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Message-ID: <47815asstr$1084479006@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Gina Marie Wylie" <gmwylie98260@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Laura Alban Hunt Ch 1 {Gina Marie Wylie} (No sex)
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Date: Thu, 13 May 2004 16:10:06 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Laura Ch 1.rtf" 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: no sex.





   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/



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





   Laura Alban Hunt



   Chapter One --- Prelude



   My name is Laura Alban Hunt, a thirty-six year old widow with a teenage
daughter.  I suppose a great many people would think I'm depraved, sick,
and twisted.  Above all, they would call me a child molester.  I know, I
would have too, not that long ago.



   Subsequently I acquired various hangers-on besides my daughter.  They
might not be of my flesh, but they became as much a part of my family as my
daughter Susan.





   I grew up in a strict, rigid family; every little part of my life was
controlled until I got to high school where slowly, gradually the screws
came off -- and not just on the dental appliances in my mouth.  I wasn't
much of a rebel growing up.  I accepted life and fate as they were, when
something hit me it was like brushing someone on a crowded New York City
street: you don't even say `excuse me.' You just get on with whatever it is
you were doing and forget it ever happened.





   I finally did rebel, albeit rather later in life than most; this isn't
an apology, this is an explanation.  I do not apologize in the least to
anyone for what I've done.  I have not the least regret for the things I've
done.





   As I said, this is an explanation, not an apology.





   I suppose it marks me as a pretty dim bulb, but it's true nonetheless: I
didn't really understand what a cheerleader was until my first day of high
school when they held a pep assembly to introduce the incoming freshmen to
our sports teams -- and the cheerleaders.





   I'm sure I must have seen cheerleaders before.  I knew the word, I knew
what it meant, but not viscerally, not where it counted.





   I watched the bevy of girls, mostly older than me, cavort on the
hardwood floor of the gym.  I was entranced.  Utterly and completely
entranced.  And, as sock-knocking-off as the reality of live cheerleaders
doing their routines was, it was nothing but a belch in a whirlwind as I
looked around me, seeing people shouting and stamping their feet, joining
in the cheers.  These people have a particular power, I thought.  The power
to get people up and doing things.





   And I wanted it.  I wanted to share in it.





   Before the end of the day, I had an appointment with my counselor and I
was asking her questions.  Miss Dunham may have been many things, but
observant, intelligent, and compassionate didn't make the list.  She didn't
ask me any questions, she didn't do anything but write a name on a slip of
paper and assure me that ``no one is turned away.''





   Well, actually, no one qualified was turned away, so long as the other
girls on the team liked them.  Two minor caveats.  Insurmountable, but hey,
who cares?





   The coach of the cheerleading squad was Miss McGowan, an early
middle-aged woman stamped from the PE coach cookie cutter.  She smiled when
I told her I wanted very much to be a cheerleader and then she asked me a
few questions.





   After those questions, neither of us was smiling.  Dance?  Well, we'd
had ballroom classes a couple of times in seventh grade.  Athletics?  Well,
no, I liked to read.  But I really, really wanted to be a cheerleader. 
Miss McGowan got up, led me to a room where half a dozen girls were talking
about a new routine.





   ``Patsy, please, a moment.'' A girl came over, blonde, pig-tailed, and
earnest.  ``Leg lift, please.'' Miss McGowan lifted her hand up, and the
girl put her foot in Miss McGowan's hand, well above shoulder height.





   ``One thing the girls do, routinely, is high kicks.  This high.'' She
let the other girl's foot go, and the girl simply stood on one foot, the
other pointing into the air over her head.  ``Now you.''





   I failed, right there.  Not because I couldn't begin to get my leg that
high, but because I shook my head and said, ``I can't do that.''





   Miss McGowan thanked the girl, who simply went back to the others and
continued what she'd been doing as if I'd never been there.  ``Most of
these girls have been practicing for six, eight, ten years.'' She nodded at
me.  ``What did you say your name was?''





   ``Laura Alban.''





   ``Laura, you have to be flexible.  You have to be willing to try new
things.  Are you sure you don't want to show me how high you can kick?''



   I shook my head, embarrassed.  I would go home, and I would do whatever
it took.  I would practice and practice and then I would come back and show
her what I could do.





   She told me, politely, that she had other things to do.  It didn't take
a rocket scientist to know what she meant was for me to get lost, and for
me to stop wasting her time.





   Eventually, I realized that someone new to cheerleading or dance can't
have the extension some who had practiced for years had; it goes without
saying.  But I hadn't tried.  I hadn't been able to stand the thought of
trying and failing, and being embarrassed by that failure.  And that was as
much a part of the job description as anything else.





   So, I was frustrated.  Doubly so, because my parents had at first
refused my request for dance classes.  I did an end around, going to the
YWCA for an `exercise' class -- which was really a dance class.  Never
before in my life had I resisted what my parents wanted, never before had I
defied them in any significant way.  And it was for nothing.





   I never did make the team.  Oh, I tried out three times.  Three times
the girls on the squad voted not to accept me.  Life went on.  Actually,
not being in cheerleading left me with lots of time to study.  By the
beginning of my sophomore year I was number two in my class, academically.
I applied myself with fervor, and graduated number one.  Valedictorian.  A
tallish girl; long brown hair with reddish highlights, green eyes.  Not
ugly, but neither beautiful nor cute.





   I studied hard in college.  It was a long, time consuming, slog that
consumed my life for those years.  I discovered boys in high school and
decided I didn't need the distraction; I gave them up.



   I met Roger Hunt when we were both at Wharton working on our MBA's. 
Call it chemistry or whatever, we clicked.  Suddenly school seemed
irrelevant; sex with Roger was all I needed.  Roger was an up-and-coming,
very bright young man, double majoring in business and law.  On his
twenty-third birthday we graduated.  Roger with an MBA, a JD and a
twenty-two-year-old pregnant wife who 'just' had her MBA.





   Roger's first job, right out of school, paid six figures.  He was
already getting twice that annually from trust funds set up for him by his
grandparents.  Eight months later Susan was born; a cute blonde baby whose
smile entranced me the moment she first flashed it to me, seconds after she
was born.





   I, who'd not been very large, breast-wise, blossomed as a mom; better
yet, the other bodily expansions all went away afterwards.  I was happy,
content; I loved being a mom.  The world was a beautiful place, and I loved
it, loved my husband, and above all, loved my daughter.





   Then one morning my cell phone rang and I answered it, just like I'd
answered the phone a million times.  How could I tell that my world was
going to change forever?



   I'd just dropped Susan off at school moments before, I was en route back
to our house on Long Island.



   ``Laura, it's Rog.''





   ``Yes, dear?'' He almost never called me during the day, particularly on
Tuesdays because that was the morning for the big staff meeting.



   ``There's a little problem.  Are you home?''





   ``Not yet, just a few more minutes.''





   ``Turn on the TV when you get there.'' He paused and I realized that
there were a lot of odd sounds coming from the phone.  A lot of people
talking, very loudly.  ``A plane hit the building a few minutes ago.''





   I blinked, feeling a tremor of fear.  ``One of the secretary's saw it;
it was a big passenger jet.'' He paused again.  ``There's a lot of smoke,
Laura.  I tell you true, it's not looking real good here.  I'll call you
back in a few; I want to save the battery.  Power's out.''





   I mashed the accelerator to the floor, leaving tire marks on the
pavement.  A few minutes later, I was home, staring in horror at those
pictures we've all seen.  Except I was there, living it.





   Roger called back a while later.  ``We're trying to get further
upstairs. There's just too much smoke, we tried to break out the windows,
but it just made it worse.  I love you, Laura.  Tell Susan I love her too.
Gotta run.''





   I was crying, alone in an empty house, only the TV for company.



   Roger called again.  ``It's really bad, Laura,'' he told me.  ``The
smoke is very thick, even though there's no fire here.  People who tried to
get down say the fire is burning out of control below us.  We've talked to
911, they say the fire department is here, hundreds of fire and police are
doing everything they can to get to us.''





   ``They crashed into the other tower,'' I said, trying to sound
collected. ``And the Pentagon.''





   ``We saw the other tower.  The Pentagon too?''





   ``Yes, there was a fourth plane, they think it was headed for the
Capitol or the White House, but it crashed in a field in Pennsylvania.''





   The picture on the TV was a live shot, I saw a puff of flame; Roger
said, ``Oh God!  Laura!  Susan!  I love...'' And then there was nothing but
crashing ruin and billows of destruction.





   I turned it off, unable to watch.  I was terrified; I don't know why I
was terrified, but I was.  I was safe in our house, miles away from
Manhattan.  And I was as terrified as I was sure Roger had been.





   A short while later the phone rang again, that time Roger's father. 
``Laura, is Roger home yet?  He's okay, right?''





   ``Dad, Roger was there.  I was talking to him when it...'' I took a
breath.  ``I don't think he made it, Dad.''





   There was a silence on the other end.  ``But you don't know.''





   ``No, I don't.  But he was near the top, not near the bottom.''





   You know what happened after that; they didn't find very many of the
bodies.  Roger was simply missing.





   I got a call from Susan's school at noon, saying that if I wanted, I
could come and pick her up.  I dreaded it, and then when I got to her
middle school, cursed the school administration.





   The kids knew that something had happened, there were rumors about what
it was.  Some of them had cell phones and had talked to people outside.  It
was fragmentary and if we grown-ups didn't understand, imagine what it is
like for kids eleven to thirteen.  So, sitting in the car in front of
school, I had to tell Susan that her father wasn't going to be coming home.
I didn't lie to her like my father-in-law had tried to lie to himself; it
was over and done, I knew it.





   I let Susan watch the pictures, but only days later.  Like a great many
people, it scarred our lives.  Just that; 9/11 is a big ugly scar that no
cosmetic makeover will ever be able to cover up.  It isn't something you
can put behind you, come to closure with; none of that.  All you can do is
learn to live with it.



   You go through each day numb, coping with what you must, putting off
everything else.  The world seems to turn into a dark, narrow tunnel, dark
and close, pressing in on all sides.  It's like the worst nightmare,
because no matter how fast you hurry, you can't move any faster.  No matter
which direction you look, all you see is gray bleakness.





   Roger and I had been financially comfortable before the attack.  My
parents had both died while I was in college and had left me a substantial
sum.  Roger made good money, hefty incentives and bonuses; after 9/11 there
was insurance, and the government money.  Roger's grandparents had been
wealthy, Roger's father almost as successful.  There were trust funds and
an investment portfolio; in short, the amount of money Susan and I had to
face the future was beyond ample.





   While money might not have been an issue, living in New York was: I
quite simply never wanted to see the city of New York again.  Unreasoning,
baseless, unfair; yep, all those things.  Kind of like what happened to my
husband and so many others.





   We moved right after the first of the year; just one more shock for my
just-turned-thirteen-year-old daughter.  I was callous and unfeeling; I
didn't much care what she wanted.  Susan though, is a trooper, tougher in
many ways than I am.  She's more resilient too.  More than once, when I
thought I just couldn't go on, she'd come and hug me, hug me tight.





   Susan was in 8th grade that year.  In September she'd been a scrawny
twelve-year-old 2x4, barely five four; shoulder-length hair, baby blonde
turned light brown, with light green eyes.  In the spring she blossomed to
five six, added some weight, developed some cleavage.  One thing I had made
sure of early: Susan knew what cheerleaders were, and had taken dance
lessons from the time she was six.  I didn't force her; I simply presented
it as an option that I felt she should take.  She did, and she loved it.





   We moved to Scottsdale, near Phoenix, as different from where I'd grown
up in New England as possible, not to mention far, far removed from New
York.  I never thought about Roger's desire to live in New York, I loved
him a whole lot more than I disliked New York.  I know there's a part of me
that blames New York for his death, and I know it's unfair.  Life though,
isn't about fairness; it's about what happens to you and how you deal with
it.





   Scottsdale sits east and northeast of Phoenix, running into the
mountains outside the larger city.  As a result, the northern parts of
Scottsdale sit above the brown haze that shrouds the city on some days.  I
was enchanted with the area from the first time I saw it.



   Oh, and it never snows.  Ever.





   We settled down.  Susan started in her new school, I spent lots of time
walking and thinking, contemplating life and death.  Slowly my equilibrium
returned, my ability to get through more than a day or two without breaking
down into tears.





   Then it was March, the days started to warm and the spring weather was
simply gorgeous.  I spent quite a lot of time in the back yard, either
swimming mindless laps in the pool or sitting next to it; working on a tan
I'd never had before.  I rarely talked to anyone: modern America is really
good at allowing you to be totally anonymous and alone, even in the heart
of a major city.





   Late in March, Susan asked if she could invite some of the girls from
her class over on a Saturday afternoon.  First they would go to a movie,
then return to the house to swim for a while, then dinner, followed by a
party and a sleep over.





   How much I owe that girl!  She had been a big help getting me over what
had happened.  Her father's death had hit her every bit as hard as it had
me, but Susan went through the grief stages much faster than I did.  More
than once a timely hug, a friendly hand on my shoulder made a world of
difference to me.  I tried to do the same for her, but I think Susan was
far stronger than I was.



   Susan had resisted only mildly being dragged two thousand miles to a
strange warm land.  The swimming pool in our back yard, she insisted, made
up for that, but I ascribed that to bravado.  I had no trouble inviting her
friends, nor with doing the ten thousand little tasks that are required
before such an ambitious task as hosting a dozen teenage girls for the
better part of a full day.

   
<1st attachment end>


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