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Message-ID: <50848asstr$1112217003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Gina Marie Wylie" <gmwylie98260@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Spitfire and Messerschmitt Ch 30 {Gina Marie Wylie} (teen, mff, cons)
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Date: Wed, 30 Mar 2005 16:10:03 -0500
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<1st attachment, "Davey Ch 30.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, mff, , voy, cons.

	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 30 :: Fireworks Not Avoided

I tell you, dreams are overrated.  Some are bad, some are good,
but most of them you haven't got a clue what they are, and that's
if you even remember them ten minutes after you wake up.

Some dreams though... they come through loud and clear, and if
they don't make sense, so what?  That's what my dreams were like.
 It was a surrealistic landscape dotted with people who looked
like windmills, or maybe the other way around.  Mom was there,
Mercedes and Shellie.  Wanda, Emily, Pammie and Karen.  Dad and
Johnny Ito, Blade, Hammer, Willy Coy, Chief Ortega, and John Fox.
 Hannelore and Fissionhof.  Tall and black, looming in the far
distance was Ellie.

And there I was with a long stick that I knew in my heart of
hearts was a popsicle stick and not a lance.  Instead of a horse
named Rosinante I just carried the damn thing on my own.  No
Sancho Panza, none of that.  Just the people-windmills and me.  I
remember looking out over the vast field and deciding that it
made no sense to joust with friends or enemies.  What was the
point?  Every now and then I'd stop and do some chin-ups,
sometimes I'd hop in a stream and swim like mad.

Once, swimming, something dark appeared and started chasing me. 
It had long tentacles and bright, intelligent eyes, a hooked
beak.  At first I thought it was an octopus, then I realized it
was one of the Martians described by H. G. Wells in the "War of
the Worlds."

Altogether, it didn't make sense.  What did happen was that I
couldn't sleep; waking up every few minutes, plumping my pillow
and then trying to get back to sleep.  John Fox popped into my
head once, smiling at Jack, asking if he'd ever pulled an
all-nighter, followed by my dad's comment about my having two
girlfriends and that I'd be doing all-nighters soon.

I'd read Don Quixote when I was in seventh grade.  Not because I
had to, but because I saw the movie with Peter O'Toole and was
curious.  Then I saw the book at the bookstore and had bought it;
it was significantly thicker than any book I'd ever bought before
and I thought it would be cool to read something that long.  I'd
felt tolerably smug because I was sure no one I knew would read a
book that thick; particularly not my father or sister.

And yet, who had quoted chapter and verse earlier in the evening?
 My dad.  There had been a time not so long ago I'd have laughed
snarkily and said something about how well he'd mastered the
Cliff Notes version.  The truth, Davey: my father was nearly
forty.  Three times as old as I was.  What were the odds that
he'd read it?  Probably a thousand percent or more.

Suddenly I sat up in my bed, staring at my bookshelf, not that
far away.  Had I read the book?  Sure.  Had I understood what I
was reading?  I had a sinking feeling about that.  Probably not.
I got up, turned on the light and grabbed the book off the shelf.
 I sat down on the edge of my bed and starting reading.

I was still at it when Wanda came by, heading out to the pool, a
little before six.  She stuck her head in my room, saw the book
and grimaced.  "Now that's what I call a book!" she said,
laughing.  "What is it?"

I held it up and she shook her head.  "And you're taking English
grammar and composition this year.  If you don't have to read it
for class, why bother?"

"I read it before.  I realized last night I didn't understand
it."

"A whack job dreaming about his salad days, wishing he'd been a
hero instead of a staid, middle class guy."

I shook my head.  "Yeah, that's pretty much what I thought.  Why
would you dream things like that on your deathbed?  A little late
for nostalgia."

"A whack job, like I said," she told me.  "Gotta run little
brother.  Pool, shower, then back again.  Then off to see Pammie
and Karen."

"Is that who you were with yesterday?" I asked.

She looked troubled.  "Karen's not doing well," Wanda told me. 
She laughed bitterly.  "Christ!  What's good about her life right
now?  It's totally out of her control.  Her fucking uncle was so
fucking clueless that he didn't even know about honors classes. 
The only reason Pammie ever got in was she applied without
bothering to let the asshole know.  She didn't even think about
it when it came time to register Karen.

"And now, Karen's been told it's all evil.  Too elite, too many
bad people in the classes and in front of the classes.  The queer
algebra teacher, the queer biology teacher, Davey Harper, the
anti-Christ himself.  Tomorrow the Reverend Grissom is going down
to school to demand that Karen be put in classes with 'Godly'
teachers," she put air quotes around the word.  "And he says he's
going to complain to the school board, the media, the whole
world, demanding that such evil teachers be dismissed, that they
pollute the world with their evil ways and ideas, leading
children to stray from the One True Path."

"What an asshole!" I said, stunned.

"Yeah, worse, he's the guy who says whether Karen stays in school
or goes to the funny farm.  It's like deciding if you are going
to get eaten by a lion or a tiger."

"And if I try to help, it'll just mess her up worse," I mourned.

"Yeah.  We're going to watch Karen like a hawk for a while, to
make sure she doesn't do something stupid."

"I'd run away in a second, in her shoes," I said. "Just like
Emily did."

"Davey, go fuck yourself!  Where would she go?  Who in town is
willing to go on Reverend Grissom's shit list?"

"We could," I told her.  "Hell, she can stay in my room."

"I assume that means after you've moved out."

"Yes," I said, spitting angry.  "I'll sleep on the couch in the
family room."

"And just what will you do when the police knock on the door,
come to collect the good Reverend's niece?   Emily worked because
Mom and Dad got her mother's signature on the dotted line. 
That's not going to help Karen."

"What is she going to do?"

"Mom's advanced the idea of 'what can't be cured, must be
endured.'  She told Karen that if she can hang tough for a while,
she'd get her a lawyer and have a shot at getting her
emancipated.  Recognized legally as an adult.  Personally, if I
thought it was possible, I'd be cheering.  But it's not.  If your
parents agree, it's a huge legal hassle.  If they don't agree,
it's a huge legal battle.  Again, what judge is going to rap a
gavel and declare Reverend Grissom an unfit parent?"

I shook my head in disbelief.  "She's screwed."

"Pretty much.  And Mom's idea isn't going to work, I'm pretty
sure.  What Karen is going to do then scares the pee out of me. 
Nothing good.  You talked about running away?  That'll be what
she does if she's smart; and that would be like the second worst
choice."

"There's something worse?" I asked, you know, very clueless.

"End it.  Kill herself."

She turned and walked away, while I sat shivering on my bed.

How is it, I wondered to myself, that people don't walk up to
people like Reverend Grissom and pop him in the nose?  After a
second I realized the sad, sad truth: if I were to do that, I'd
go to jail.

Wanda was doing the pool chemicals, there was no way to just jump
in the pool and swim until I was insensible.  I turned and walked
into my closet and gripped the bar.  I blanked my mind, blanked
it of everything.

My next conscious thought was when I realized that my arms
weren't working.  I looked up, struggled to lift myself and found
I couldn't.

I cursed and let go.  I gathered up my clothes for the day,
feeling my arms tremble even at the trivial weight I carried. 
I'd done entirely too many chin-ups.

I showered and felt a little better, but not much.

At breakfast, I looked my mother in the eye.  "I know you don't
need my advice, but if you need anything, anything at all, even
if it's cleaning the dishwasher or running a load of laundry. 
Anything I can do to help you, so you have more time for Karen."

Mom looked at me gravely.  "Thank you, Davey.  I will try to not
make you regret such an open-ended offer."

"If you can help Karen, I don't care what I have to do."

She got up and walked away.  After a second, Dad was up, going
after her.

I looked at Wanda, feeling more helpless than ever.  "I didn't
mean to piss her off."

Wanda flipped me a bird.  "You're so stupid, sometimes, little
brother!  She's crying.  Because she knows she can't do squat, no
matter what she tries, even if she has all the time in the
world."

I felt like shit.  When I got to school I stopped a few feet
away, watching Mercedes, sitting with her back against the wall.
I loved her with all my heart and soul.  She was wearing braids
today, something she told me she couldn't do every day.  I looked
at the blank expanse of the door to the lab.  Every single day
that I could remember, except maybe once, Ms. Weaver was there,
inside, before we got there.

I walked up, nodded to Mercedes, and knocked.  Mercedes got up
and I shook my head.  "I'm not sure you want to get involved."

"Why wouldn't I want to get involved?"

I looked at her.  "Reverend Grissom has decided Ms. Weaver and
Ms. Saunders are his next target."

She reached out and gripped my shoulder, just as the door
opened.

"Yes?" Ms. Weaver asked.

"Could I talk to you?" I asked. "It's important."

"And you, Mercedes?" she asked.

"Whither Davey goest, so goeth me," she said, trying, I think, to
sound witty.  I was aware her hand was still on my shoulder.

"What is this about?" Ms. Weaver asked.

"It's personal," I told her.  "Please."

"As a first year teacher, I have to do up lesson plans, all sorts
of paperwork," she said.  "This is the time I do it."

"Please," I repeated.

She opened the door and let me in.  Mercedes followed me.

I pushed the door shut and she smiled.  "Guess it's a good thing
I have a chaperone."

"Ms. Weaver, it's none of my business how you live," I told her.
"But I'm not everyone.  Last Sunday I was the sermon topic at the
local Baptist church.  I'm pretty sure you and Ms. Saunders will
be the topic next week.  And that even before that, you'll see
your names on the nightly news."

"How I live, how anyone lives is none of your business, it not
anyone else's business," she said firmly.

"Ms. Weaver, you're right.  The last time I met Reverend Grissom,
I was ten.  Now, twice in the last couple of weeks, people have
tried to hurt me -- and that makes me the anti-Christ in the
man's eyes.  I don't think he's rational."

"I saw him in church, Sunday," Mercedes said.  "He started
talking and finally named Davey.  I wish to God I'd have been the
first person to get up and walk out.  Second was the best I could
do.  But Davey's right.  The man's a nutcase."

"And why are you here?" she asked me.

"Because I'm like you," I told her.  "Not lifestyle so much," I
said blushing, when I saw an angry glint in her eyes, "but how I
want to live my life.  I'm not an evil person, no matter what he
says.  I just want to be left alone to be with those I care
about."

"Ditto," Mercedes interposed.  "And I'm a lot like you, but not
entirely."

Ms. Weaver looked at her, then laughed and shook her head.  "So
what am I supposed to do with this tidbit of information?"

"Whatever you want," I told her.  "I just want you to know that
there are people who will support you.  Me and my parents, among
them."

"And how do your parents feel about this and that, Mercedes?" Ms.
Weaver asked.

Mercedes looked crushed.  "Mom and Dad... I don't know.  You have
my support.  I can't speak for anyone else."

"I'm going to have to ask the two of you to leave now," our
biology teacher said quietly.

We went out, and Ms. Weaver left as well, locking the door behind
her.

I walked a few feet away from the others waiting for the bell to
ring, with Mercedes trailing along behind.

"What's going on?  Where did you hear that?"

"My mother.  The Reverend Grissom has decided that Honors classes
are evil because of Ms. Weaver and Ms. Saunders.  Probably
doesn't help that I'm in them, either.  He's going to denounce
them, trying to get on TV, as well as from the pulpit."

"Ms. Weaver is a great teacher," Mercedes said and I nodded
hearty agreement.  "But Ms. Saunders!  She's beyond great!  She's
beyond awesome!  I've never had a teacher as good as she is!  I
am not going to take this!"

"That's what I told my mother.  Karen is really depressed.  The
Reverend is pulling her out of the honors program today, I
guess."

"I will never, ever, step foot in that church again!  Not ever!"

"I didn't know you got up and left, Sunday."

She looked at me.  "I was supposed to sit there like a good
little girl?  Jack got up and stormed out... I was two steps
behind him.  A couple others came out as well.  Chuck, Rob, some
of the others from the team."

"Thanks," I said, meaning it.

"No problem."

Ms. Weaver didn't say anything during class, nor did Ms.
Saunders.  Shellie, at least, looked better than I did, for a
change.  Seeing her reminded me I hadn't looked at what she had
done and I felt immense shame.  All my problems shouldn't mean
that I ignored her.

Lunch was a quiet affair, with everyone locked into silence. 
After a few minutes Rob and Emily got up, camera in hand.  I was
tempted to tag along, but missing as much sleep as I had was
starting to impact me.  I felt logy and had a mild headache.

Shellie and I went off to geography.  Colonel Terrell was back in
his usual mode, following the book and asking a zillion
questions.

I was feeling pretty puny when it came time for PE.  I headed for
the locker room to dress out, and Coach Delgado pointed to me. 
"See Coach Wells, Harper."

I grimaced and headed for the coach's office.

He waved at the door when I came in.  "Close it please, Davey."

I did as bid, and then sat down on the chair he waved me to.

He looked at me steadily for a second.  "You look like shit,
Harper."

"Feel like it too," I told him.  "That's not to say I plan on
dogging PE."

"We'll just be doing warm-ups this afternoon," he told me.

"Yes, sir."  I had no idea what this was about.  Why didn't he
get to it?

"Sports, Davey, if you're going to excel at them, require a
degree of aggression that most people don't have.  Not just the
desire to win, but the desire to get out there and do what you
have to do."

"I'm doing my best, Coach."  In truth, I was totally clueless
what he was trying to say.  Was this something to do with
Reverend Grissom?  If it was, fuck it!  I was going to punch the
son-of-a-bitch in the nose!

"You are young men, at a time in your lives where hormones,
emotions and life come at you hard and fast.  We have to make
adjustments."

I'd told him to his face once I wasn't going to take his
bullshit.  I was tempted to say it again.  Instead, I tried to
keep it mild.  "Sir, is there a point to this?"

"Occasionally the young men in our athletic program have serious
disputes.  Fighting is bad, Davey, very bad.  We have, over the
years, come to the conclusion that, in certain cases, we should
permit our young men to reach closure in controlled
circumstances."

I was about to scream, I wasn't really following his words.  Too
bad, I should have.  I'd have had a clue what was coming next.

"So, Desmond Clark says he has a dispute with you that will only
be resolved face-to-face.  In cases like this, I ask both parties
if it is what they truly wish, if that's the only way to settle
the disagreement.  He assures me that it is."

I was testy and not paying attention.  "Coach, would you get to
the point here?"

"We allow our young men, if they both agree, to put on gloves and
settle their disputes in a boxing ring.  Desmond says this is
about a young woman."  Coach Wells smiled as if that explained it
all.

I swallowed.  Wanda had said I'd hear from Desmond.  Had she
meant like this?

He took my sudden silence as concern.  "Normally we don't allow
fights between students from greatly different weight classes. 
Desmond says it's here in the ring or after school.  I don't
agree, but I have to say, Davey, that after school, without the
proper equipment, without a referee would be something I couldn't
ignore.  You'd both be dropped from the athletic program."

"Weight classes?" I asked, grasping at straws.

"Desmond is taller and heavier than you."  He stared at me. 
"About six inches taller and about eighty pounds heavier."

I nearly choked.  This was supposed to be a fair fight?

He smiled at me.  "I don't want to add any pressure, Davey, but
frankly, your teammates won't take well to someone who won't
fight."

I was sorely tempted to flip the bastard a bird.  Instead, I
spoke as clearly as I could.  "I have no dispute with this
Desmond whoever.  I've probably seen him, but I don't know who he
is.  If, as my coach, you tell me this is a something I should
do, I'll do it."  I looked him right in the eye.

It's a terrible thing to see an adult afraid.  I could see it in
his eyes, in the way he hunched forward.

"This is what we do as men, Davey.  Three rounds in the ring."

"Yeah sure," I snarled.  "You fight guys six inches taller than
you and eighty pounds heavier every damn day!  So, okay.  What do
I do?"

"You go out and warm up with the others.  Then we'll bring
everyone back into the gym.  I'll have the ring set up.  You can
have two people in your corner."

"Thank you so very much," I said as sarcastically as I could. 
Why in the fuck did anyone respect a coach?

I got up and went out into the locker room.  I slammed my locker
open and started to change.  Rob looked at me from a few feet
away.

"What's up, Davey?"

"Hey, you like boxing?" I asked him.

He shrugged.

"You all get a little boxing demonstration here shortly.  Me and
Desmond Clark."

It was like magic, one second he wasn't there, and then Jack had
a grip on my shoulder and was spinning me around.  I started to
swing and only stopped when I saw who it was.  God, I was
pissed!

"What's this about a fight?" Jack asked.

"Desmond wants a little satisfaction," I told him.  "So, we fight
here shortly."

Jack shook his head.  "Can't happen!  You're not in the same
class.  Once, they let two guys a class apart duke it out, but
not..."

"Well, lucky ol' popular me," I told him.  "The coach is making
an exception."

Jack's eyes turned black.  I mean, like black coals, shot with
flame.

"You ever box, Davey?"

"No, I've never boxed."

"Desmond has been in fights since second grade."

"And I've been in fights since first grade," I told him.

He laughed.  "According to Wanda, you've been running away from
fights since first grade."

"Not all of them," I said, grimacing.  "Sometimes I wasn't fast
enough."

"Davey's pretty strong," Rob said.  "Great upper body strength."

"Without experience in the ring, he's toast," Jack said.

"I want to thank you, Jack," I told him, "for doing wonders for
my confidence."

Then they were blowing whistles, calling us out on the field. 
Jack stood next to me and looked around.  "One thing, Davey. 
Don't blow off the warm up.  If you don't get warmed up, he's
going to eat you alive."

"Jack, six inches and eighty pounds, right?"  Did I want to
mention not much sleep and a bazillion chin-ups?  I decided that
not whining was something that had applications beyond not losing
at poker.

Mercedes came up next to me, wearing shorts and a t-shirt.  Oh,
how I loved braids!

She saw my expression, saw Jack and Rob hovering.  Chuck wasn't
far away, either.  "What's going on, Davey?"

"Lucky you guys," I told her.  "You get to see someone beaten to
death in a boxing ring today.  Coach Wells volunteered me for the
ritual sacrifice."

"What are you talking about?"

"Ellie's boyfriend, Desmond Clark, challenged Davey to fight,"
Jack told her.  "He's a bit bigger than Davey."

We started jogging, and I listened to Mercedes tell me what a bad
idea this was.  I nodded, pretending like I was listening.  After
the jog, after the other exercises, we were called towards the
gym.

I looked at Mercedes.  I reached out and ran my fingers over her
braids.  "I love you," I said, in a whisper only she could hear.

"I know.  Do me a favor will you?"

"Whatever you want, if I possibly can."

"You have a plan, obviously.  Knock the bastard on his ass!"

I wanted to cry.  Mercedes thought I had a plan?  I had a fond
hope: being alive after the match.  As for before that, the plan
was to stay alive until after.

What can I say about what followed?  Churchill described the
actions of the RAF during the Battle of Britain as "their finest
hour."  I only had six minutes.  What could be so hard about six
minutes?

Desmond Clark looked inches taller than I'd been told, and twice
as heavy.  He glowered at me, and then smiled, knowing it was
going to be a blowout.

Jack and Mercedes came to work my corner.  Jack laced up the
gloves.  "You've never done this before?"

"Never," I told him.

"Well, you've seen professional fights, right?"

"Yes.  I watched all of the Rocky movies, too."

"Well, keep your hands up.  When he throws a punch, try to block
it without dropping your hands.  If nothing else, just take the
punch on your forearms.  Turn, and take it on your shoulder. 
Above all, protect your face and head."

"Sure," I said.  Hey, one thing at a time! I wanted to scream.

Then Coach Wells called Desmond and me to the center of the ring.
 "Are you two sure that nothing else will satisfy you?"

I snorted in derision.  Desmond looked me up and down.  "He
dicked my girl!"

I laughed again.  "And in the time you've been going with her,
you never slipped the salami anyplace else?"

He rocked forward, then back, controlling himself.

The Coach explained the rules.  I listened, without paying them
much attention.  I wasn't going to punch the son-of-a-bitch in
the balls.

At the end, Coach Wells finished, "Try to avoid head blows."

I laughed out loud, and then said sourly, "If I'm going to get a
shot at a head blow, I'm going to need a step ladder."

There were a couple hundred people from the PE class there,
watching.  Every last one laughed.

For an uncanny second, I remembered my smart-ass remarks to
Fesselhof.  Was this the same thing, happening all over?

Then we broke apart, and a second later, Coach Wells dropped his
hand and told us to box.

I held my hands up, waiting for the hammer of doom to fall.  I'd
have been better off doing just about anything else.

Desmond moved, bumping his fists against my gloves.  Then, a
flurry of punches, well below my hands, landing against my
stomach and lower chest.

I blinked.  Desmond wasn't Fesselhof; I knew I'd been hit.  On
the other hand, aside from knowledge, it hadn't been that bad.

He grinned at me, swung at my head, and I bobbed back, out of the
way.  He stepped close and hammered my gut another three times.

I took a half-hearted swing at him, and he brushed my punch away
with his glove.  I stepped forward, and again he hammered my
body.

I couldn't believe it.  Three, four, punches at a time, so fast I
could hardly see his hands move.  But gosh, I surely felt each
one!  They were hard but didn't seem to greatly affect me.  I
pulled back, trying to think.

He came right after me, boring in again.  I let him start his
first punch against my stomach, and I struck for his jaw.  He
turned slightly, took the blow on his shoulder, and then hammered
his left hand twice into my kidneys.

I pushed forward, trying to get at him, getting hammered again
and again.  And when I say hammered, I mean, each punch hurt,
even if it wasn't like the end of days.

Suddenly a bell rang and he reached up with his gloves and pushed
off on mine.  He grinned wickedly at me, then turned his back and
walked towards his corner.

I had to think about which way I had to go.

"That went well," I said as I sat down, feeling numb.  "I'm still
alive."

"He's going to beat you to a pulp," Jack said helpfully.

"No shit."  I looked at him.  "Rocky had that guy in his corner,
that guy always knew what to do.  What do I do, Jack?"  I was
just a little desperate.

"He's going to keep hitting you in the body.  No one punch is
that big a deal, but they'll add up.  Along about round three,
half way through, he's going to deck you."

The obvious corollary to that was, "and there's not a damn you
thing can do about it."

The second round was a replay of the first, except it seemed to
last almost forever.  Blow after blow to the body, the same grin
on his face, particularly when I'd try to hit him.

Poker face, I thought, I need a poker face.  He knows when I'm
coming for him.  What had Chuck said the other day, during the
game?  Drool?

Why had that worked?  Had it worked?

It was nearly the end of the second round.  I tried to think. 
Drooling wasn't going to help here.  What had worked in the game?
 I remembered my anger, remembered telling the batter he was
going to eat my pitch.  Everyone, including Coach Wells, thought
I was going to bean him, when, in fact, I'd never do such a thing
on purpose.  Instead, I'd just thrown fastball after fastball,
way too fast for him to hit.

I looked up at Desmond, just as he threw another combination into
my ribs.  He was curious, I realized.  And I realized something
else, just then.  The flurry of punches hadn't hurt like they had
hurt at first.  With a start, I realized he was tiring.  It was
like magic.  One second Desmond had been looking at me
confidently, but curious, the next second he'd gone all wary and
concerned.

He threw another series of punches, and I turned to one side. 
All but one missed, and the one just scraped my skin.

I tossed a soft punch at his face again, and again he let it
bounce off his gloves.  I grinned then, thinking to myself, "Got
you, asshole!"

He took a step back, and I took a step forward, and the bell
rang.

The first round, he'd been the one to hit my gloves.  Instead,
this time, I hit his solidly.  "Goodnight, Gracie," I told him. 
Then I turned my back on him and walked away.

"Goodnight, Gracie?" Mercedes asked, perplexed.  "What's that?"

Jack laughed.  "Oh Davey, you should have seen it!  He stood
there staring at you for a couple of seconds!  You ain't got a
chance in hell, but you got him sweating!"

I looked up at Jack.  "Well, at least I made him sweat."

It all crashed on me then.  The lack of sleep, my tired arms. 
The only thing saving my arms even a tiny bit was that I'd had
practically no chance at punching at Desmond at all and made
almost no effort to hit him.

The bell rang and we went to the center of the ring.  I saw in
Desmond's eyes that he was now wary.  Way in the back of my mind,
part of me was terrified.  Now I'd alerted him, told him what to
look for...

He hammered my ribs, with as much force as he'd ever had, and
once again I was helpless to stop him.  He looked in my eyes,
gloating at my expression.

He was, I realized, not planning on waiting until the last
minute.  I saw him uncork the punch that was supposed to lay me
out on the mat, and instead, I lifted my arm, driving the
uppercut over my head.  I pushed forward, and slapped a punch
against his stomach, then pulled back.

It had felt like hitting a slab of concrete.   Was that what
Fesselhof had felt when he'd hit me in the stomach?  What did
Desmond think when he was hitting me, over and over again?

I saw the wariness in his eyes again.  He started a jab with his
left hand towards my head, and I started to block it, and then
realized his right was coming as well.  I ducked down, and the
punch sailed over my head.  I ducked past him, coming up around
him.

It was there; I had a free shot.  I reached out and tapped the
back of his shoulder as I went past.  I tried to think what I
should do, and then realized that this was a bluff.  I thought of
myself as King of the World, the one who'd been playing with
Desmond all this time.

He turned to face me, coldly furious.  Stopped, when he saw the
expression on my face.

A big part of my mind suddenly had a thought, "Dear Dad, I have
finally learned to bluff.  Chuck told me to drool and it all
followed from that."

I swear Desmond took a step back, watching me intently.  I didn't
move and Desmond didn't either.  Then he punched at me, very
tentatively, obviously expecting a trap.

I wanted to laugh, and then decided, why not let it show?  All
Desmond would see was me laughing.  I brushed his punch away, and
stood there, smiling at him, as if daring him to come on."

"Bring it on, Desmond," I said then, speaking openly.  "We've
been dancing, now's the end of it.  Bring it on.  I'm man enough
to say I'm sorry about what happened with Ellie.  I didn't know
you, didn't know what she meant to you."

He uncorked the mother of all punches.  This time there was no
ducking, no bobbing and weaving.  I lifted both my arms up to
shield my face, and had them knocked painfully back against my
nose.  But it didn't hurt very much, and Desmond stood there,
looking concerned.

"Missed again," I said, trying to sound helpful.  "Pretty soon,
you're going to realize, you're fighting out of your class."

"I love her, asshole!"

"Well, Desmond, the thing you need to do, is tell her, not me.  I
don't think she's going to be very happy about you and me going
at it.  Particularly when she hears how it ends."

He threw a half-hearted punch, from his waist.  I'm not sure why
I did it.  It was pure bullshit bravado, because I was terrified
he'd realize the truth: I was out of gas.  I caught his punch
between my hands.

"You want to shake?" I said, shaking his glove, trapped between
my hands.  "Okay, I'm sorry, Desmond.  I promise you, never
again."

He looked at his hand, and then up at me, then the bell rang for
the third and final time.

I looked at him and smiled.  "One last thing, Desmond."

"What?"

People were moving, talking.  I just focused on him.  "Mother
fucker, can you punch!"

I dropped to my knees, managed to turn on my side and curled up.
Jesus it hurt!  I curled up into a ball and let the world fade
away.




I remembered my last thoughts, lying on my back, staring at the
lights in the gym.  For a few minutes, I wasn't sure what to make
of them.  Then I remembered what happened, and I winced.  Miracle
of miracles, it didn't hurt!

I opened my eyes and found myself staring at the same sort of
bright lights as I'd had before in the gym, only these were
closer.  Doctor's lights; I recognized them.

My Dad was a few feet away, looking concerned.  A couple of guys
in green pantsuits hovered around the fringes.

"You should see the other guy," I said, trying to pretend that it
was really a joke.

"I am reliably told," Dad said, "that you didn't land a glove on
him."

"Once, I think once.  It was like hitting a concrete slab."

"How are you doing, Davey?"

"Well, I think I need a nap.  I thought this would hurt more."

One of the green suits spoke up.  "We have you on a little
something for the pain."

I started to ask what pain was that, and realized that was a Duh!
comment.  The pain I couldn't feel because they'd given me a
"little something."

"You know that Jack isn't much given to hyperbole and metaphor,
while Mercedes is," Dad went on.

"Dad, I'm sorry."

He ignored me.  "Imagine to my surprise, when they used the same
words.  'Awesome!' 'Played with his head!' 'Something that ought
not to be legal with bobble-head dolls!'"

I looked at him and shook my head.

"You are, I'm told, bruised," he said, changing the subject. 
"Just skin bruises, they've x-rayed your ribs and they are
neither broken nor bruised.  You will be colorful for a few days,
but then, so was I after every game I played."

"And you wonder why I don't want to go out for football?"

One of the green suits spoke.  "We've used some strong meds here,
you might want to discount what he has to say, sir."

Dad looked the guy right in the eye.  "Feel free to offer your
medical opinion, anytime you feel like it.  Feel free to shut
your mouth, until then."

I mentally pictured myself drooling, and then looked up at my
dad.  He paled, and leaned close, obviously worried.  "Davey, are
you okay?"

I giggled.  "No, but I did learn to bluff!"

The look on his face was priceless.  I'm not sure why I chose
that particular moment in time to fall back asleep.  A job well
done?  Maybe!

I woke up when I felt something cold on my chest.  I looked up
and saw another guy wearing the same green suits as the others. 
He was pudgy, a little younger.  He needed a shave.

He saw me looking at him.  "How are you doing, son?"

"Better, with the nap."

"Are you still sleepy?"

I shook my head.  "No, sir.  I had a miserable night last night.
Stupid weird dreams; I couldn't sleep."  I chuckled, remembering.
 "I got up and decided to read Don Quixote."

He laughed, "Now, be careful!  As your doctor, I was thinking
your prognosis was greatly improved!  Right up until you said
that last sentence.  A big fat book!  Who needs those!"

"Are medical books skinny?" I asked.  Something I'd seen on
television.

"No, in fact, the putative value seems dependent on the weight.

"Your coach assures me you didn't take any blows to the head,
there are no bruises on your face, unlike your torso."

"You're right to be a little cautious about what he tells you," I
told the doctor.  "But really, I slept badly last night, hardly
at all."  Could you tell a doctor you were depressed?  I decided
not to find out.  "A friend is in deep shit trouble, sir.  My
sister and her other friends think she might do something really
stupid."

He nodded.  "Your pupils are normal and responsive.  There are no
signs of head trauma.  Without going in to look, we can detect no
signs of head injury.  I assume you don't want us to check that
too?"

"No, sir!"

He grinned.  "No signs of brain damage."

I laughed at that.

He vanished and I was a bit surprised.  After a second, he was
back.  "I have told them to release you.  I want you to promise
me something."

"If I can get out of here?  Yes, sir!"

"Go home."  He wiggled the small plastic bag he held in his hand.
 It contained two yellow pills.  "Take these.  Sleep.  Do not
think about getting out of bed before noon.  If you feel the urge
to sleep past noon, give me a ring.  Otherwise, Thursday,
continue with your normal schedule."

"The bruises?"

"Will be tender for a few days.  Watch them, make sure there is
no infection; it's a low order risk, but why get screwed by a low
order risk?"

"Thank you," I told him.

He grinned.  "The person you should thank is my third patient
when I was an intern.  He taught me a lot about medicine.  We
admitted him; jaundiced and tired, thinking it might be mono or
hepatitis.  So, we put him in isolation.  My supervisor looked at
the young man, patted me on the shoulder and told me the patient
was mine.

"I ran the right blood tests, yep his liver had gone south, and
his blood came back positive for mono and negative for anything
else.  He appeared tired, lethargic and lacking appetite," the
doctor grinned at me.  "Lack of appetite is something people with
jaundice also suffer from.  He wasn't married and didn't have a
girlfriend.  I told him that was a good thing, because it was a
general loss of all appetites."

I grinned, understanding.

"Two days later, he was much improved.  He was a college student
with a heavy class load and a job at night.  He was, in short,
run down.  He'd been down to Nuevo Laredo for Spring Break; he
probably picked up the mono there.

"The only fly in the ointment was a declining blood pressure and
a developing anemia.  At first the BP drop wasn't much, but the
hemoglobin count dropped steadily, day after day.

"I went in to see the patient on the fourth day, sorely
concerned.  I was sure I was going to have to go to my supervisor
and report to him I was losing a patient.  Now what?"  He laughed
then.

"The first thing I learned was that doctors shouldn't feel sorry
for themselves, when a patient starts heading south.  My job is
to be concerned for the patient, not my own tender ego.  And of
course, I told my patient we weren't going to let him go home,
because of his anemia and the blood pressure problems.  He blew
his stack.  'Maybe you should stop taking so much blood, then!'"

"I laughed at him, I'm afraid.  Laughed at him.  He told me that,
'Every morning, every afternoon, they come in and take six huge
test tubes full of blood!  It's a wonder I have any blood at
all!"

He sighed.  "I checked his chart.  Yep, I'd ordered the full
blood workups the first day.  A pint in a day is no big deal for
a healthy person.  Three and a half pints in three and a half
days, not so good.  Yours truly hadn't thought to take the tests
off his chart, and the techs were following what they thought I
ordered."

"You're not exactly inspiring me with confidence here," I told
him.

"Oh, I'm not trying to inspire confidence.  I'm trying to tell
you we'll be releasing you soon.  Go home and rest.  Take what we
give you. If there's a problem, call us.  Sometimes, young man,
the patient knows best."

It was well after midnight when Dad drove up to the emergency
room door and they wheeled me out in a chair.  It was
surprisingly cold, and I asked Dad to turn up the heater after I
was in the car.

It wasn't a long drive home; it's hard to be more than twenty
minutes away from something in San Angelo.

"It was a stupid thing to do," he told me.

"Oh it wasn't couched in smart/stupid," I told him.  "More like,
chicken/not chicken."

"I'm beginning to think my trust in Coach Wells has been
misplaced."

"You think?" I said bitterly.

"I know, and I apologize.  It's an atavistic response to coaches
on my part.  You, at least, have a healthy skepticism.  There was
a time I'd have thought that heresy."

"I'm sorry about all the trouble I've caused."

"Worry, too," he added.

"Yes.  That as well," I agreed.

"Davey, there is about zero way to avoid a fight like that. 
Wells was a total wuss; he should have controlled it better.  But
you and the other young man were bound to have to fight.  You
really ah..."

"Yes."

"Cheerleader?"

I met his eyes.  "We're not supposed to talk about it."

"No one ever is," he said sadly.  "And to think there are people
who believe in the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy."

"You left out Santa Claus," I told him.

He laughed.  "Oh God!  Not Santa too!"

I realized he'd left the trap and I'd fallen into it.  We both
laughed.

"I am told by reliable sources that the baseball team meeting was
postponed indefinitely... pending your return.  I'm not sure how
you do these things, Davey, but evidently you got everyone
rooting for you.  They want to hear your thinking on how to
proceed."

"That was Jack's doing," I said.

"My lips are sealed," Dad said.

He waved at my shirt pocket.  "A couple of years ago, a doc gave
me some pills like those.  Two of them, just like you got.  Be a
little careful, Davey.  I'm a wuss when it comes to pills; always
afraid I'm going to choke.  I only take one at a time.  I took
the first one with a swallow, had to swallow again.  I spilled
the water all over myself and dropped the glass on the floor
because I was out like a light before I could reach for the
second pill."

Well, I'm not a wuss with pills, and had no trouble taking both
at once.  Nor did they hit me like a ton of bricks.  I lay
tossing and turning for ten minutes before I slowly drifted away,
aware for about the first time in my life that I was falling
asleep.

At least I didn't dream.

Nor did I rise with the sun, either.  Not in any sense of the
word "rise."

I woke up and yawned.  Then doubled over in pain.  Being doubled
over hurt a little less, anyway.  The doctor had said that there
were only a few small cuts, and to take normal showers, colder
rather than warmer.

I looked at the clock and saw it was a twenty minutes of noon.  I
got to my feet and went into the bathroom and showered.  The
doctor was right, the warmer the water, the more the bruises and
damaged skin burned.  Take aspirin, he said.  One.  I'd laughed
at that, as I knew Mom and Wanda frequently took aspirin and they
took two at a time.

Still, I decided if the doctor said one, I'd take one and adjust
the dose if it didn't help.

I stood for a moment in the bathroom.  At least the mirror hadn't
fogged up for a change.  It was quite a collection of bruises I
was sporting.  They were already changing from black and blue to
more spectacular dark brown.  I had to laugh.  What had Jack or
someone said?  This is what you looked like if you were a
quarterback, after every game?

Not ever going to happen!  Not ever!

About one, Mom came in and found me eating chicken soup in the
kitchen.  "Well, something sensible, anyway."

"I'm sorry about the fuss," I told her, repeating what I'd told
my dad.

"It's part of growing up, dear.  Your father had a temper, too. 
He was always fighting.  Of course, he knew a bit about boxing."

"I really don't need any more jabs," I told her.

She smiled.  "I hope you'll remember that."

"How's Karen?" I asked.

She looked at me and shook her head.  "Hanging on.  It's a
terrible thing to realize that every time I try to do something
for her now, the Reverend Grissom explodes and threatens her with
a mental hospital.  Wanda's been kicked out, and even though
Pammie told her father she and Wanda are friends and are going to
stay that way, he told her that if Wanda ever showed up in his
house again, he'd put them both away."

"And Pammie let it go at that?"  That was a surprise.

"Davey, there is a time and place to talk to people.  But after a
point, the time for talk has passed.  After that you have to
settle with what's best.  At least, that's Pammie's thinking.  Of
course, she'll be out of there in a few more months.  Karen..." 
She spread her hands.

"Wanda says if I tried to talk to him, I'd just make it worse."

"Oh yes!  My talking to him made it worse!  Your dad doesn't dare
get within a half mile of the man for fear of how he'd react. 
When the young people got up and left in the middle of the sermon
last Sunday, it made it a pitched battle.  Old versus new. 
Wanton hedonism versus old line values."

She looked at me steadily for a second.  "You understand, Davey,
that from his point of view, he has every right to be upset,
because we here in this house oppose just about every moral rule
he has, particularly when it comes to sex."

"I told Ms. Weaver yesterday that she and Ms. Saunders might come
up in a sermon."

She nodded.

Right then the doorbell rang and I went off to answer it.  I was
halfway across the living room when I decided, what the hell, I
had it only on the word of the Chief of Police that Fesselhof was
going to stay in jail.  And then there was Desmond Clark, who
might just be looking for a rematch.

So I peeped through the curtain and saw Blade standing at the
door.

I opened it, smiling at him.  "Afternoon."

"Afternoon, Davey.  I'm glad you remembered something and checked
before you opened the front door.  You weren't very careful
yesterday."

"Come in," I told him, "want something to drink?"

He frowned.  "You can't ignore it, Davey.  Someone wants to mess
you up.  There are those who feel that they don't actually mean
to kill you, but none of us in the field think like that.  If
they weren't serious, why bother?

"So, since someone wants you horizontal rather than vertical, can
you explain why you got into a boxing ring with someone head and
shoulders taller than you and a half ton heavier?"

"Because it seemed like the thing to do at the time."

He laughed.  "One of these days, they're going to succeed."

I shook my head.  "I don't know who 'they' are, not really.  And
I grant you, I never talked to Desmond Clark before yesterday,
and I'm not sure that what passed between us counts as a
conversation.  But I know why he was there.  And that's one of
the reasons I went in the ring."

"And what was that reason, Davey?"

"Tell me, Mr. Secret Agent Blade, does everything I tell you go
into a report?"

"I could tell you no, and you'd never know.  Yes... just about. 
I am, however, selective by necessity as you tend to talk and
talk and talk."

"Saturday, I made love to Desmond's girlfriend."

"That comes under the heading of suicidal."

"Well, I didn't know he was her boyfriend at the time.  I knew
she had one; she didn't care and I didn't care."

"Aside from the fact you have a couple of very nice girls who
certainly seem friendly?"

"That's right."

"Davey, I'm not a moralist, okay?  But son, you're playing with
serious fire.  My name didn't come from the fact that I'm a
world-class cocksman, it comes from the fact I took fencing in
high school and college.  I'm pretty damn good with a blade.  And
smart enough to keep my involvement with women serial."

"I'd explain, but there are things that I have no desire to put
into an official report.  I'd believe you if you looked me in the
eye and promised they wouldn't show up in one.  But I'm not going
to explain otherwise."

"Davey, I was your age once.  You don't have explanations for
hormones, you have rationalizations."

"Well, if that's what you think, I'll just stop talking now."

"That's your prerogative," Blade told me.  "Stupid, but it's up
to you."

Behind him I recognized Desmond, getting out of a car.  I
swallowed and looked weakly at Blade.  "On the other hand, I
wouldn't mind it in the least if you hung around a minute or
two."

Blade turned around and looked and turned back to me.  "Ah yes! 
Quite willing to run to shelter in a storm!"

"Get the fuck out of here, then!" I told him.  "Jesus, I just
want to get on with my life!  Up to now you've prevented how many
attacks on me?  Huh?  Tell me how many you nipped in the bud?"

"We're doing the best we can, Davey," Blade said. Desmond had
stopped a few feet away, obviously watching curiously.

"Which is why I got a smart-ass reply when I asked for help!" I
said, exasperated.  "Go!  File another report!  If I need
smart-ass comments, I can supply my own."

Desmond laughed at that.  "I'll say!  You're pretty damn good,
Davey!"

I eyed him.  Desmond grinned back.  "Davey, I have a temper, you
understand?  Ellie... she means a lot to me.  A lot.  And now
I've messed it up.  They've already kicked me off the football
team; the basketball team will be Thursday.  Look, my life sucks
right now.

"I'm sorry about getting pissed.  I'm sorry I wanted to fight
you.  I'm just plain sorry."  He looked at me, shaking his head.
"Even the brothers... they tell me I dissed them, dissed Ellie. 
Fuck, they think I dissed you, too!"

"I told you yesterday, I was sorry.  If I'd had any idea how you
felt, I'd never have done it."

"Cheerleaders..." Desmond said, spreading his arms helplessly. 
"They are like a law unto themselves."

I didn't care if Blade was there or not.  "Think about it for a
second, Desmond.  They have to be in control; it has to be their
choice.  Could you imagine if it was up to us to decide who gets
rewarded?  Every damn one of us, every damned day!"

Desmond chuckled.  "Yeah, probably!"

I went on, "If they are in control, if they make the rules then
they feel safe.  And for girls, Desmond, that's their first
concern."

He waved at the house.  "I heard about that girl your family took
in.  That was a good thing, Davey.  I wish I'd gotten up when the
Reverend started in on you, Sunday."

I spoke crossly, "There are entirely too many Baptists in this
town!"

Desmond laughed.  "Man, even my ma, she's a Sunday morning
Baptist, and proud of it!"

"Desmond, I will talk to Jack and Chuck.  I will talk to guys on
the baseball team.  I will ask them to think about it and above
all, I'm going to tell them we worked things out."

"Would you talk to Ellie, too?"

"I'll talk to Ellie, too," I agreed.

He nodded, turned and walked away.

"And that's the guy you took in a fair fight?" Blade muttered.

I looked at him, happy to transfer anger I no longer felt towards
Desmond to him.  "It wasn't a fair fight and I didn't beat him. 
I kept him from killing me.  If I landed a single punch on him,
I'd be surprised."

"Davey, when you fight someone like that and you're alive the
next day, you've won, believe me, you've won."

"I'd be obliged if you'd forget anything you heard us talk
about."

Blade gave me an exasperated look.  "Davey, I'm an field agent
for the Counter-Intelligence Corps of the United States.  When I
file a report, they expect credible data, not urban apocrypha,
like how cheerleaders are rumored to reward athletes after
winning a game.  For damn sure, no one ever rewarded the Rancho
Palos Verde High School fencing team like that.  Or the USC team,
either."

He gave me a mock salute, turned and left.

I went inside, feeling just a bit tired.

I'd just finished getting the door closed when the phone rang. 
Mom took a few steps and picked up.  She listened intently, then
finally said, "Okay, I'll get right on it."

She hung up the phone and turned away from me, took two steps and
leaned against the wall.  She was crying!
I crossed the room and put my hand on her shoulder, but didn't
say anything.  In truth, I was terrified, too.

She put her hand on mine, and for a couple of minutes, she just
cried.

She pushed back from the wall, brushing my hand away.  "I'm not
doing anyone any good doing this," her voice was controlled.  She
wiped tears away with her sleeve, making her makeup run and
leaving marks on her sleeve.  She looked at the marks, then at
me.

"The girl who was supposed to eat with Karen had something else
to do at lunch and didn't tell anyone.  A few minutes ago,
someone in the office who knows Wanda told Wanda that Karen
didn't go to her afternoon classes.  Pammie rushed home, but
she's not there either."

I wanted to shrivel up and die.  "Pammie says a suitcase and
clothes are missing, so she's probably run away," Mom continued.
"We're going to start looking for her."

"If I can help..."

She shook her head.  "Davey, I can see the pain in your eyes,
every time you move."

"I took an aspirin a bit ago, it's getting better."

"Davey, go lie down.  Rest.  We'll take care of this."

"If anything happens to Karen, I'll walk into that man's church
and punch him in the nose!"

She shook her head.  "No, you wouldn't, Davey.  Because long
before that, I'd have taken a baseball bat to the sorry bigot's
head!  But just now, we need to concentrate on finding Karen!"

She left and I wondered what I could possibly do to help. 
Thirteen, going on fourteen.  Who wanted my help?  I couldn't
drive; I couldn't do anything that would help.  A high school
freshman, and I'd been that for less than a month.  Wanda, Pammie
and Mom were going to call everyone they knew.  Who did I know? 
Emily, Mercedes, Shellie -- and that was it.  I'd made love to
Irene Feeney entirely too many times and Ellie once too many
times.  What possible use would I be?  Could I be any help or
would I make it worse?

I heard my mother's car tires screech as she left the driveway. 
In my entire life I'd never seen her as upset as I saw her now.

What had she felt after she found out what happened to Wanda? 
I'd been upset, but had I cried?  Big boys don't cry.  How many
times had I heard that?  And Emily?  As soon as Mom heard about
Emily it had been Mom that saddled up Rosinante and went off to
rescue the fair Dulcinea.

I found the cold remains of my soup in the kitchen, and zapped it
in the microwave.  I finished it quickly, then filled the bowl
with water in the sink and tossed the can into the garbage bag
under the sink.

There was a flap of newsprint sticking up out of the wastebasket.
 It was a copy of the local paper, the San Angelo Standard Times.
 Dad made jokes about their name, wondering why they printed it
during daylight savings time.  My dad is weird.

I shut the door to the cupboard under the sink and stood up.

Sure it was broad daylight, and just a few clouds in the sky.  I
felt like I'd been hit by a lightning bolt.  I walked into the
laundry room where there was a great huge stack of old
newspapers, most of which were unread.

I took one out, sought out the opinion page and chortled.  Yep,
that was what I'd do.  Who was I?  David Harper, son of Phil
Harper.  You know, the guy the preacher delivered the sermon
about.  There was about zero chance they wouldn't print a letter
to the editor if I wrote one.  I grinned.  And what a letter it
was going to be!

<1st attachment end>


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