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Message-ID: <48888asstr$1092773404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Gina Marie Wylie" <gmwylie98260@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Spitfire and Messerschmitt Ch 9 {Gina Marie Wylie} (Teen, mf, cons)
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Date: Tue, 17 Aug 2004 16:10:04 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Davey Ch 9.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, mf, con.

	If stories like this offend you, you will offend ME if you read
further and complain. Copyright 2004, 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/

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

Spitfire and Messerschmitt

Chapter 9 :: All Kinds of Practice

I woke up with the sun.  If Wanda had come to visit me during the
night, she'd done it so quietly that she hadn't woken me up.  I
walked into the bathroom and showered, then I went and put on my
swimsuit and started swimming.  I'd only done a few laps when
Emily came out.  She was wearing shorts and a plain white
t-shirt; she waded out into the water and started to swim, too.

She made no effort to keep up this time, so I simply said, "Hi!"
and continued on.  She did two trips up and down the pool and
then sat on the steps, watching me.  I knew it was a school day
and that time was limited -- still, it wasn't even six o'clock
yet so I kept at it.

There were no twinges from my hand or arm; the activity was
repetitive enough that I didn't have to think about it.  Usually
I think about implications from a book I'm reading; sometimes I
don't think about anything at all.  I had so much to think about
I opted to have a "nothing at all" swim day.

When I stopped, I smiled and walked toward Emily.  She smiled
back, but that stopped when she realized I was staring at her wet
t-shirt molded over her breasts.  I could see my attention was
bothering her, so I sat down a few feet away and turned to look
down the length of the pool.

"How are you this morning, Emily?"

"Okay.  I want to thank you, Davey, for everything.  This isn't
anything I expected.  It's one thing to be friends, but everyone
in your family has been so nice..."

"We're not the most church-going Presbyterians in the world," I
told her, "but we do like to think of ourselves as Christian and
not lacking in charity."

"I thought it would be harder to accept charity than this. 
Everyone says it's bad, that you have to stand on your own two
feet."

"That's fine when you have two feet and stable ground to stand
on," I told her.  "You have the feet but you haven't had a stable
environment."

"I'm sorry just now.  I know you didn't mean anything by looking.
 I owe you so much..."

I turned and looked her right in the eye.  "For the help, you
don't owe me or anyone else in this family a thing.  Not me, not
Wanda, not anyone.  You certainly don't have to accept attention
you don't want.  I'm a boy, I look.  But I'd probably look no
matter who it was.  You have every right to tell me, or anyone
else you don't want looking, to stop."

"Wanda and I..."  she stopped, uncertain what to say.  "I still
can't believe she likes me."

I debated telling her that her secret was safe with me.  But when
you think someone doesn't know your secret, odds are them telling
you that they won't pass it on wouldn't be all that comforting.

Emily was made of tougher stuff than I thought.  "We spent the
night together."

I shrugged.  "Emily, that comes under the heading of your
personal life.  It's none of my business.  If Wanda was making
you, pushing you to do something you didn't want, maybe then it
would be my business.  But it doesn't sound like it."

"No.  I wasn't sure if I'd like it, but Wanda is so nice."  She
smiled at me.

"Emily, you didn't have to tell me about it, you don't have to
tell me more about it.  I'm not going to talk about it with
anyone, either."

"Your mom said that what happens under this roof stays under this
roof."  She was crying, I saw.  "Oh, how I wish my family was
like yours!"

"I wish it was too," I told her.  "It's not much fun, sometimes,
growing up.  I've had issues with my parents, particularly my
dad.  But there was never a time I disrespected him.  Dislike
isn't disrespect.  The older I get, the more I realize I'm more
like him than not.  Obstinate, pig-headed, cynical, and sarcastic
sometimes.  It's not really a pretty picture, but it's who I am.

"Emily, I promise, there's nothing I wouldn't do, Wanda or my mom
or dad wouldn't do, to keep you safe."

"Thanks, Davey."

Mom must have been listening or something.  Right then she stuck
her head out the family room door.  "Must be nice to have nothing
better to do all day than relax in the pool!  Not today, kids! 
Time to get ready!"

We got up and went inside.  I got my school clothes from my room,
stood in the shower for a few minutes, still in my bathing suit
to rinse the chlorine out, then I dressed.

At seven I had a glass of orange juice and some toast, which met
Mom's minimum acceptable breakfast limits; then Wanda drove us
all to school.

I'd already gotten my schedule, so I went to my homeroom which
was also my biology class.  Mercedes was standing outside, saw me
and joined me.  "Messerschmitt, how's it coming?"

"Pretty good, Spitfire," I replied.  We shared mutual grins. 
"You want to be lab partners?"  I asked, waving at the biology
classroom.

"You bet!"  We grinned idiotically at each other.  More than ever
I was thinking she felt something for me a lot like I felt for
her -- Wanda's comments last night about Mercedes and Pammie not
withstanding.  We went inside, found one of the lab benches
unoccupied and took seats.

The teacher was sitting on her desk, swinging her legs.  It was
hard to judge how tall she was, but I could see that she wasn't
nearly as tall as Mercedes or myself.  She was in her late
twenties, curly brown hair that looked like she'd slept in it and
had come to school without brushing it.  It was odd, because
everything else about her was neat.

I looked on the board.  "Ms. Celia Weaver" was written there. 
She was, I thought, cuter than Hannelore Kimmel.  I remembered
what Blade wanted me to do; I opened up my notebook, where I'd
stuck a campus map in a document protector and my schedule on the
flip side.

The biology room was part of a separate wing of the main
building.  The main building was three stories tall; the biology
classroom was part of a single story offshoot that had two
biology labs, two chemistry labs and a physics lab.  Each of the
double sets of rooms shared a supply room between them and off
the supply room was a small office and a larger office.  The
larger office was for Ms. Weaver and Mr. Shoemaker, the other
biology teacher.  One or two student assistants used the smaller
office each period.

Hannelore's room was on the third floor of the main building.  My
second period class was honors English, and it was two doors away
from the German room.  How hard could it be, I thought?  I'd just
poke my head in during the passing period, wave and leave.  A
second, maybe two.

Mercedes saw me looking at my schedule and promptly pulled out
her own.  It was funny; we had everything in the morning the
same, including first lunch.  The three afternoon periods were
all different.  We had Biology, English, Algebra and Microsoft
Office together.  In the afternoon I had geography and she had
economics; she had PE the same period I did, but I knew from what
Wanda had told me, you hardly saw each other.  The last period I
was taking Spanish and she was taking German.

Mercedes laughed at the last.  "I wanted to take Spanish, but my
mother said no.  We speak it at home; my parents think it's
important to know."

"Of all the classes I've got, that's the one I'm worried about
the most," I told her.  "I've never studied another language
before.  All the rest, those I've had, but not a foreign
language."

She smiled at me; my whole day just brightened up.  "We'll just
have another class to study together.  It'll be tough, but we can
do it!"

Ms. Weaver started taking roll,and then covered the day's
abbreviated schedule.  Then there were handouts about the biology
class, a warning about this was the college prep track.  We were
going to learn about evolution and we were going to be cutting up
earthworms and frogs.  Then she passed out the textbook and then
it was time to go to English.

I walked with Mercedes, not going very fast.  Even so, I could
see that we were going to pass the German room.  At the last
second, I got cold feet.  Not about doing what Blade asked, but
about having Mercedes standing next to me when I did it.  "You go
ahead, save me a seat," I told her, as we passed a bathroom. 
"I'll be right back."

She grinned and went on, I ducked in, washed my hands, and came
back out.  There was only a minute left in the passing period, so
I hurried.  I poked my head in the classroom.  Almost all of the
seats were filled; it wasn't nearly as large as most of the other
classrooms I'd seen.

Hannelore was standing in front of the room, looking toward the
class and saw me at the door in the back of the room.  She turned
slightly and the next thing I knew, she'd thrown an eraser at me,
really hard.  I never had a chance to smile or wave like Blade
had asked.

She didn't throw it nearly as hard as the comebacker the other
day, so I fielded it.  There was a spray of chalk dust, and I
sneezed.  I handed the eraser to a guy I knew slightly from
Magic, waved and turned to go.  A second eraser whizzed by my
head, missing by about an inch.

I sat down at a desk next to Mercedes and looked to the front of
the room.  No teacher.  I turned to her, "We have to talk about
German."

She looked at me, lifting an eyebrow.  "The German teacher and I,
we have a bit of history.  If she sees us together, she's going
to dump on you."

Mercedes frowned.  "What did you do to her?"

"Won a lot of money from her at poker.  She isn't a good loser
and appears to hold a grudge.  She has more of a temper than you
do."

Mercedes grinned.  "You just haven't seen me on the right day. 
Soon, about a week from now, you'll see.  Be patient with me,
when it happens."

Oh, I thought.  At least since I'd made the stupid comment to
Emily about making an appointment to get expelled, and the other
comments I'd heard, I knew better than to comment about the
timing of women's cycles.

A man came in, just as the bell rang.  He was short, rotund, had
a ring of black hair around a bald pate.  He walked to the front
of the class and turned to the class.

"I'm Buddy Murello, I usta sell see-gars on the sea shore.  Da
Jersey shore, 'cause them stinkin' SOB's in the City made it
illegal to smoke there."

He stood looking at us.  A short, pudgy finger was extended to
Shellie Gerrold in the front row; she'd sat in front of me twice
in elementary school.  "What'sa matta wit' my Englitch?"

"It's not very good," she told him.  If there is anyone on the
planet who can't take a joke, it's Shellie.  As a result more
than half of the practical jokes played on people had been
perpetrated against poor Shellie.

"You say!" he exclaimed, laughing.

Next to me, Mercedes raised her hand.  He pointed at her.  "You
were speaking like someone from Brooklyn."

He nodded, "And what is it that they speak in Brooklyn?"  There
was no accent now.

"Accented English," Mercedes replied.

"Hah!  Ask anyone from Brooklyn!  The rest of us have accents,
they don't.  It's the way people talk there.  What is the subset
of a language called?"

I raised my hand, and when called on, I said it was a dialect.

"That's right.  However, this is an English class.  So, a word to
the wise, right from the beginning: this is a grammar and
composition class for advanced students headed to college.  If
you don't have it right, it's wrong.  I don't care if that's the
way Homer Simpson speaks or our ex-governor's unique approach to
the English language."

It was an interesting class and when it was over, I stood and
pulled Mercedes off to one side.  "You go ahead, I'll catch up in
a second."

"You're a little paranoid," she observed.

"Maybe.  Better to be safe than sorry," I told her.  "I promise,
wait for me by the stairwell, I'll be just a second."

She nodded, and headed out.  I waited a few seconds and then
left, too.

Hannelore was in the hall, waiting for me.  "Parker!"

I smiled at her, "It's Harper, ma'am."

	Her face was all smiles, but her eyes were cold blue ice agates.
 "I want to apologize, David.  That was uncalled for, earlier.  I
hope you won't make an issue of it."

	Yep!  I mentally agreed.  I smiled like an idiot.  "I thought
you were kidding around, Fraulein Kimmel.  I wouldn't make an
issue of something like that."

	She nodded and I waved ahead of me, "I need to get to my next
class."

	"Thank you, David."

	I walked away, nervously expecting something larger and heavier
than an eraser.  She had been covering her ass, I thought.  At
least I would have something to tell Blade.  The question was
what was he going to say about something so negative about his
girlfriend?

	Algebra was interesting too.  The teacher was easily the tallest
woman I've ever seen.  I really wasn't sure how tall she was,
maybe six eight or nine.  She was skeleton thin, her skin
exquisitely fair and her hair snow white.  I'd have thought she
was an albino, except her eyes were a deep, deep blue.

	"Mathematics," she said, "is the descriptive language of the
universe.  Up to now, you've been taught pablum; factoids that
have been chewed up, spit up, regurgitated..."  Her voice trailed
away.  "As you can see, I don't hold much with what you've been
taught up to now.  In the back of the room is a textbook.  Take
it home if you wish, let me know if you don't.  You will be
responsible for the book if you take it; you will find it of
scant utility.

	"My name is Janet Churchwood.  I am a string theoretician at
UCSD.  My partner came here to teach for a year or two, I
followed along because I love her very much."

	She had to know what she was saying, I was sure of it.  She
wasn't going to be a very popular teacher.  I looked around the
room.  Half, maybe, of my classmates were showing signs of
unease.  In that case, they were going to have an unpleasant
conundrum to solve.  This was the only freshman advanced math
class.  It was a 'must have' class if you wanted to go to a good
university, all of the advanced or honors classes were like
that.

	Miss Churchwood went on talking about what the class was going
to cover, as if she'd just commented on the weather.  "We will
cover a great deal of algebra in this class, but we will go other
places as well.  Back in the sixties, a Greek elevator engineer
showed up at Brookhaven National Lab with some designs for
particle accelerators.  The first few people who looked at his
designs laughed and sent him packing.  He'd done all his work in
algebra.

	"Then someone with a brain instead of an opinion looked at what
the man had done.  Among other things, he'd walked the same path
as Newton; he'd independently derived most of calculus and
differential equations.  He had a little rudimentary electrical
theory; he extended the theory quite a bit.  True, all previously
derived equations, but he was a man from a country left a little
behind the rest of the West.

	"To make a great story short, they packed the elevator engineer
off to MIT, where he learned the language, then hired him at
Brookhaven.

	"All of mathematics derives from simple algebraic and geometric
formulas.  They are fancied up, symbols and common notation are
used to simplify more complex concepts.  We are going to cover
some of those in this class.

	"As I said, we won't be using the text book.  I am going to
lecture on concepts, I'll write them on the board.  You are going
to need three things to have a prayer of passing this class.  At
the bottom of the list, are good notes and good study partners. 
I suggest groups of from two to four.  If, at the end of the
week, you have formed such a group and wish to sit together, I
will permit it.  I will continue to permit it so long as you
aren't disruptive.

	"What heads the list?  Questions.  The only stupid questions are
those either unspoken or spoken twice.  I think you are capable
of covering a simply incredible amount of ground, I'm going to
push you to see if that's the case."

	The next period was a regular class on Microsoft Office
applications.  My dad had insisted, so I was in it.  Mercedes was
taking it, because her family couldn't afford the software on
their home computer and was sure she'd need to know it.  The
teacher was an older woman, who just wrote "Mrs. Saunders" on the
board.

	Next was lunch, but since it was barely ten in the morning, we
split up to go our separate ways.  I don't know how they do lunch
schedules at other schools, but at our school there were two
lunch periods.  Your schedule showed the time block and said
either "Lunch" followed by "Period 5" or the reverse.

	Geography looked like it was going to be another interesting
class.  The teacher was shaped like a fire-plug, and if he had a
neck, you needed a microscope to see it.  He wasn't bald, but his
blonde hair was shaved close to his skull he might as well have
been.  He was my height, but probably weighed fifty or sixty
pounds more than me.

	"I am Colonel of the Marines, Ralph Terrell.  I retired last
spring.  This time last year, I was teaching Geography to
midshipmen at Annapolis.  They stank, ladies and gentlemen!  They
stank!  They had no background, no preparation!  So I decided to
find myself a place and there I would see to it that if any of
you ever find yourself in a military academy, you won't stink!"

	He pointed to Shellie Gerrold, sitting centered in the front of
the room by his desk.  "You, miss.  Your name?"

	"Shellie Gerrold."

	"Shellie Gerrold, sir!" he corrected her.  She looked confused.
"Miss Gerrold, where was your desk made?"

	She looked at him, then down at the desk.  "I don't know."

	"Miss Gerrold, I am your teacher.  I have been placed over you.
You will append the word 'sir' either before or after everything
you say to me.  Do you understand?"

	She looked confused and shook her head.

	Shellie wasn't a bad sort, and no one deserved what she was
dealing with.  I lifted my books and put them on an empty desk
next to mine.  I got out of my seat and simply lifted it up,
figuring that the name was likely on the bottom, if it was
there.

	"You there!  What are you doing young man?"

	"Looking to see where my desk was made, sir."

	"I asked Miss Gerrold to tell me her desk was made."

	"Sir, I don't care where her desk was made.  I want to be
prepared to tell you where mine was made if you ask me."

	I saw the name stamped into the bottom.  Without a word, I put
the desk down and sat back down, gathering back my books. 
Shellie threw me a grateful look.

	"So, Mister Whoever, where was your desk made?"

	"Sir, my name is David Harper.  My desk was made in McKee's
Rocks, Pennsylvania."

	"You're a very polite young man.  Or insubordinate as hell. 
Which is it?"

	"Sir, if I don't say sir to my father, I'd get knocked upside
the head."

	Half the class laughed, the half from Longstreet Middle School.

	Mr. Terrell pointed to a guy I knew a little.  One of my milder
tormentors.  "And you think that's funny.  What's your name,
young man, and why do you think it's funny?"

	"Davey Harper's father is the most important man in town, he
runs the factory.  Everybody in town says sir to him."  There was
a distinct pause before he went on, "Skip Tyler, sir."

	Mr. Terrell rounded on me again.  "I get the impression, Mr.
Harper, you're sticking up for Miss Gerrold.  Tell me, Mr.
Harper, where is McKee's Rocks, Pennsylvania?"

	I came within the tiniest bit of saying, "Pennsylvania." 
Fortunately, sanity kept my mouth shut for long enough to come up
with a better answer.  "I don't know, Mr. Terrell.

	"Just across the river from Pittsburgh.  Care to guess the
river?"

	Baseball saved me.  I knew the old stadium there was called,
"Three Rivers Stadium."

	I looked him in the eye, "Sir, there are three rivers in
Pittsburgh and I don't know which."

	"Name them," he asked, calling my bluff.

	I signed and shook my head, not bothering to say the words.

	"Name one."

	"Ohio," I said, but it was a guess.

	"That was a guess.  Do you know how I know?"

	"I didn't say, 'sir', sir."

	He laughed, "Exactly so, Mr. Harper!  It's across the Ohio.  Why
would you make a desk in Pittsburgh?  Why is Pittsburgh located
where it is in the first place?  Anyone?"

	I tried not to sigh audibly in relief.  The man was mean, he
really was.  A damned efficient teacher, too.

	No one ventured an opinion.  "How many rivers was that again,
Mr. Harper?"

	I started to answer, and then realized the answer to the
previous question.  "Three rivers, sir.  Rivers are used to
transport things."

	"Oh!  They are, eh?  What?  Tell me what?  Mr. Harper? 
Anyone?"

	"Coal and iron ore," Shellie said, finally finding her voice. 
Mr. Terrell was really intimidating!

	"Sir," he said, smiling at her.

	"Sir," she added, blushing.

	"Just that, Miss Gerrold.  Now, anyone... you need coal to make
steel.  What else is in your desks?"

	That led to a simpler discussion of wood and wood products.  In
the twenty minutes of the class, we were well into understanding
the importance of raw material access to factories.  It had been
unpleasant, but instructional.

	PE was a relief.  I say that with awe because in my life before
the first day of high school, PE wasn't the highlight of my day.
Or any kind of relief.

	Nonetheless, they separated out those going out for sports teams
from the rest.  The rest went off with a couple of coaches to
fill out forms, the rest of us were gathered into a group.

	Coach Naumann, the football coach, spoke to all of us.  "I want
to congratulate you young men on your decision to compete for the
school!  Football players, we have a one o'clock meeting, be
there!  The others of you have been told where you're supposed to
go today.  That's it, you have the rest of the period free!"

	Coach Wells had been standing off to one side, watching. 
Everyone was eager to leave; obviously it was a perk of going out
for athletics.  I walked up to him and he nodded.

	"I have you down for one this afternoon, Davey."

	"Thanks, sir.  I have a question though, if you have a minute."

	"Sure, Davey."

	"You said we should ask friends if they wanted to play ball. 
How broad a loop, sir, did you mean?"

	"I don't understand, Davey."

	"Sir, would you consider a girl?"

	He started to say something, then stopped.  "Yes."  He waved
around him, "it's actually out of my hands.  But yes, yes I
would.  The only thing is, I'm not about to give someone a place
on this team.  Right now, I am one roster slot short.  There will
be transfers, late shows... all kinds of people showing up. 
Twenty-six of the best players I have.  What position does she
play?"

	"First base, sir."

	He nodded and I felt compelled to add, "She's taller than I
am."

	"I will give her a fair shot.  I'll give anyone who walks up on
two legs a fair shot."

	"Thank you, sir."

	I walked away, though unsure.  Was he telling the truth or not?
I'd have said yes, except he'd hesitated at first and then said
it was out of his hands.  Was that code for "I'd rather not, but
I don't have a choice?"

The Spanish teacher was an older woman, Mrs. Fernanda Campo, who
seemed relatively colorless compared to the other teachers during
the day.  I almost sighed with relief.  The last bell rang and I
headed to the cafeteria where they were serving lunch, short
schedule or not, but just for one period.

I sat down next to Mercedes, the two of us alone at a table,
which I was pleased about.  She asked if I'd talked to the
baseball coach and I told her I had and what the Coach had said.
She was excited -- and I was erect just from sitting next to
her.

Wanda appeared and gestured.  "You two, come and join us.  Pammie
says please."

I looked at Mercedes, who shrugged.  We got up, and as I stood up
my cell phone started vibrating.  I held it up and said, "Be
right there."

Mercedes and Wanda walked away, talking.  I went a few feet away
from anyone and opened the phone.

"Blade, Davey.  Did you do it?"

"Yes, sir.  She has a bit of a temper, sir."

"Davey, it's Blade, okay?  You can save that "sir" stuff for
Willy or your father.  What happened?"

I went over it, including the part about sending Mercedes away by
herself after the class, then meeting Hannelore in the hall and
her apology.

"Davey, rate the sincerity of her apology from one, not
believable at all, to ten, chiseled in stone like the Ten
Commandments."

"Blade, her face, her voice...  I'd say a ten for sincerity,
unless you count her eyes.  Then I'd give her a one."

"Davey, once upon a time I was a dumb, ignorant, naive college
freshman.  The president of the university spoke at our
orientation assembly.  He said he wanted us all to think about
something.  Then he said, 'Forty-two.'  That was, he told us, the
secret of the universe according to the Hitchhikers Guide to the
Universe.  Like everyone else, I was nodding, thinking this was
really profound.  What was profound, Davey was his next sentence.
 'Now forget it.'"

It took me a second, and then I laughed.  "You didn't."

"No, nor do I think anyone else did, either.  I'd tell you to
forget what you saw, heard, and thought.  It's a waste of time;
it's not a command you can obey of your own choice.  Davey, this
is none of your business.  This has the potential of being
unpleasant; no one needs more unpleasantness in their lives. 
Walk away, leave it alone."

"So, I should walk with my girlfriend from Math to English, right
past Hannelore's class room?  Where my girlfriend will find
herself later in the day?"

"Davey, do you understand high order risk and low order risk?"

"No, sir.  Blade, I mean."

"If you jump off the Empire State Building or a cliff, that's a
high order risk.  You're going to hit the ground.  Mind you,
people can and have done similar feats, picked themselves up and
walked away uninjured.  You'd do better buying a lottery ticket
for a million dollars instead of a single dollar.

"Low order risks are those you take every day.  Riding in a car,
flying in a plane.  Watching out for those pesky meteorites. 
Things like that."

"I see," I told him.

"Good!  Tell your friend not to mention you in front of
Hannelore, and the two of you shouldn't walk together if there is
the least possibility she could see you.  That's anywhere at
school.  I can't put my finger on a real risk, but she makes me
uncomfortable.  Like you, I find her eyes a very disturbing
factor."

"I thought she was your friend?" I said.

Blade laughed.  "Davey, we have gone far, far afield!  Forget
this, okay?  Go back to what you were doing and forget this!"

I walked to Wanda's table and sat down next to Mercedes.  "You
look thoughtful," she told me.

I was tempted to speak up, made easily the best choice I'll ever
make in my life and just shrugged instead.  Mercedes smiled at me
and I was oblivious to what anyone else said after that.

At one o'clock I tore myself away from Mercedes and went to see
Coach Wells.  He waved me to the chair I'd quit not so long
before.

"I've been giving some thought to what you can do for the team. 
You appear to be an adequate fielder, the stop on the come-backer
was impressive."

I held up my hand.  "I still have a few twinges in my wrist, sir.
 I talked off the record to a paramedic, he said I should be
careful for a few days in case I cracked something."

"You do that," the coach told me.  "It's really easy to screw
yourself up if you start hurting and don't get it looked at. 
Sometimes pain is just a nuisance, it doesn't mean much.  Other
times, you're crazy to keep on.  You need a medical opinion about
that before you try."

I nodded.

"Now, I'm going to tell you something I don't want to go outside
this office."

"I understand," I told him.

"Three current team members told me that they were impressed by
your hitting.  They would very much like to give you a shot at
DH, freshman or not.  Your teammates, Davey, are determined to
have a winning season, doing whatever they have to do.

"So, for the time being, unless things change, which can happen
in an instant, you'll be the DH.  I have a copy of the rule book,
I want you to look it over," he handed me a bunch of pages,
paper-clipped together.  "Pay particular attention to the DH
rules.  I make no bones about it: they are complicated.  If we
have a pitcher who is a DH, we have a potent weapon.  I can sub
you in for the pitcher as late relief, which is what I expect
your pitching role will be, at least for now, and the batting
order doesn't change.  If, later, I have to pull you out, I can
sub in a new DH and a new pitcher.  If you were a starter, I
could pull you out as a pitcher and leave you in as a DH, if I
didn't have a DH batting for you.  Frankly, the more I look at
this, the more I like it."

"I'll do my best, sir."

"I'm sure you will, son.  It's been nearly thirty years since our
baseball team won a regional championship.  It's so bad, I can
have losing season after losing season and my job remains secure
because my wife is the superintendent's cousin and no one else
cares.  Well, I care.  I know you young men care!  We can do
this!"

I have to admit, I was jazzed and excited when I left his office.
 How do you spell "pep talk?"

I found the school library and started prowling around.  New
territory!  I was in hog heaven!

At four, I was there for the practice.  I did the warm-ups and
the loop run around the field.  One of the pitching coaches took
me off to one side and ran over how to hold curve balls and I
threw a few.  I didn't have any twinges, and I was feeling pretty
good, but I didn't throw very many pitches and I didn't throw
very hard, either.

Coach Wells had coached for more years than I'd been alive.  When
I told him I could take a few rips, do a few real pitches he
shook his head.

I'd been aware that Mercedes was there, aware that she was being
passed off from coach to coach as they evaluated her.

I was sitting on the bench watching them pepper Mercedes with
ground balls as she stood half way between first and second when
Chuck sat down next to me.  "I hear your wrist is racked up."

"I might have cracked something," I told him.  "It hasn't
bothered me today, I should be okay Saturday."

He nodded and then leaned close.  "I saw Jack Saturday, God!  I
thought you were exaggerating, trying to cover for your sister."

All I could do was shrug.

Chuck went on, "They suspended him, pending the results of the
drug test.  I don't figure there is a chance in hell he'll
pass."

I shook my head.  Yep!

"I was thinking about going to the camp he went to, but it was a
little out of my parent's price range," he told me.  "God, that
sucks!  They lean on you really hard to take that shit.  I've
heard stories."

"My dad talked to him yesterday," I told him.  "I hope it did
some good."

"Good?" Chuck sniffed, "he's screwed!  Our first game is Friday
night; we only have eight games.  The drug test results don't
come back until Thursday, but the Coach suspended him anyway.  He
is so totally fucked."

Mercedes caught a really hard hit ball, at full extension, rolled
over in the dirt and fired the ball at the catcher.  He was
startled, but got his glove on it.  The catcher fired it to third
base, it went to second, back to short and back to Mercedes at
first just about as fast as a ball could fly.

Chuck whistled, "Gosh!  That was good!  Really good!  She's
really cool!"

"Now if I can only get her parents to let her date!" I sighed.

He chuckled, "Girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend of my dreams!  One or two mountains to climb,
first!"

Chuck lowered his voice again.  "I'll spread the word.  We're the
baseball team; we don't do things like some of the other guys. 
One thing we don't do is poach someone else's girl."

I was going to say she wasn't officially my girl, but I realized
what he said before I spoke.  I shut my mouth, wired it shut,
used super glue and counted to a thousand.

He saw my expression and laughed, "That was a really heads-up
play the other day on your part, too."

I looked at him and he laughed.  "The part about Pammie and
tushes."

"Oh," I said.

"I figure that maybe Wanda has dropped Jack, but I don't think
he's quite ready to let go of her yet.  Better to chase some
other fish in the sea, instead of making a mistake!"

"For sure with Jack," I agreed.

Mercedes leaped straight up two feet and caught a ball high over
her head.  I might have been able to get up a foot, more likely
half that.  Getting my glove in the right place at the right time
would have been a miracle.

I turned to Chuck.  "Who usually plays first?"

"That was Rodriguez, he graduated last year.  He's working at a
meat-packing place over in Fort Stockton now.  That's a position
we've worried about since I can remember.  Rodriquez played the
position okay, but if he'd ever gotten hurt, we'd have been
hurting, because he was it."  He waved at Mercedes.  "She's
better than he was."

"You have a problem with a girl on the team?"

His eyes narrowed.  "You could bring on the Virgin Mary, dancing
monkeys... whatever.  If they can do the job I'm for them."  He
stopped talking for a moment, "I'm the third string fullback,
first string second baseman.  If two guys get crushed during the
football season, I might get a shot.  I can't live wishing for
something like that.  My one hope of a scholarship is if we kick
some serious ass playing baseball.  I was thinking last week
there was no way in hell.  This week...  I'm thinking maybe I
shouldn't rush to judgment."

He looked at me and then laughed.  "You really are sweet on her!
You know her nickname?"

"Spitfire," I said, guessing.  It was a pretty safe guess.

"Yeah, she messed up that guy, Brad.  The one who used to date
Wanda."

I tried to let no emotion show on my face.

Chuck rattled on, "A few weeks after the Spitfire shot him down,
I hear Brad shot his old man, then the old man shoved the gun up
Brad's ass."

I waved at Mercedes.  "You know her nickname for me?"

He shook his head, so I told him.  "Messerschmitt, the prey of
the Spitfires."

He laughed.  "Guess she's got you sized up, then!  You'll just
have to take what she's got to dish out like a man!"

"Carefully," I added and Chuck laughed harder.

Then we were called in; one person not present was Mercedes. 
Coach Wells told us we'd done well and then got really serious.

"A young woman tried out for the team.  Some of you saw her."
	"Damned good first baseman!" Chuck said, and then laughed,
"basegirl!"

"I haven't decided for sure yet; she has to fill out the
application and all that, get a doctor's okay.  But she wants to
play and Chuck's right.  She's a good ballplayer."

He looked at the team.  "I can't stop it if you get it in your
heads to harass her.  I will stop it if I can, right up to
kicking people off the team.  None of us want that; we're too
thin on the ground.  Don't.  Please, just that.  Don't mess with
her."

Chuck spoke up again, "That girl is the Spitfire to Davey
Harper's Messerschmitt.  Rat-ta-tat-ra-ta-tat-tat!"  He laughed.

To my amazement, there was a round of laughs from every one else
and then a chorus of some sort of weird grunt sounds like you
hear army guys do in movies.

"You guys have the potential," Coach Wells said.  "We are looking
better than good this year.  We stick with it, we practice hard,
we plan, we think... this could be a glory year!"

There was more of that sound.  "Oh-rah!" or something like that.

When I got home from practice about six thirty Mom was standing
in the living room with a woman I didn't recognize and a girl I
thought I'd seen around school last year.  I didn't see Wanda or
Emily; it turned out they were getting ready to go out to
Pammie's house for dinner.

"Davey, this is Margaret Feeney.  She's a family court lawyer. 
This is Irene, her daughter."

I nodded to them as my mother continued to explain.  "Wanda,
Emily and I are going in to Margaret's office.  We are going to
make a formal statement about Mrs. Watson, about what we saw the
other day.  Phil talked to one of his legal people and he's
afraid that Emily could be forced back to live with her mother. 
I don't think that would be a good idea."

"No," I said.  It didn't take much thinking to realize that would
be really bad.

"You and Irene can stay here; this isn't something we want an
audience for."

I nodded.

"There are plenty of leftovers, if you want to eat something
later," Mom explained to me.

It didn't take long before they were gone.

Irene looked at me.  "I don't need a babysitter."  She was very
short, four and a half feet tall, thin and fine boned.  Sixty
pounds, I thought.  She had dark red hair and pale blue eyes. 
Her hair was done up in a ponytail.  I revised her estimated age
substantially downwards.

"A good thing," I replied, "because I've never done it, don't
want to do it and would just as soon not ever learn how."  I
gestured toward the family room.

"There's the family room.  We have a pool table; there are chairs
and couches.  You can turn on the TV if you want; there's a CD
player and a lot of music on the shelves.  Some DVD's, too. 
Right now, I've just come from baseball practice and I need a
shower.  Go entertain yourself."

I wasn't really hostile, just matter of fact.

She regarded me suspiciously.  "You're not my babysitter?"

I shook my head.  "Relax, make yourself at home."

I went into my room, grabbed my stuff for my shower.  Later, when
I went back into the family room, Irene was lying on one of the
couches, a library book in hand.  "You're my kind of girl," I
whispered to myself.

I came out and fetched the book on dreadnoughts, went back into
the family room and sprawled out on another couch.

Dad has accused me several times of being blind.  When we're
trying to find someplace, and I'm supposed to be looking for it,
I almost always miss it.  He says I have the observational skills
of a deaf bat.

Still, I wasn't there for more than a couple of minutes when
movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention.  I
looked over at Irene, who was reading with the book in her lap. 
I almost missed it; she closed her eyes for a second and just on
the edge of my hearing there was the faintest hint of a sigh.  A
small smile broke out on her face that had been expressionless a
second before.

I had just a fraction of a second's warning but I managed to get
my eyes off her before she opened her eyes and could focus again.
 She moved slightly and I saw she had one hand buried inside her
jeans, using the book to obscure the fact.

I wanted to laugh.  Irene was masturbating right in front of me!
Hoping, I assumed, I wouldn't notice!  I watched for a few more
minutes and watched as she came again.  I had my nose thoroughly
in my book, but I was also paying her a lot of attention.

It was thoroughly hot, I'd learned in the previous few minutes,
to watch a girl masturbate.  I was thinking Irene was in fourth
or fifth grade; I didn't know girls masturbated that young.  I'd
done it about twice in seventh grade, a whole bunch more in
eighth.

I didn't know what to think when I saw Irene continue on, aiming
for a third orgasm.  I'm a guy, a teenage guy.  I was hard; all
sorts of things were running around in my head.  Wondering what
she'd say if I whipped out my erection and brought myself off,
for instance?  Or got up and went over there and offered her a
hand?  Three times?  That was major!  Major!

I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts; I didn't look away when
she came again.  My first hint that Irene had noticed my
attention was when she spoke, "I suppose you think I'm a terrible
slut."

"No," I replied honestly, "I don't think you are at all."  I was
feeling all kinds of embarrassed, not to mention incredibly
horny.

"Really?"

"Really.  It's not like I don't do what you're doing."  Just not
in public, I added to myself.  Maybe she was a tease?

"You do it?"

"Sure," I was about to add that my sister had more or less said
she did it as well, but I decided that was personal and private.

Irene was quiet for a minute.  "Can I ask you a question?"

I smiled, but decided this wasn't the time to jerk her chain
about how she'd already used up that question.  "Okay."

She hesitated again, and then asked, "How often do you do it?"

Leaving out the last week or so, since Wanda and I had been
together?  "Three or four times a week."

She looked puzzled.  "I thought boys were supposed to do it a
lot."

I shrugged.  I started to say I didn't do it every time I felt
like it, but I was sure Irene would assume I was criticizing her.
 Which I probably would have been.

I didn't have to worry, Irene was thinking about herself.  "I was
okay this summer, three or four times a day, maybe.  Today...  Oh
gosh!  I wanted to so much!  All day!  Since I got home, it's all
I can think about!  I know I'm a slut!"

I shook my head.  "A slut is someone who sleeps with a lot of
different people, who doesn't care who she sleeps with.  Doing it
a lot with the same person, that's called being faithful."

Her eyes bulged out with surprise.  "I never thought of it like
that!" she exclaimed.  "But, I think about different people..."

"No one can help what you think," I told her, warming to the
subject.  Sure, I had an erection that wouldn't quit and wanted
to do something about it.  I was, I told myself, not going to.

"Irene, I wouldn't say you should do this in public.  If you
like, I'll go in my room and leave you alone for a while."

Why did I say it like that?  I could have just stood up and left.
 Leaving it as a question opened up possibilities.

She was silent for a minute; then I realized she was rubbing
herself again, when her eyes closed.  "Irene, I should go," I
told her.

She opened her eyes and looked at me.  "I was thinking just now,
maybe you want to kiss me."

For a second my mind went to Mercedes, who I would definitely
like to kiss.  Or Emily.  Or Wanda.  Pammie hadn't offered, but
I'm sure she wouldn't have been surprised if we'd kissed. 
Remember Pammie, Davey!  Remember no birth control!

"Would you like that?" I asked.  I was stunned; those weren't the
words I'd planned on saying!

She nodded.  I just had to get up and go over there, I thought. 
She was just about in the same state Pammie had been the other
day.  I just had to reach out and...

Abruptly, Irene was off the coach and headed my way; half way
across the room her jeans started to slide down.  She kicked them
away and curled into my lap, her arms around my neck.  We kissed.
 It was a really hot kiss, too.

Long before it was over, my hands were running up and down her
back, aware that she was wearing a bra, even though she had no
visible signs of breasts.  Aware that when I ran my hand over her
pale blue panties I was going wild with desire.

"You can touch me if you want," she whispered when we stopped to
catch our breath for a second.

I tried to bring myself back under control.  "I'm not sure this
is something I should be doing with a ten-year-old girl."

She giggled and kissed me hard again.  "I'll be thirteen on
Monday, I just look younger because I'm small."  It was the last
push against my crumbling defenses.  I wasn't even a year older
than Irene!  I had seen her in school!  She'd been a seventh
grader last year!

I kissed her again, using my tongue this time while I slid my
hand under the waistband of her panties.  She opened her legs to
accommodate my touch and I found her bare pussy with my probing
fingers.

She was wetter than Wanda had been except the once.  Her clit
felt like it was a half-inch in diameter, a small round button
that, when pushed, brought her close to an orgasm.  I started
pushing that button and a few seconds later she came.

I stopped after she came the fourth or fifth time, it was hard to
keep count.  "I'll go get a condom."

She kissed me, her hand going across the front of my jeans.  "I
weigh sixty pounds.  The doctor said I would probably have my
first period when I was sixteen; that or I need to gain thirty
pounds."

If I gained half my body weight, I'd look like the Ripper; I was
distracted when Irene fished out my erection.  "It's not as big
as I expected."

I chuckled.  "I can tell you haven't done this before."

She looked at me, thought for a second, and then blushed. 
"Sorry."

"That's okay.  I'm not one of those guys who gets gnarly hard and
then goes and checks out how he measures up against the other
guys."

We kissed again and instinctively I ran my hand over her breasts.
 I wasn't sure if it was nipple or the part of her bra I was
feeling, but Irene seemed to like it.  I kissed and rubbed
harder.

Irene was one determined girl.  She had undone my zipper and had
been playing with my erection; and then she moved and was trying
to fit me inside her.  At first the angles were all wrong, then
the angles were right and I slid in, really, really deep.  I felt
erection bump up against something, and for a few seconds, I
thought it was her hymen.  Then I wasn't sure what it was,
because I was in as far as I could go, and surely maidenhood
didn't hide way down there...

Irene groaned, then she started to move against me.  I took a
couple of strokes but my desire wasn't a hundredth part of hers.
In no time she was moving up and down on my erection with the
same speed and accuracy that Wanda had shown me.  Not to mention
Irene was a whole lot smaller; I lasted about two minutes, then
came, squirting deep inside her.

I didn't subside right away; I was still semi-erect.  Irene moved
a little, sensed my arousal and moved some more.  Not a minute
later, she was going at it again, this time she was 100% of the
action.  In spite of having nothing to do with things, I came
again.

I saw her eyes were glazed; her mouth was open.  I wanted to say
something, but for the life of me, I couldn't.  After a second,
Irene's eyes opened and focused on me.  "You're limp," she said,
sounding frustrated.  I hadn't noticed, but yes I was.  I was
still just barely inside her, because it was one tight fit, and
her vagina was holding onto my erection for dear life.

She moved slightly and I nearly slid out.  She moved again, and
this time it was better directed.  A few more moves and I was
semi-hard again.  She started hammering away again, but I moved
slightly and popped out.  She groaned in frustration.

I leaned close and wrapped her up with my arms.

"Irene," I said as gently as I could, "Irene."  She was trying to
fit me in again, but now I was completely flaccid.  "Hold off for
a second."

She looked at me, her eyes glazed with lust.  I trembled, from
one end of my body to the other; I was shaking.  This wasn't
good!  This wasn't good at all!

"Please, Davey!  Oh please!  It feels so good!"  She was trying
to stuff me inside her still, except I really was limp and slimy;
it wouldn't go and wouldn't have stayed if she'd somehow gotten
me inside her.

"Irene, it's after nine!  My dad will be home any second!  Our
parents!  My sister!  It's a school night!"

"Can I come back tomorrow and do it with you?  Please?"

"Irene, right now we need to get cleaned up and dressed.  We can
work out something for tomorrow."

I got her up, got her into the bathroom.  The door had hardly
closed when I heard a car door slam outside.  I made sure I
looked something like presentable, went to the hall door, only to
have Dad come in from the pool deck again.

"Evening, Davey."  He stopped and sniffed.  "You should do that
with Wanda in your room, it smells like a bordello in here."

My eyes went to the bathroom door.  "Wanda's over at Pammie's."

His eyes narrowed.  I walked closer, "There are a couple of
things I need to ask you, something I need to talk to Mom and
Wanda about.  Please, I know I've never been the son you think I
should have been, but trust me, when she comes out."  I was
whispering.

He nodded, and I saw him look behind me as I heard the door to
the bathroom open.  "She's my age," I said as softly as I could.

"Hello," Dad said to Irene.  "I don't believe I've had the
pleasure of meeting you, young lady?"

"I'm Irene Feeney, my mom's a lawyer."

Dad chuckled, "I promise not to hold that against you."

Irene looked at him and smiled a saccharine smile, licking her
lips seductively as she did.  Good grief!  She was shifting
targets!

More car doors, this time Mom, Emily and Irene's mother.  Irene
and her mother left before much more was said.

Dad had vanished almost the instant Mom appeared; Emily excused
herself, leaving Mom and I alone.

"Mom, I really, really need to talk to you."

She smiled.  "So, we're talking."

"Irene," I waved at the door where Irene and her mother had just
left.  "I'm sorry, I swear I didn't know what would happen."

Mom shook her head.  "I can smell what happened.  What Margaret
Feeney is going to say to her daughter is much harder to say."

"Mom, Emily doesn't want to do it with guys.  I understand that,
I understand why.  But Irene... she doesn't care who she does it
with.  A second ago, just before you came in, she started hitting
on Dad, because she just flat wore me out."

"I think Irene has a real problem," I told her.  "I don't know
what I did, or even if I did anything.  But if I hadn't worn out,
we'd still have been at it when you came in.  She didn't want to
stop.  Not for anything.  And when I couldn't go on, she started
on Dad."

"You realize that Margaret, who is a friend of mine, can hand you
your head on a platter and there will be not very much I or
anyone else can do about it?"

"I'm not very proud of myself," I told her.  "I resisted for a
good twenty or thirty seconds."  I suddenly felt so ashamed.  How
long had Emily resisted?  Had the bastard told her to relax,
she'd like it?  I wanted to go hide in my room, I wanted anything
but to have to face Emily ever again.

I heard a sound, and saw Dad standing a few feet away.  It looked
to me like he'd been there for a while.

Mom pointed me to bed.

I was on the verge of crying, but lifted my chin and went into my
room, sitting down on my bed.  I'd been there just a few seconds
when Dad came in.

"You said you had some other things to talk to me about."

I mustered my thoughts, then decided to start with what I thought
was the most important.  "One of them, I think, is moot. 
Mercedes wants to play on the baseball team; I think she's got a
fair shot at it."

He nodded.  "The honors algebra teacher told us that she came to
San Angelo with her partner, who she says, she deeply loves; I
think her partner is the new biology teacher, also a woman.  I
know it's only the first day, but I think we should give them a
chance to show what they can teach."

"Lesbians?  Both of them?"

I nodded.

"She said it in front of the class?"

Again I nodded.  "It wasn't an in-your-face statement, it was
just explaining why someone with such a good math background was
in San Angelo, teaching math.  She didn't say lesbian, she just
said partner and didn't say who, but did say it was a woman."

"You're not stupid, nor do I suspect that anyone has been hiding
things from you anymore.  Your mom is bisexual, your sister is. 
Now Emily..."  He sighed.

"I never minded, Davey.  Quid pro quo.  Sometimes I stray, not
often, and not for very long.  Usually just once with someone. 
Your mother strays more often, but I indulge her.  I wasn't
surprised to hear about Wanda."

I waved my hand; none of it was something I thought worth talking
about.  "I swear, I didn't force Irene," I told him.

"It doesn't sound like it.  Just like it won't matter how it
sounds, if she decides to stick it to you."  He pointed at my
crotch.  "You, Davey, are considered armed and dangerous, if she
is as old as you say she is, you have a small leg to stand on.  A
larger leg if she really is a nympho."

"I always thought those were just stories guys made up."

"Davey, addiction comes because you make something a habit.  Even
pain can be a habit.  The bottom line is that a habit feels good
and you want to repeat that 'feel good' feeling.  Food, drink,
drugs... sex.  You can become addicted to anything you can
convince yourself is pleasurable.  Sometimes, you don't have to
even do that; you do it even if you know it hurts.

"Addiction happens, Davey.  Some addictions are relatively
benign.  Without my first two or three cups of coffee in the
morning, I've been known to get irritable."

I smiled.  Yes, that was sure true!

"I wanted to be up front about it," I told him.  "I don't think
I'm trying to shift responsibility, I think she has a problem."

"Any other little thing with your day?"  he asked.  "How was
practice?"

"I pretty much sat it out.  Mercedes did good, really good."  I
paused, contemplating what was more important: Dad's Rule One or
Blade's National Security admonition.  I thought about editing
what happened, leaving out Blade.  I thought about Rule One.

"Blade asked me to do something and not talk about it."

"Then, don't talk about it."

"It might be a surprise to you later, I'm not sure what I should
do."

"Leave out everything about Blade.  Everything.  Just tell me
what happened."

So, I explained about Hannelore and the erasers and not letting
her see me with Mercedes.

Dad nodded when I finished, but didn't say anything.  Finally he
shrugged.  "Do what you think is best; this isn't my area of
expertise.  Stick with your instincts."

"When she apologized I got the distinct impression it was meant
for more than just me.  That it would be passed on and you all
were supposed to be understanding and all of that.  If I could
have voted, I'd have abstained.  That was the other day; today,
I'd vote her off the island.  I'd like to play poker with you all
again.  It was fun, even before I won.  But not with her."

He smiled.  "Davey, if her apology didn't sound sincere to you,
it will go over with a dull thud with a roomful of poker players.
 Not to worry."

Wanda came in, a smile on her face.  She asked what was going on,
and both Dad and I smiled blandly back at her.

"Bed time, kiddos!"  Dad told us, "Tomorrow is a school day!"

Wanda left right away, and as I turned to go, he called after me,
"Davey, odds are I'd have heard about the erasers at some point.
I appreciate the heads-up, and the stuff about her apologizing. 
I assume you want to say you're satisfied?"

"Yes!" I said eagerly.  "I don't want a teacher pissed at me and
even if she's faking the apology, that would be better."

<1st attachment end>


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