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Message-ID: <48795asstr$1092201007@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Gina Marie Wylie" <gmwylie98260@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Spitfire and Messerschmitt Ch 8{Gina Marie Wylie} (Teen, mf, cons)
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Date: Wed, 11 Aug 2004 01:10:07 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Davey Ch 8.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, inc, 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/

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

Chapter 8 :: Labor Day

Every year my father and mother hold an open house for everyone
at the plant and their families on Labor Day.

The first year Dad held it, he rented a local park and had it
catered.  About a hundred people showed up; there were more
caterers.  Dad's factory employs about four thousand people and
they have about three times that many family members.

The second year, about two hundred people showed up.  This upset
him, although as a seven-year-old, the why of that escaped me.  I
was more concerned about the stupid bow tie he made me wear.

The third year, he dared them to come.  He held it at our house.
About two hundred people came that year too.  That was in the
days before we had a pool; they fit comfortably, more or less, in
the back yard, the house and the front yard -- I liked it better
because I didn't have to wear a tie.

Mystified by the poor turn-out, he asked his superintendent who
told Dad that he might be the nicest person in the universe, but
he was a boss, and everyone assumed that the cost of the party
was coming out of their pockets.  Could they have a raise,
instead?

Dad is, if nothing else, a determined man.  One day the whistle
blew at eleven-thirty in the morning on the factory floor,
stopping work.  Caterers arrived with barbeque and all manner of
other food.  A mariachi band played, a local jazz musician blew
notes at the other end of the factory.  That still didn't work.

Dad simply called in the union representative, showed him his pay
stubs.  "I'm putting my bonus and any increases I get into a
party fund.  You can spend it on a party or I'll put it in my
pocket."

Put like that, the money was spent.

Labor Day became a party for the managers and not the workers. 
Go figure; it never made sense to anyone who hadn't been there. 
They still did the catered barbeque once a year for everyone
else.  Dad says it's popular because after they eat and have a
beer, they can go home and get paid for the entire day.

Still, about a hundred people were coming.  Dad fixed the food
himself with his own hands.  And mine, Wanda's and Mom's.

There were a handful of younger kids that would come and I was
pressed into duty as a lifeguard at the pool, until dinnertime,
when the pool became off-limits.  After dinner, everyone would
sit around bellyaching -- er, I mean, talking about the future of
the plant.  Along about ten, we would watch the Chamber of
Commerce fireworks over the Concho River, about a mile to the
east of us.

All I knew was that I spent the morning getting ready; at least
no one would be allowed in the house, so it only had to be
immaculate on the outside.  That task was the duty of our lawn
man, who grinned and then charged ten times the usual rate.

Mom and Wanda were concerned about how it would impact Emily and
they kept her pretty well shielded from the work.  Which left me
doing the duty of three.

Still, once the party was going, I was excused to my lifeguard
duties.

I sat at the edge of the pool, watching the dozen kids have a
good time.  They looked competent, but I didn't let that sway my
judgment.

Dinnertime came and evidently the munchkins had worked up an
appetite; they sprang out of the water and rushed to the food
tables.

I was congratulating myself on a job well done, when I felt
someone tap me on my shoulder.  I turned and saw Blade.

"Evening, sir," I told him.

He grinned, "Even Willy takes umbrage at that; I'm Blade, just
that.  A foil."

He waved towards the garage.  "Care for a walk?"

I shrugged.  All the kids were out of the pool; they'd all been
told the pool was off limits once the food started.

He led the way and I followed, right through into the pump room,
with the picnic table.  I looked at the table, flashing on Pammie
spreading a towel down on it, turning to me nude.  Not now, I
thought!

"Someone, whose name I'm honor bound not to tell, said to tell
you that we voted Hanni off the island last night."

I was tempted to say I knew who that was, since I'd told that
story to exactly one person.  I kept my mouth shut.

"So, Davey, how do you feel?  Taking that much money off some
poor, helpless foreigner?  And then seeing her asked not to come
back?"
	"She was at the table, she played by the house rules for hours.
 What happened, happened.  I had a hand in it, but one or two of
the rest of you had money in the pot."

"No remorse?"

I shook my head.  "About as much as she would have had, had she
won."

He laughed.  "Low blow, that!  Davey, how would you honestly rate
your word?  I mean, is your word your bond or do you try to do
the right thing, and if it means breaking a promise, the promise
gets broken or maybe you don't give a shit about adults?  It's
not a real lie when you lie to an adult."

	"Lying is real; I don't do it."

	One eyebrow went up.  "Odd, my source says that you don't lie
often, and when you do, you do it really badly."

	I spent a few seconds thinking about it.  "I guess I'd say that
if I promise something, I try to do it."

	"And if the promise was to never, ever, utter to anyone what I'm
about to talk about, how would you feel about that?"

	"I don't know what you want to talk about."

	He nodded.  "The national security, Davey."

	I snorted.  "I'm thirteen.  There's not much I can do about
that!"

	"True, but do I have your promise or not?  This isn't a great,
earth-shaking thing I want to talk about; it's more or less
trivial and harmless.  It would be a way for me to get a piece of
information I'd like to have.  There are other ways.  But if you
were to talk about it with your friends, that wouldn't be good."

	"I promise I won't talk about it."  Okay, I admit it.  I was
curious.  How could I help national security?

	"Tomorrow, Davey, is the first day of school.  It is my
understanding that it will be a half day."

	"Registration, class orientations, that sort of thing.  I have
to see the baseball coach sometime in the afternoon and have a
practice at four."

	He nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulled out a piece of a
paper from a small notepad and handed it to me.  I looked at it
and shrugged.  A three-digit number, followed by a series of
sequential single digits separated by commas.  Everything from
one to seven was there, except a three.

	"That is Hannelore Kimmel's class room number and her schedule
of classes.  Sometime tomorrow I'd like you to poke your head in
and wave.  Smile and wave.  It would probably be better if you
don't say anything.  The biggest, most shit-eating grin you're
capable of.  Rubbing salt into the wound from Saturday night."

	"That's all?"  I asked, startled.  This was national security? 
Or notional security?  Was I supposed to learn if his girlfriend
harbored a grudge?

	"Well, duck if anything heavy comes your way.  Give it a couple
of seconds, watching her.  I'll call you tomorrow and get your
impression.  That's all.  Smile, wave, watch for a few seconds
and leave.  Talk to me afterwards, then forget the whole thing."

	"It doesn't seem like much," I said, unsure.

	"Davey, one of these days, we'll sit back and I'll tell you real
stories of real secret agents.  Waiting in a room for two weeks,
waiting to see a man drop a cigarette.  Really fun stuff like
that.  This is a giant jigsaw puzzle, Davey.  A million-piece
jigsaw.  You will add a small, but important, corner piece."

I went back to the party and promptly was assigned to peel more
potatoes.  Dad liked to make his own french fries, and they were
popular.  The other night had been a half dozen potatoes; this
afternoon there were a half dozen ten pound bags.  I'd done about
three potatoes and was thinking dark thoughts of ducking out and
walking to the mall to watch Blue Crush again when Pammie came
up.

"You're doing that wrong, Davey," she said, looking serious.

"If you know so much about it," I said with bad grace, "by all
means, show me a better way!"

Pammie smiled and waved at someone behind me.  "Ah, just what the
doctor ordered!  You probably don't ask for directions, either."

I turned to look.  Wanda, Emily and Karen were coming my way with
a fourth girl.  She looked to be my age and was Hispanic.  I was
just making the jump to the conclusion that this had to be the
Mexican spitfire when I saw she had two braids like the ones I
liked on Penny in Blue Crush.

It was like being hit between the eyes, a double whammy.  I
didn't like Penny so much as I loved her braids.  But this girl I
looked at and loved, instantly.  I liked her braids, too.

The girl stopped a couple feet away, a serious expression on her
face.  She was about an inch taller than me, but thin.  Oddly,
even though I'd recognized her as Hispanic, her hair was a
lighter shade of brown than mine.  Except for a braid on either
side of her face, it was pulled back into a ponytail that came
down nearly to her shoulders.  She was wearing corduroy pants, a
white blouse with a vest embroidered with flowers.  The vest
itself matched her pants; the flowers were every color under the
rainbow.

"Tallyho, old chaps!" she said with a badly faked English accent.
 "Messerschmitts at twelve o'clock!  Looks like we took them by
surprise!"

I laughed.  I made the association at about where she said
'twelve'.  Messerschmitts were the natural prey of Spitfires.

"Davey Harper," I said, holding out my hand.  "Pleased to meet
you, spitfire."

"Mercedes d'Silva.  I've been known to lose my temper a time or
two," she agreed, shaking my hand.

I waved at the bags of potatoes, having taken Pammie's message. 
"Anyone want to lend a hand?"  There was a chorus of "nos."

Pammie patted me on the shoulder.  "You learn fast, Davey.  Where
can we find peelers or paring knives, Wanda?"

A minute later, the six of us were working at it.  It still
wasn't a pleasant task, but it didn't take many brain cells to
peel, there were plenty left over to talk about school, about the
rain storm that had dumped almost two inches of rain the week
before, rain that wouldn't begin to end our perpetual drought.

Pammie held up her hands when she finished, looking at them,
front and back.  "I bet no one uses potato in skin cream.  My
hands look bleached white and my skin is all shriveled up!"

I don't think I got further from Mercedes than three feet for the
rest of the afternoon.  We talked, we joked, and we smiled at
each other.  The only fly in the ointment came in the
mid-afternoon when Jack showed up at the table where the six of
us were sitting.

"Wanda, can we talk?" he asked.

She shrugged and got up.

Everyone watched them go a ways apart from everyone.  "This won't
be good," Pammie muttered.

"He looks really freaky," Mercedes said in an awed voice.

It wasn't hard to read the body language.  Plead.  No.  Grovel. 
No and go away.  Grovel a lot.  Please, go away.

Dad saw them and started forward.  Wanda was facing him, and
shook her head no.  Dad hadn't cared for Jack at first, but he'd
come to accept him, and had gone out of his way to be pleasant. 
Jack turned to see who was coming and I saw my Dad stop. 
Literally, Dad's jaw dropped and he stood there with his mouth
open, whatever words he'd been going to say to Jack, frozen in
flight.

A second later, Wanda was waved back to our table and Dad was
walking off with Jack.  All things considered, Jack was taking it
all surprisingly well; I hoped things would stay that way.

"Sorry," Wanda said, sitting back down.

Pammie reached out and put a hand on Wanda's shoulder and smiled
at her.  Wanda smiled back.  Emily blushed.  Karen started
talking about school again.  She was nervous, she told us, about
going to a school where she didn't know anyone.  Emily reassured
her that we were all redneck Texans, never talked to anyone and
she could expect the worst.

Karen laughed, "The thing I'm going to miss the most about
Mississippi?  An old woman down the street was teaching me to
sew.  It's almost a lost art, she says.  She has some really nice
things, she's made."

I spoke up, "Mom loves to sew.  Maybe she'd show you."

It hit me like a lightning bolt.  What had Mom said the other day
when she told me about Wanda and Emily?  She'd called Wanda a
chip off the old block.  How much of a chip?  How faithful a
reproduction?  Mom hadn't minded in the least that Wanda and
Emily were in bed together.  How would she feel about Pammie and
Karen?  She had been dismissive of the plan, I realized, not the
idea.  She hadn't even seemed to mind the lying; she just thought
it wouldn't work.

"Do you sew, Pammie?" I asked.

Pammie looked at me and smiled, making it look like she was
looking at a moron.  "With due deference to my dear, dear cousin
from the swamps.  Not!"  The last word was said with great
emphasis.

"You never know," I said with a grin, "you might like spending
time with Karen.  Maybe not all the pastimes from the swamps of
Mississippi are as boring as you think."

Wanda perked up at the "spending time with Karen," line.  Emily
once again blushed and Pammie simply continued to stare at me
like I'd lost my mind.

Wanda leaned close and whispered something into Pammie's ear. 
Pammie turned to Wanda, a surprised look on her face.  Karen
continued to rattle on how Pammie should try it; maybe she'd like
it.

"Come with me to get some more food?" I asked Mercedes.

She looked at the others, shrugged and we walked away from the
table.  "What was that all about?" she asked.

"Personal issues," I told her frankly, "they've formed something
like a mutual support group."

"I heard about Emily, my dad's a teacher at the high school.  He
told me about it.  One more warning in a lifetime of warnings." 
She stopped, turned and looked back at the table.  She paled. 
"Surely not all of them..."

"Different people, different issues," I told her, not wanting to
get into details.

Mercedes nodded.  "Pammie and I go to the same church.  She's
awesome!  A leader.  I wish I had whatever she has, charisma and
kindness.  If she became a nun, she could be a saint."

I remembered Pammie, standing naked in front of me.  Maybe, and
maybe not, I thought.

Mercedes sighed.  "I suppose it's true; we all have issues."

Considering the issues I knew about, I wasn't sure what to say. 
But it certainly seemed like what she had just said invited the
obvious question.

"Do you have issues?" I asked.  "Besides a temper?"

She looked at me and shrugged.  "Don Quixote issues.  Dreaming
the impossible dream.  Only, in my case, I have several dreams. 
They don't conflict... they're just impossible."

"I'll tell you mine, if you'll tell me yours," I told her.  Ten
days before I have giggled saying that.  Now it wasn't a laughing
matter at all.

	"I want to play baseball.  I'd like to get an athletic
scholarship to a school in southern California or Hawaii.  So I
can do what I really want to do: study oceanography."  She
laughed, her voice bitter.  "The city softball league for girls
has teams that couldn't win except against each other.  The high
school doesn't have a baseball program for girls.

	"So, I have to do it academically.  Which is going to be hard,
because I'm not the smartest person in the world."

	I'd smiled a bit when she said that about baseball.  I was
thunderstruck again when she talked about where she wanted to go
to college and what she wanted to study.

	"Have you seen the movie, 'Blue Crush?'"  I kept my voice calm
and level.

	Mercedes shrugged.  "No.  We don't have a big house, a swimming
pool and all of that.  Seven kids still at home, that's what
we've got, one already out of the house, with a job and an
apartment.  I'm the youngest.  It's either me that goes to
college or everyone is going to have struck out.  My parents
would give anything to see me go to college.  They give up a lot,
saving for the day.  It's one reason I want a scholarship; so
they can use all that money they've saved for themselves."

	"I know we just met and I know you could ask everyone who knows
me about what I want to do and they'd shrug and tell you I'm
aimless.  I read a lot; I like to read.  History, fiction, a lot
of it science fiction and fantasy.

	"Friday we went to see this movie.  I swear the girls in the
bikinis didn't do as much for me as the waves.  Gosh!  The waves
there in Hawaii!  They were awesome!"  I waved around at the
house.  "I'd give this all up in an instant if I could go there
tomorrow.  I don't know what about oceans I want to study, the
ocean itself, maybe.  I don't know.  Something about them."

	She nodded, her eyes bright.  "I've just seen pictures.  I've
never seen the ocean."

	"Come see the movie with me."

	"My parents won't let me date, not until I'm sixteen."

	I grinned.  "Wanda is deep, deep in debt to me right now.  It
won't be a date.  Nearly a half dozen girls and me.  No way a
date; just a bunch of us going to see a movie."

	Mercedes looked back at the table, where Emily was talking to
Wanda and Pammie was whispering something to Karen.  I heard her
say to herself, "It can't be."

	"Absolutely!" I told her.  She looked at me in surprise; I
suspected she hadn't known she's spoken aloud.  "This is West
Texas, things like that just don't happen.  Instead of thinking
about that, think about this."

	I took a few steps to a cabinet next to the garage, reached in
and took out the baseball Dad and I had been playing catch with.
I tossed it to Mercedes; she caught it and tossed it back, a
little hard.

	"Monday of last week, I went out for baseball.  There were maybe
ten guys there and they pretty much stank.  Yesterday we had a
regular practice.  Maybe twenty-five guys, I think.  Half of them
stink.  Me, Davey Harper," I thumped myself on the chest, "I find
I can hit better than any of them, I can pitch decently, I can
field decently.  I made the team, Mercedes.  A freshman on the
varsity baseball team."

	I tossed the ball back, side arm and fast.  She caught it neatly
and tossed it back hard, very hard.  I felt a twinge in my arm
and I decided to hold onto the ball.  "Coach Wells told us all to
check around and see if we knew anyone who wanted to go out for
the team.  We have no depth, he told us."

	Mercedes reached up and hefted one of her smallish breasts. 
"Girl!  Yoo hoo!  I'm a girl!"

	"Like I said, he told us to see if we knew anyone who wanted to
play ball, who we could convince to go out for the team.  He
didn't say anything about boys only.  I read the papers, you
wouldn't be the first girl to play for a Texas high school
team."

	Her mouth was open, mouthing words silently.  Then she hugged
me.  I'd not noticed until then, but Mercedes wasn't wearing a
bra.  She was wearing a blouse over a t-shirt, and I hadn't been
able to tell before.  Her breasts were much closer to my idea of
the right size than my sister's or even Pammie's.  I put my arms
around her and hugged back, even if there were twenty or thirty
people standing within a hundred feet.

	After a second, she let go.  "Do you really think I can make the
team?"

	"I don't know.  I don't know how well you play," I told her. 
"But the team really isn't that good.  They aren't trying,
Mercedes.  Why don't you at least try?"

	"I will.  Tomorrow?"

	"Tomorrow.  There's a practice at four.  I'm supposed to talk to
the coach tomorrow afternoon some time.  If you want, I'll put in
a good word for you.  Oh, and bring a glove."  I paused and then
asked a question I should have asked sooner.  "What position do
you like to play?"

	"First base," she said without hesitation.  "I'm tall, I can
catch and hold onto the ball; I almost never drop one."

	"Hitting?"

	She shrugged.  "I haven't had a chance to play much hardball.  I
do okay with softball hitting, because I can pull the ball pretty
well.  I aim for someplace there's no one at."

	I nodded, my mind thinking things over.  The worst-case scenario
was that Coach Wells would put his thumb down.  I smiled to
myself.  In that case, I would be proactive.  I'd sound out my
dad on the subject first.

	I put the ball back on the cabinet, looking around for my
father.  I finally found him in an unexpected place -- still out
by the street, talking to Jack.  And it was Dad talking and Jack
listening.  Talking to him would have to wait for later, I
thought.

	Mercedes waved at my right arm.  "What's wrong with it?"

	"Saturday I stopped a really hard come-back.  I mean; it was a
major league hit.  Then I pitched some more; I think that was a
mistake.  My arm's a little tender now.  I've soaked it, I've put
liniment on it and I've tried to rest it.  It feels fine in the
morning, but by afternoon, it goes bad again."

	She looked at me steadily.  "Did anyone look at it?  Did you go
to the emergency room?"

	"No," I said, puzzled.  "It wasn't that big a deal."

	"Which is why your arm feels just fine now, after catching a
couple of balls."

	"There were a lot of potatoes," I reminded her.

	She laughed.  "There were a lot of potatoes.  One of these days,
I'll thank you for them."

	"Achtung!" I replied, "Spitfires attacking!"

	"Something like that."

	I checked my watch, it was a little before five in the
afternoon.  A showing of the movie had just started; I'd
memorized the schedule.

	I looked back at the table with Wanda and the others.  Chuck
Anderson was there, sitting across from Wanda and next to Pammie.
 I smiled to myself.

	Dad and Jack came back from the front.  Jack walked resolutely
over to the table and sat down next to Wanda.  Dad must have
passed Wanda a high sign, because she just scooted over a little
and let him sit down.

	"My mother," Mercedes said, looking the same direction as I was,
"says that San Angelo might be a small town, but it has big time
soap opera potential."

	I looked at her and sighed.  I so very much wanted to be friends
with Mercedes; I wanted to be more than friends.  "I think maybe
people should mind their own business," I told her.

	For someone with a temper, she kept hers remarkably well.  She
looked at the table, then back at me.  "Loose lips sink ships,"
she said, her voice low.  "I'm sorry, Davey.  You grow up in a
big family like ours; it takes hours every day just to find out
what everyone is doing.  Throw in cousins, in-laws and the
like... it never ends."

	I had to laugh.  "I have one sister and I've never much cared
what she was up to... and sometimes I've listened to her talk
about her day for hours.  I can't imagine that multiplied by a
half dozen."

	"There are eight of us," she corrected, "at least until this
summer.  My oldest sister moved in with her boyfriend.  They work
at a McDonald's."

	I contemplated working at McDonald's.  Yep, those waves looked
better and better all the time!

	"Speaking of my mother, here she comes," Mercedes said.

	I turned and looked, saw that my dad was with a woman even
taller than Mercedes, more darkly Hispanic.  She was not my idea
of a woman who'd had eight kids, though!  She smiled at me and
Dad spoke first.  "Camilla, this is my son, David.  David, this
is Camilla d'Silva, my administrative assistant."

	"And my daughter, Mercedes.  Mercedes, this is Phil Harper, the
plant GM."

	I decided why not?  Better to be hung for the sheep than a lamb.
 If I was going to talk about Mercedes and baseball to my dad,
this was as good a place as any.

	"Mercedes and I have a lot of common interests," I started.  He
smiled sardonically, but I continued.  "One of which is baseball.
 Since the high school doesn't field a girl's team, I suggested
she might think about going out for the regular team."

	Mercedes' mother chuckled.  "My daughter has this dream of
winning a baseball scholarship to some sunny beach state and
going to a university on a scholarship."

	"Nothing wrong with a dream like that," I managed to say,
cutting in ahead before anyone else could speak.  "I've been
thinking about a college like that myself."

	"An athletic scholarship?" Dad's words were said with maximum
sarcasm.

	"No, just to study."

	"I can't believe," he said, "that the high school doesn't have a
girl's team.  I think that's illegal or something.  Title Nine or
Eleven or something like that of the Federal Code."

	"No, we checked," Camilla d'Silva said.  "Mercedes was upset. 
But..."  She shrugged expressively.

	"I just want to play ball," Mercedes said very firmly.  For the
first time I saw a little something of her temper, peeking out,
just a bit.

	"I told her she should ask," I explained.  "Worst that happens
is they say no."

	I saw Dad looking at me; with what I'd come to know from the
other night was his attempt at a poker face.

	"We need to get going, Mercedes.  I have some things I need to
get done this evening."

	"Yes, Mama."

	They left and feeling a little bereft, I contemplated the picnic
bench.  Jack and Chuck were still talking to Wanda and Pammie, so
I decided they didn't need another person trying to sit there.  I
was still thinking about what to do when I saw Hammer coming up
the driveway.

	"Hello, Davey.  How's that money can doing?  Still full, I
hope?" he said, his voice a deep rumble.  He waved towards the
back of the house.  "Still some eats left?"

	"Yes and yes."  I remembered what someone had said the other
night at the poker game.  "Did you really throw a curve
grenade?"

	He laughed, "No, grenades don't curve."  He pointed at my
bedroom window, a few feet away.

	"See, a straight shot.  Easy as pie to hit with a grenade."  He
pointed down the house, along the wall.  My room had another
window, then a few feet further on, was a window that was long
and thin, rather than tall and narrow.  The bathroom window off
the family room.

	"But that window now, that's a different story.  Although it's
long window, it's further away and smaller.  I just made a good
throw is all.  The 'curve grenade' is just a story like the
whopper fish someone caught on their last fishing trip."

	"Oh," I said, a little disappointed.  "I was trying out for the
baseball team the other day, and I wanted to throw a curve, but I
don't know how to do it."

	"Well, there you are in luck because while I can't throw a curve
with a grenade, I'm pretty good with a baseball.  Let me steal
some of your dad's food first and I'll show you."

	I didn't know what to say, because while the twinge in my arm
wasn't as bad as it had been earlier, I didn't think I could
pitch more than a couple of times before I'd have to stop.

	"I stopped a hit the other day when I was pitching," I told him,
trying to be honest.  "I keep getting twinges in my wrist and
arm.  I've been trying to go easy."

	He looked around.  "Yeah, probably not the right venue for a
pitching workshop."  He waved at my arm.  "Let me see that."

	I looked at him, a little puzzled.  "I'm a paramedic, remember?"
he said with an amused look on his face.  "I promise I won't
amputate."

	I held out my hand, and feeling around the bones of my hand and
wrist.  "Let me know if it hurts," he told me.  There wasn't any
pain, just one place that hurt a little.

	He studied the top and bottom of my hand carefully, and then let
go.  "Odds are, you have a cracked carpel bone.  There are a
number of them, hard to tell which it is.  Even with an X-ray it
can be hard to tell.  The human wrist and hand is one complicated
piece of design!

	"You can do one of two things.  Take yourself off to the doctor
and get an X-ray.  If it's a small crack, which I suspect it is,
there's a fifty-fifty chance of them missing it.  If they see it,
what happens next depends on the doc.  Most docs these days
practice preventative medicine.  That is, they overdo treatment
to avoid possible litigation.  In your case, that would mean a
cast for a couple of weeks, and you'd be told to limit your
activities for a couple of weeks after that.

	"You said the other day, you just went out for the baseball
team."

	I nodded.

	"Well, there is no coach who ever lived who likes it when a
player comes in one day, does well, and comes back the next and
says, 'Sorry, Coach.  Broken wrist, I have to sit down for a
month.'  So, the alternative is to listen to some half-baked
advice from someone without an MD."

	"And that advice would be?"  I asked.

	"Hypothetically speaking, of course," he said, grinning.  "If I
were to offer actual treatment, I'd be liable for prosecution for
practicing medicine without a license.  When is your next
practice?"

	"Tomorrow afternoon," I told him, "another one on Saturday."

	"Tell your coach you have a mild wrist sprain, that you'll be
fine in a couple of days.  Don't do hardly anything tomorrow. 
You're young and at your age, you heal amazingly quickly. 
Saturday, be cautious.  If you still feel any pain in there,
stop.  Then it really is time to go see the doctor.  The first
rule of medicine is to do no injury.  If there's pain, it's a
message your body is sending you, telling you to stop.  So stop,
already."

	"Thanks," I told him.

	He ate a plate of food that was as big as he was; then he spent
a half hour showing me how to hold the ball to throw curves,
sliders, knuckleballs -- even spitballs.  "The trick, Davey, is
that you start off with one, and practice it a million times. 
Make it work; if it doesn't work well for you, only then start
working on something else, but keep that pitch back, don't give
up on it completely.  Odds are, you're still growing.  Your body
can change almost literally overnight."

	Dad came over and they talked; it wasn't until Dad was joshing
Hammer about mooching food that I realized the Hammer didn't work
for Dad, not in any capacity.  Later, when we were cleaning up,
and only a few diehards were left, I asked Dad about it.

	"It's not like I'd throw out a poker buddy," he said.  "Besides,
one thing you should learn about life.  Having people you know,
people you can turn to if you have a question about something,
they're like gold.  You never know when you'll need it, or what
you'll need, but if you do... well, it's a useful thing.  I call
it the Godfather business model."

	I nodded and filed that away.  I sat for a few seconds on the
couch in the family room, but Mom saw me and ordered me to bed
with those dreadful words that you never hear during the summer:
"You have to get up tomorrow for school."

	I was nearly done undressing when Wanda came in.  "Thanks,
Davey."

	"For what?"

	"Sewing classes.  Once or twice a week.  Of course, Mom is Mom,
Emily and I have to go, too.  Expect a lot of early dismissals
though, Mom said.  So we'll have time to work on outside
projects."  Wanda smirked at that.

	I remembered that from earlier.  What with one thing and
another, I'd forgotten all about it.

	Wanda put her arms around me and kissed me.  In a few seconds I
went from mildly interested to hotly desirous of my sister.  She
seemed to reciprocate the feeling, right up until she pulled
away.

	"Davey, I want this more than you can imagine.  Except Emily is
back there, waiting for me.  She needs to be cuddled and loved;
tomorrow is going to be a very hard day for her.  I expect you to
do your part."

	"I will," I promised.

	"Emily right now doesn't understand why someone would want to be
with a guy.  I know how she feels..."

	I nodded that I understood.

	"So, I'm going to her.  I will try very hard to sneak away after
a while, but I don't want to promise anything I might not be able
to do."

	"You don't have to do anything, Wanda."

	She smiled.  "You liked Mercedes, didn't you?"

	I grinned insanely, and Wanda laughed.

	"You heard about her busting Brad's chops?"

	"Pammie told me," I informed her.

	"Yeah, well one thing I bet Pammie left out was that last spring
Mercedes' sister Yolanda, who had been a cheerleader, brought
Mercedes to a practice.  Pammie fell just as hard for her as you
did... mind you, this is something I didn't know at the time.

	"Pammie and Mercedes made love -- once.  Pammie's father, the
preacher, nearly caught them.  It frightened Mercedes, who, by
all accounts enjoyed herself, giving as good as she received.  It
also considerably dampened Pammie's libido for a couple of
weeks.

	"A couple of days later Pammie told me a little about it,
leaving out the name and gender.  Just that she'd fallen for an
eighth grader and they'd nearly gotten caught.  I pointed out to
her that she could have been busted for statutory rape.  That
really blew her mind, but she went out and looked on the web;
yep, it was true."

	Who understands these things?  Not me.  The thought of Mercedes
with someone else should have made me jealous, right?  Instead, a
picture of Mercedes instead of Karen between Pammie's legs
flashed into my mind and my erection just stood up, begging for
attention.

	Wanda, I think, knew I was aroused.  She did what she had to do:
she kissed me on my cheek, turned and left.

	I went to bed and jacked off, imagining Mercedes and Pammie
together.  Gosh, was that hot!

<1st attachment end>


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