whatever it is you
have to, to get as far away from that place as you can get.

"For me, it was waking up stoned in a jail cell, some guy's cock
in my ass.  When I told him that wasn't my thing, he beat the
shit out of me.  He told me of course it wasn't my thing, it was
his, and I should get used to it.  He made his point rather
emphatically."

I made a mental note.  Do not sleep in jail.  Try to pick your
cellmate.  I had to laugh.  And just what do you get to pick,
when you're in jail?  Nothing.  Nothing at all.

So, we pulled up at places where girls were lounging around. 
Either talking to another girl, or simply standing a ways back
from the street.  I asked the question; it had seemed like a
simple, harmless thing.

The fear that I saw when I said I was with Marcus was palpable. 
They'd glance at Marcus; most stepped back away from the curb. 
Some almost ran away.  The terror in their eyes made me want to
cry.

They were mostly girls, as I said, my age, fifteen to seventeen.
There were older women, but Marcus passed them by.  They wore too
much makeup, clothes that barely covered them, and the ones who
came up to the window of the van made it a point to expose even
more skin when they did.

We went as far as north of the airport on Van Buren, turned
around and went on the other side of the street.  Another trip to
just north of the airport, this time on Washington.  Long before
we got back to Central, no one would get near the van.

"Well, let's call it a night," Marcus said.  I looked at him.  It
was close to midnight, a little early, I thought, to quit.

I contemplating asking him if he really was going to quit for the
night, but I decided not to.  The last two hours had been hard on
me; much harder than I'd thought it would be.  The camps, the
wandering kids downtown, had looked dirty, but normal.  The
prostitutes, though, lived in abject fear.  At a distance they
looked normal, but mention who I was with, what I had, and they
reacted.

A lot to think about, I thought.  A lot.

"Do you suppose we could do this again?" I asked, as he turned
south, back to my van.

"Tell me this isn't a class project," he stated emphatically.

"It's not school related at all.  In fact, I nearly got expelled
this week."

"Hey, maybe you have unexpected talents!"

"Please," I told him, "I do want to help.  I don't care about
anything else.  Those kids... the fear in their eyes..."

"You're being judgmental, Tom," he told me.  "Fear is always with
us, Tom.  We could be in a car wreck; someone could blitz a light
and cream us with no warning."

I swallowed.  "Been there, done that.  The t-shirt is coming next
week."

He looked at me oddly.  "We judge risks every minute of every
day.  Those kids on the street; they can take that ticket.  I
have had girls literally beg me to take them right then.  And I
have.  I've been shot at, doing that, too."

"Been there, done that, too," I said sadly.  "No t-shirts that
day.  But she's safe and her brother will never hurt her again. 
Not ever."  I was a little shocked at the pleasure I took in
knowing Jenny was safe from her brother, and how warm the pride
that I'd done my share to make it come about, felt.

Marcus give me another odd look, then he went back to driving. 
"That's happened just a couple of times, though.  Mostly, they
turn and walk or run away.  Because, they perceive the risks of
coming away are higher than staying."  He barked a bitter laugh.
"Average lifespan of a girl on the street: maybe a year.  Maybe.
A guy, maybe a little more."

"Is that why you stayed away from the older women?" I asked.

He shook his head.  "They didn't start on the streets, they end
up there on their slide downhill.  They have street smarts, and
can exist for a long time.  Exist, not live.

"No, a kid leaves home because they can't bear it or they get
kicked out; they have no defenses.  No street smarts at all; even
the ones who are sure they do.  The kids downtown, they are there
for just a month, sometimes two.  Then it becomes a choice: eat
or starve.  To eat, you have to earn money.  You can beg, but
that's hard to do when you're a clean-cut, healthy looking
teenager.  So, there's sex.  Sex means pimps, drugs, and nothing
else.  Violence, in some form, every day for the rest of your
life.  And you don't live long when you're in that world."

"Yet, they keep choosing it."

"It's like the old story about the frogs in the pot.  Start the
pot out cold, turn the heat up gradually, and you end up with
cooked frog.  Toss them in warm water and crank up the fire, and
the frog jumps for it.  These kids adapt to the street like the
frog in the cold water; just slow enough so they don't notice how
steep the slope is.  Or how slippery the slope is.  Then, they're
toast."

On that less than cheery note we arrived back at his office.  I
got in my van, started it up and left the small parking lot at
the strip mall.  The clock on the dashboard now showed it a bit
before midnight.

I made a note to myself, to talk to Elizabeth about fate, karma,
luck, seeing the future; whatever you want to call it.  It was
with me again, then.  I was about three hundred feet from the
traffic light.  To go home I should have crossed the traffic
lanes on Buckeye and got in the left turn lane when I got to
Central.  But the light changed yellow as I pulled out; on a whim
I went right at the light, instead of left.

We liked to go to South Mountain Park on the Fourth of July. 
There weren't any nearby fireworks displays, but you had a clear
view of the entire valley; there were times when we'd watched a
dozen shows, all at once.  I was close, so that's where I went.

The toll collector at the booth explained to me that the park
closed in an hour.  I nodded and drove the five minutes up to the
top, where there are picnic ramadas, places to barbeque and lots
of tables.  The parking lot is well lighted and well patrolled,
but couples park there anyway.  I'd never been to South Mountain
Park for that, but a couple of times I'd gotten out of the car
and gone and sat down, looking at the lights of the city.

There are millions of lights visible; homes and business,
churches and dens of iniquity.  Planes, trains and automobiles. 
Streetlights and security lights, even a few searchlights.  I'd
had such thoughts before, but I'd never felt so alone before. 
The thoughts?

Each light was a story; none of the stories were simple.  Just a
simple street light, if you stop and think about it.  People,
more than one person, makes the pole.  More people make the
bulbs; others make the wiring, the light sensors and switches to
turn it on and off.  Then a crew of men put up the pole, another
crew does the wiring, others make sure the controls work.  How
many people have a hand in getting that solitary light up and
working?  Dozens, maybe hundreds.  Each of those people has a
family.  Parents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles. 
Spouses and in-laws.  Friends and enemies.

They blinked the parking lot lights; I got back in the van and
started the engine again.  People were in no great hurry to
leave, but a police car or two would be around shortly and then
you had to move or get a ticket.  I just got going, and this time
headed for home.

Choices, fate, karma.  Luck, good and bad.  I'd had some good
luck of late.  Sex, as much as anyone could ever want, I thought.
 But while I didn't regret it, I didn't want to do it again. 
Helping Jenny, helping Mary; I loved helping people.  Helping
Elizabeth when her heart stopped; helping Shannon in a way, when
Roger Parker was bothering her.  Helping Gloria, I'd even helped
Tony's cousin, JR and Anna's sister Sally with a certain kind of
experience.

I was so lost in thought, I missed turning on Osborn to get on
home; going up to Indian School instead.  I decided to come back
on Third Street; I wasn't going very fast, I was still thinking.

It was a shape I saw out of the corner of my eye, as I passed an
alley.  Just the shortest, briefest, momentary glance at a
pattern of shadow and light.

I slowed and stopped.  There was parking along the side of the
street there, for the shops back on Indian School.  I got out and
walked back towards the alley.

The alley was dark; there was a fair amount of traffic on Indian
School, but not much on Third Street.  I stopped at the entrance
to the alley, looking to see if I'd been imagining things, or if
I'd really seen a foot in the alley.  Just that, what looked like
a short bit of leg in a white sock, lying next to the buildings.

I couldn't see anything; it was quiet except for the traffic
noise a hundred feet away.  I took a tentative step down the
alley; I still couldn't see anything.

I stood listening again, then moved another few paces forward.

In retrospect, I'd have understood better if I stopped and
thought.  Which would have done the same thing for me as going
slowly did.  My eyes had been used to headlights and
streetlights.  The alley was dark.  By going slowly, I let my
eyes adjust, and when they did, I could see someone sitting
sideways in a doorframe ahead of me in the alley.

It was really dark in that doorway, so I moved a little further
along, but angling away, which I thought would be reassuring,
even as it let a little more light past me.

It was a girl, I saw.  She looked up at me, her eyes wide and
staring.  "Go away," she said, "I have a gun!"

She moved, and I could see it.  Yes, she did.  It didn't much
look like the gun Sam had used, it was more like the guns you see
police detectives have on TV.  She was holding it nestled between
her breasts, the barrel against her chest, and pointing up.

She didn't say anything else, but I didn't need to hear the
words.  It wasn't me she was threatening to shoot.

Oh, it's so easy to be brave, when you're trapped and have no
place to go!  It's easy to be brave, when there's no one else but
yourself, and a friend is on the street, dying.  It's easy to be
brave when someone puts a gun to your forehead and makes demands
of you, threatening someone you love.

I could be wrong, I thought, about who was at risk.  She wouldn't
have to move the gun much, and it would be me in the line of
fire, instead of herself.  But someone had to be in the line of
fire.  A year, that's what Marcus had said, that was the lifespan
of a girl living on the streets.  Just a year.  Some didn't even
live that long; and if they survived?  You broke and ran, or you
broke and stayed.  It didn't seem like either one was much good
to you.

"Could I sit down a ways away, and we can talk?" I asked.

She snorted.  "I'm not going to give you a blow job, no matter
how long you talk."

"Well, that's good," I said, being judgmental.  "God only knows
how many other dicks would have been there before me.  Thanks,
but I'll pass."

I waved at the asphalt of the alley.  I was about ten feet away
from her now, no longer blocking what little light there was.

She didn't say anything, so I just sat down, Indian fashion, my
legs crossed.  I reached into my jeans and pulled out some of
Marcus's shelter tickets.  I leaned forward and put them on the
ground three or four feet away from me.

"Those are tickets to a shelter.  I'd offer you a ride, but you'd
misunderstand.  So what I'll do is call a cab, pay the cabbie to
take you there."

"I'm fine here.  I got lost, trying to find Encanto Park."

I sighed.  "Well, this is your lucky day!  If you'd have found
the park, you'd need the gun to stay alive."

"A girl gave me a map to a clump of bushes.  She says no one
knows about them."

I lived just a few miles from Encanto Park.  I'd been there a
hundred times during the day.  They had a nice pool, good tennis
courts, a golf course... and acres and acres of lagoons, winding
walkways and clusters of bushes.  I'd been warned since I was
five or six, to stay away from the bushes, because people lurked
in the heart of those bushes, people who would hurt little boys
and girls.  So, I'd kept away myself, and kept JR safe as well. 
Which wasn't hard, because our parents never let us get very far
away from them.

"Trust me," I told her.  "Take the shelter.  Stay here, if you
absolutely must.  Avoid the park, particularly at night.  But the
bushes aren't a good idea, even in the daytime."

"I've been to a shelter; it's worse than living at home.  You
have to pick everything up, they lecture you at meal times..."
her voice ran down.  "I don't want to go to a shelter, I'm
fine."

Two things happened then.  She moved slightly, turned her face
just a bit, so I could see her face.  It was the girl from my
dreams!  I felt my jaw scrape the pavement, and I felt tremors
running up and down my back.  And, for a second, I could see a
dark, rectangular shape behind her.

It took me a second to realize what it was; it was a folio case,
like art students carried around.  What runaway took her art with
her?

"I'm fine, thanks," she told me again.  "Please leave."

"I just want to talk."

"And I don't," she responded.  "Please leave."

For a second, I was listening to Shannon tell Roger to stop, to
please leave, a long time ago at school.  Roger hadn't gotten the
message, and I'd smugly told myself afterwards that if a girl
ever told me to leave, why I'd do just that.  Yet, it was going
to take more than her asking just now to get me moving.

I waved at the folio.  "Are you an artist?"

"No!" she said emphatically.  "I'm not an artist.  I doodle
things."

I wondered about that; but I was more concerned about finding a
safe topic that she was willing to talk about.  Then I remembered
the dream content.  "Do you doodle houses and floor plans?" I
asked.

She snorted.  "No."

Back to finding a safe topic.  "I was born and raised here in
Phoenix," I told her.  "Where are you from?"

"Santa Maria.  That's a little town in California, north of Santa
Barbara."

I knew almost nothing of California geography.  Los Angeles was
west of Phoenix, San Francisco was north of LA and San Diego was
south of LA.  I had lots of t-shirts from LA and none from
anywhere else in California.

"There are times I think it would be nice to live in a small
town," I said, crossing my fingers.

She snorted again.  "Sure.  Of course.  A high school that a few
kids get grades that will get them into one of the lower tier of
the UC system.  Maybe you can get into a top tier school if you
are in the top two or three.  For most of us, it's the community
college to prepare for our life of burger flipping, working at
Wal-Mart or picking vegetables."

"Until yesterday," I said, hoping that she was warming to the
topic, "I didn't think much about college, even though I'm a
junior.  A girl I know, she's a lot like you; she has plans,
things she wants to do.  She's really worried how she's going to
be able to do it; so we're going to get together a little group,
a support group, and work on getting us all in places where we
can chase our dreams."

"I don't have dreams or plans; I gave them up for Lent."

"I'm not Catholic, but I have a friend who's a nun."

She snorted again.  "I gave up on nuns in fourth grade."

She was still holding the gun where she'd been holding it before.
 I didn't think, though, that she had her finger on the trigger
any more; but it was too dark to be sure.

I contemplated asking if there was anything she hadn't given up
on; decided that was such a stupid question that I should spend
more time thinking.

The silence lengthened, then she asked me to leave again.

"I was curious about why you left home.  Everyone says it's not
something you're supposed to ask; let the person tell you if
that's what they want.  Please, I'm curious.  I have a Mom and
Dad that I love, a sister I love loads and loads; a new sort-of
sister, a girl we're going to adopt.  We're happy; oh, we have
issues, but we work through them."

She looked down, staring at the pistol I thought.  I wanted to
crawl to her on my hands and knees and tell her I was sorry, I
just wanted her safe, that was all.  Whatever she wanted, I was
willing to do.

She looked back up.  "So, you're one of the lucky ones.  My
father drank himself to death when I was eight.  Mom works as a
waitress in a cafe, making minimum wage and tips in a place that
caters to people too poor to have their own kitchens.  They
almost never tip.  We live in a ratty one-room apartment, and
ever since I can remember Mom has been on my case about studying,
getting good grades so I can get a scholarship and get the hell
out of there.

"She hates my doodles; she hates it when I don't get good grades
in school.  I like math, I do okay there.  History?  Who needs
it?  English?  Like, what, I'm speaking French?  Biology?  Every
kid in California knows all about reproductive biology.  All the
rest?  Like I care if I can play a stinking flute?"

"What do your doodles look like?" I asked.

"Buildings, mostly.  I like to draw buildings.  It's not art.  It
sure as hell isn't floor plans.  I think it would be cool to be
an architect; but unless I go to a top tier school, that's never
going to happen."

Dad had gotten a series of books once by David Macaulay.  The one
I'd like best was Cathedral, but Castle was good too.  Actually,
they were all superb.  "I read a book once on how to build a
cathedral.  You needed some history to understand the basics of
it; you sure needed to know history to know why they did a lot of
things they did."

I was being judgmental again; I knew it.  Just how in name of
reason can you hold an intelligent conversation about anything
without employing judgment?  Even mundane conversations about
what's for dinner, what should I wear, is it hot out?

"I read that too.  But I don't want to build a cathedral.  Office
buildings, I guess.  Maybe a hotel.  There are some cool hotels
in Las Vegas, I saw some pictures of them once on TV."

Once again the conversation lagged.  How was I supposed to talk
to someone about a topic I had zero interest in?  I had a little
knowledge, but that hadn't gotten me very far.  She might
actually be okay here, tonight.  And maybe tomorrow or the day
after.  But she knew, I thought.  That's why she told up front
about a blowjob; she's not there yet.

Which had to mean she was new to Phoenix, new to the streets. 
It's simple, I thought.  I'll get her to go to Mary's.

"How about I call a cab, and have him take you to a woman I know.
 She has two daughters, one about your age, one my age.  She'll
put you up for the night.  No questions, no hassles, no nothing."
 I decided 'no breakfast, either' was one 'no' too many.

"Sure, like everyone just lines up to take in a stranger late on
a Friday night."

"They're friends," I said quietly.  "They won't mind."

I could see her looking at me, so I decided I had to push, just a
little.  "Let me call them, and tell them you're coming. 
Please."

She shrugged, and I picked my phone off my belt and dialed the
number.

A voice said politely that the number had been disconnected.

I stared at the phone, checked the number.  It was the right one.
 I dialed in manually; it was still disconnected.  Evidently, the
phone company had a low tolerance for people not paying their
bills for a couple of months.  Mary was supposed to have gotten
some money during the day; obviously not in time.

Kim had my aunt and uncle as houseguests.  Our house was full up;
I'd offer up my bed in a second, but I was certain that the offer
would be misconstrued and put me back where I started, but with
the girl prejudiced against me.

Tony?  He'd do it if I asked; but his parents had been having
problems.  A runaway girl would be like pouring gasoline on the
fire, I was afraid.  Sue Ellen?  She was a friend, that she was.
But this kind of a friend?  I grimaced; there was only going to
be one way to find out.

After a few rings, I got the answering machine.  Everyone was, I
thought, out.  Or at least not answering the phone.  I could, I
thought, simply take her to a hotel and put her up; I had a
credit card that would work for that.  Again, it would look bad.

I racked my brain, wondering what I could do.  "No room in the
inn, eh?" the girl laughed bitterly.

"No one answering the phone this late at night," I told her.

Well, there was one person I could think of.  One person who owed
me a favor, and the favor I wanted was the one I'd done for her.
Of course, there was also Gloria's father to contend with.

The worst that would happen couldn't be worse, I thought, than
our first meeting.  Or our second.  I pushed the speed dial
button and waited for events to unfold.

The second ring, a familiar voice answered, "Si?"

"Sir, this is Tom Ferguson, Gloria's friend.  I was going to ask
her for a favor, but since I have you, I might as well start with
you."

"It's after one in them morning."

"Yes, sir.  I learned how to read the big and small hands in
first grade.  Look, I have a friend, a girl, in high school,
she's from California.  It's Spring Break, there.  Anyway, she
needs a place to crash for tonight."

"What's wrong with your bed?" he growled.

"Sir, I don't think her mother would approve; I doubt if I could
explain it to my mom, either.  So, could she crash at your place
tonight?  I'm sure I can find her a place elsewhere before
tomorrow night."

"You must think I'm crazy," he said, his voice angry.

"I think, sir, you'd be doing me a favor.  I think you might want
to ask Gloria about if she'd be willing to do all of the work. 
I'd hate to put you out the least, tiny bit."

"Are you on drugs?" he asked.

"No, sir.  I just have a problem that I need some help with.  I'd
be obliged, sir, if you'd help.  If not, sir, something else is
always possible."  I could just take her to Mary's, stand outside
and knock.  It wasn't much worse than calling them up this late
at night.

"Sir, could you wake up Gloria and ask her for her opinion?"

"You are on drugs!" he said, his voice bitter.

Okay, Mary's it was, then.  "I'm sorry to have disturbed you,
sir.  I really am serious, and I appreciate the time of night. 
Thanks, anyway."

Someone had said something on the other end, and for a second
there was the lack of sound as the speaker was covered up.

"Hello, young man," the new voice was Gloria's grandmother.

"I'm sorry to wake you up, ma'am," I apologized.

She sniffed.  "At my age, I don't get but an hour or two at a
time.  I was listening to the radio.  What is it?"

"Ma'am," I said, then repeated the story to her.

"Bring her by.  She can use my bed, I won't need it until the
afternoon."  I think she was trying to chuckle, but it sounded
like a cackle.

"Thank you, thanks a lot."

I hung up, and turned to the girl.

"Okay, I have a place that's not a shelter.  Trust me, my
friend's father is a bit brusque, you don't want to shake hands
with him, but her grandmother is really cool.  My friend Gloria
is nice; she's a cheerleader at my high school."

I sat still for a second.  Two things left; one I was willing to
compromise about, the other was non negotiable.  "I wish you'd
trust me, get in my car and let me drive you there.  It's about
six or seven minutes; if I call a cab it could take an hour.  It
wouldn't be fair to those people, to wait an hour."

"And I should trust you?" she asked.

"Yes," I told her, "you should.  But that isn't the hardest thing
I want you to do.  I want you to leave the gun there, sitting in
the doorway."

She sniffed.  "Afraid I'm going to shoot you?"

"No, but it's peace of mind I'd like to have tonight, with you
staying with my friend and her family."

"You think I might be some whacked killer?  I'll do them all in
the night?"  She was, I thought, a little pale.

"I don't think so, but like I said, it would help my peace of
mind."
	"And why should I give a good God damn about your peace of
mind?  What about mine?"

"Trust me," I told her.  "Either everything I've said to you is a
lie, or it's the truth.  Black or white, girl.  Trust me or not.
Doesn't matter if it's a little or lot, does it?"

"I suppose."  She was silent for a long time, three or four
minutes.

"I guess it's something I have to do," she told me.  "I think
you're wrong, though.  I have no where to go.  No where.  I don't
have a place to go tonight; I won't have one tomorrow or the day
after that.  I don't think about next week or next month; but I
don't have a place to go then, either.  I am not going home; no
one can make me go back."

"No matter what you think about my gender or age, all I want is
for you to be safe.  Then we can worry about the rest.  One thing
at a time."

"It was awful at home," she was talking rapidly, a defensive tone
in her voice.  "I like my doodles; I do them and I feel better. 
Mom would get on my case about school, and how I shouldn't waste
my time.  She'd shout and make me upset; at school they made me
upset, too.  The school shrink gave me some pills to help me with
the stress.  But I felt so weird.  Depressed.  I..."

She started crying softly.  "I don't know what's happening.  It
was just one thing after another.  I can't go back!"

Again, I realized that things weren't maybe as simple as Marcus
had presented them.  Then I realized Marcus really hadn't said
much about why kids left home; it was easy for me, a teen-ager to
blame it on clueless parents.  But in this case, I think it was
team effort.  This girl had pride; she knew she'd done something
stupid, but because of that pride, she wasn't going to admit
being stupid, even to herself.  Another ten thousand things that
made it more difficult to stop and admit to yourself that you
need to rethink.

"You don't have to go back," I told her.  "I promise, I will find
someone who will take you in.  They will not, I promise, make an
issue with your doodles.  If they do, we'll do something else.  I
just want to help.  Please."

She let out a big breath.  "I guess.  I'm so fucked, does it
really matter?"  She moved a bit, and I saw she was easing the
hammer down on the pistol.  I swallowed.  I didn't know a whole
lot about guns, but I do know it's a lot easier to shoot with the
hammer back.  All of this time, she'd been a hairbreadth away
from death.  All it would have taken would have been one wrong
choice on my part, and I could have driven her to the ultimate
wrong choice.

I watched her put the gun down, stand up and take up her backpack
and the folio.  "I feel bad about leaving it here."

I unfolded, standing.  I wasn't very graceful.  "After I see you
safe with my friend, I'll call the police and report it.  I won't
say anything beyond where it's at."

We walked out to my van; I opened the door on the passenger side
and she got in.  I went around and got in, and drove the short
distance to Gloria's.

Gloria and her grandmother were both waiting for us.  The girl
waited for me to come around to open her door; I reached out and
lightly touched her arm, just for the merest fraction of a
second.  "It would be better if I knew your name," I asked. 
"Please.  Like I said, I'm Tom."

"Helen," she said, and then went past me.

I walked a step behind, and stopped next to her by the door.

"Any friend of Tom's is always welcome," Gloria said.

"I never saw him before tonight," the girl said.

Gloria giggled.  "Oh, well, I know how fast Tom can make friends!
 I hardly knew him at all, and I showed up at his house one
night, drunk as a skunk, after my boyfriend tried to rape me.  He
let me sleep in his bed, while he slept on a couch downstairs. 
Tom's cool."

I was a little surprised to hear Gloria tell the story here, but
I guessed her father had gone back to bed.  I wasn't clear why
she didn't mind her grandmother knowing, though.

Helen looked at Gloria, then at her grandmother and said
something in Spanish.  The three of them spoke for some time in
Spanish, while I just stood patiently.

Gloria's grandmother stopped talking, walked over, stood on
tiptoe and kissed me on my cheek.  "In Spain, the word 'hidalgo'
is supposed to mean a minor nobleman.  But Don Quixote was
hidalgo; it really means something like chivalrous, noble.  Like
Don Quixote.  You, young man, you are hidalgo."

She said something to Gloria and Helen, and the two girls went
inside the house, Gloria leading.

Gloria's grandmother smiled at me, "Go with God, young man.  Come
back later."

I turned and went to the van.  It was getting close to two in the
morning, and I didn't want to be much later getting home.  I
stopped at a 7-11 and used the pay phone to make a 911 call about
the gun; I hoped that the police wouldn't blow it off.

I pulled up and got out, walked up to the door.  Mom and Mary
greeted me, both of them wearing nighties.

I didn't say anything; I just hugged my mom as tight as I could,
an ounce from tears.  She kissed me on my forehead, turned and
headed upstairs.  I hugged Mary, but this time it was sexual.  We
kissed too, and then I was as hard as I've ever been.

I took her hand and led her upstairs, to my bed.  Like so many
others, she looked at it and said, "You need something bigger."

I undressed, and then peeled her nightie over her head.  I took
her hand and led it to my erection.  "I have this; so far you
ladies have been willing to make do."

I felt a fraction of an inch thick; that I was on the edge of
falling apart.  That had been a stupid sixteen year old guy
talking, not me.  Mary didn't laugh, instead her gripped firmed.
I kissed her hard, using my tongue.  Her tongue pushed mine
aside, easily winning the duel.  It felt like she was trying to
wrap her tongue around mine.

I ran my hands over her back, down over her bottom.  The kiss
went on and on, and once again I gloried at the touch of her warm
body against mine, my heart soared when I saw her green eyes
giggling and laughing, looking at me.  I drowned in them,
cherished them.

I made love to her; she made love to me.  For a long time, after
we were complete, I lay with my head on her breast, listening to
her heartbeat.

A warm lassitude crept over my body; days and days and days of
events passed my eyes.  Four weeks ago, I thought, I went to a
basketball game with Tony, Sue Ellen and Tony's cousin Marsha. 
What a difference a few weeks make in your life!

It wasn't so much that I'd grown up; I doubted if I'd grown
physically at all.  Inside, again, it wasn't so much that I'd
grown up, as I'd expanded.  Maybe, I thought, the metaphor is all
screwed up.  You don't grow up; you just expand to fill the space
around you.  Until you can push back against your environment as
hard as it pushes against you.

I saw Mary's very large nipple come erect.  Speaking of pushing
against your environment...  I leaned close and used my tongue to
circle it.  It didn't take much of that before Mary pulled me to
her, hastily fumbling, guiding me into her.

She reached up to stroke my face.  "There are times, Tom, I feel
sinful, making love to someone your age.  Then I wish I was your
age again, so we could just do it, without my hang-ups.  Except
I'm not your age, I know that.  But if there's anything better
than being sixteen again, it's being with someone who's sixteen.
I love you, Tom."

"I love you, Mary."  And I showed her the depth of my love twice
more, before I slept.

The End

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