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Message-ID: <51150asstr$1115932203@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Gina Marie Wylie" <gmwylie98260@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Spitfire and Messerschmitt Ch 36 {Gina Marie Wylie} (teen, mff, cons)
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Date: Thu, 12 May 2005 17:10:03 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Davey Ch 36.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, 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 36 :: Questions Asked

In fact, tomorrow seemed to spring at me at light speed; it was
nearly six when I woke up, and already light enough to see.  I
went outside and was surprised to find my Dad fiddling with the
water of the pool.

"What's up?" I asked.

"I saw Wanda heading out here this morning and I asked how the
water was testing."

"And?"

"And she hasn't a clue because she forgot all about that."

I wondered if I should mention that I hadn't tested the water
very often myself?  During the summer the pool had seen a lot of
use; so I dropped the little crystals in every day.  In the last
couple of days, I was the only one in it.

Dad laughed at me.  "You'd look good blonde, Davey.  Another day
or two of her chlorinating and you swimming and you would have
been."

"I should have said something," I admitted.

"Not to worry.  I reminded her the generic name for the crystals
we add to the water to keep it fresh: bleach.  And about the term
we use to remove hair color: bleach.  She has now successfully
connected the dots."

"Thanks, although it might have been fun to find out if blondes
do have more fun."

He shook his head, and waved at the pool.  "I've turned on the
pool cooler, tonight when you get home, turn it off.  It'll be
okay tomorrow."

"I may not get back until late.  I'm up for another hospital
visit."

"Davey, being in love means you risk breaking your heart.  It's
worth that risk for someone you love.  I'm not happy with the
idea of risking that for someone I hardly know."

"You care, Dad," I told him.  "I understand.  You don't have to
explain."

"So, why are you going to the hospital?  That girl is going to
break your heart, Davey."

I grinned.  "I told her she was my girlfriend, you said it
yourself.  It's worth the risk when you care about someone."

He shook his head.  "Caring isn't enough, the more you invest in
a relationship, the more you can get badly hurt, not less."

"Well, I get through each day, one at a time.  I've had some
pretty shitty things happen to me these last few weeks."

"I'll say!  And if you say that word again around me, you'll
spend the next few weeks regretting it."

"Dad, you cuss."

"Not around you, your mother or your sister.  It's bad enough the
words are in our vocabulary; I'd like to leave them outside the
front door."

I went in and showered and put on a western shirt, western jeans
and low boots.  I had a belt with a western buckle and I put that
on as well.  I was smiling to myself, in eager anticipation of my
personal little joke on Mercedes; mostly her anyway, maybe a
little on Shellie too.

Of course, Wanda had to comment on my choice at breakfast.  "I
thought frontier days were in June?" she said.

"Oh, just a little private joke," I told her.

"He does look pretty nice, Wanda," Pammie interjected.  "What do
you think, Emily?"

"Davey's nice all the time," Emily said in my defense.

"So, Davey, what's the joke?" Wanda inquired.

"Let's just say that this seemed like a good day to go to school
in western dress."  I couldn't help smiling.  It was all I could
do not to hug my ribs and belly laugh.

At school Mercedes looked at me and shrugged.  I realize that
it's not easy for people who don't live in small towns like San
Angelo to understand some things about life there.  There is a
solid phalanx of kids who live on ranches and farms around town.
There aren't nearly as many of them as there are town students,
but there are a lot of them.  Most town kids don't wear western
wear to school unless it was the annual Frontier Days festival --
but the kids from the rural areas wore western most days.  I have
no idea what they called us, but the most common term for them
was "goat-ropers."  It wasn't meant to be flattering.

Thus, wearing a goat-roper outfit meant I stood a fair chance of
having someone say something to me.  In the past, I'd never have
done it.  Now my attitude had changed.  That, and it was too good
a joke to pass up.  My only regret was that Shellie didn't appear
for the second morning running to say hello, so I could get it
over with.

Shellie eyed me in English, and then she and Mercedes vanished
into the girl's bathroom before Algebra.  During the office class
I kept waiting for Shellie to send me an email asking me about
it, but she didn't send me anything at all.  Were they trying to
ignore me?

I contemplated my joke again.  Okay, it was a stupid pun, and I
looked stupid in the western outfit.  But wearing a dress
wouldn't exactly be smart, either.  And I was sure from the gleam
in Mercedes' eyes that she was thinking of a way to get me into a
dress.  Better, I thought, to get it out of the way early.

A few minutes before the end of the class, I was starting to get
excited about what Mercedes was going to look like when I told
her.  Okay, maybe that was excited as in, hard as a rock, but I'm
a teenager -- it goes with the territory.

The tool bar flashed and I went to see what Shellie had sent me.

I was flabbergasted, surprised and amazed and impressed.  It was
a caricature of me with outsize cowboy boots, an outsized belt, a
huge belt buckle and a hat the size of Texas.  She had to have
done it since the start of the period.  How could someone do such
great work in such a short time?

She turned and I flashed her a grin.

Then it was lunch, and I took my usual position between Shellie
and Mercedes.

Mercedes spoke to Emily.  "Who is this weird person sitting
between us?  Rumor has it he came to school with you this
morning.  Can you explain to me who he is?"

"I have good news, Mercedes," I said, trying not to smirk.

"Good news?  You have a movie script so Rob and Emily can shoot a
western with us in it?  I bet Hollywood would pay millions of
dollars for a western!  Much more than for a Japanese cartoon!"

Shellie turned to me.  "Would you tickle her for me?"

"Oh, I have something better, much better," I told her.

I turned to Mercedes.  "That bet yesterday?  Where if you win,
I'd stake you to a poker night?"

"Yes," Mercedes said, suddenly cautious.

"Well, you win.  Here I am in western dress."

Emily and Rob looked confused.  Shellie giggled.

Mercedes though, looked at me and shook her head; a far better
poker face than I'd ever managed.  "No, you won't get off so
easy!  Nope, you have to wear a dress.  Thigh length, I think. 
My sister has some that will fit you.  Of course, you're going to
look like a Spanish tart, but..." she smiled at me.  "That's the
price you pay for losing a bet."

"I told you," I tried to bluster, "you win!  This is as close to
a dress as you're going to get!"

Now and then, Mercedes has this "cat eating bird" grin.  She was
wearing it now.  I had a sudden sinking feeling that I'd taken
something that might have been written off as a joke, and turned
it into a CAUSE!

I decided to try to constrain things.  "It has to be before
Christmas," I told her.

"It will be before Thanksgiving," she told me firmly.  "You just
go out and buy a Lady Shick razor.  I can tell you right now,
you're going to have to shave your legs."

"Davey," Rob said, cutting in from the other side of the table.

"Rob?" I responded, grateful for the rescue.

"That thing about the western movie.  You know, we could do a
movie, too, not just Shellie's movie, but a real one.  I don't
think we could do a western -- period pieces cost too much and
are hard to make, but we could do something about contemporary
life in San Angelo."

My mouth ran the race a whole lot faster than my brain.  "I can
be the star... there's these nutcase terrorists chasing me, and
every week their number doubles..."

That was a lead balloon!

"It's something to think about," Rob said weakly.

"I think it's a good idea," Emily said.  "I could be the star and
we can do a story about the trials and tribulations of a pregnant
rape victim kicked out of her house by her mother."

I could feel the bad vibes from Mercedes, but Shellie was looking
at Emily with an expression I didn't recognize.  Not one I'd ever
seen before from Shellie.

Rob spoke first, slowly and carefully.  "Emily, that's actually
not a bad idea.  But do you have any idea what it would mean if
it works?"

"I might earn some money?"

"The sun is more likely to rise in the West," Rob told her.  "But
it's something we can do on a low budget -- and it's a topic that
would appeal to Hollywood.  Robert Rodriquez did a movie called
El Mariachi... he made it for $7,000."

"A little more than I can afford," Emily said sarcastically.

"Yes, but he shot it on film, that was his biggest expense: film
and developing.  We can do it on tape, and that's cheap.  Call it
twenty or thirty bucks instead of five or six thousand dollars. 
We have a film-editing program, we have a lot of stuff Rodriquez
didn't have and had to rent or borrow.  He wrote a book about
making his movie; I've got it.  It's cool.  Really, really
cool!"

"I've never heard of him," Mercedes said.

"Robert Rodriguez did the Spy Kids movies.  He works a lot in
Austin; there are a lot of filmmakers there.  If we have
something good, we can go to them and get some help."

"Call me a cynical weasel," Mercedes said, "but did that $7,000
movie make any money?"

Rob grinned.  "On the opening weekend, it made more than
$300,000.  A little more than two million dollars in theatrical
release.  In the US.  Not counting tapes and DVDs and foreign
releases.  The second movie cost a lot more, seven million.  But
it made that back the first weekend, and ended around twenty-five
million dollars in theatrical release."

Mercedes stared at him.  "You know a lot about this stuff."

"Mercedes, I play baseball and football because my parents think
I can parlay that into a scholarship and get out of here.  Both
of them were born here, both want their kids to be able to
leave."

"You do have a knack for throwing the football," Emily said,
defending him.  "And you are so itty bittie, that you can run
between the defender's legs."

I'd have fallen off my seat if Mercedes and Shellie hadn't been
there to stop me.  Emily telling a joke!  I wanted to hug her --
and then shake Rob's hand.

Rob stuck his tongue out at Emily.

Still, after a second, Rob turned sober.  "To make a good movie
you need two things.  A killer script and a good director.  Music
helps, but you can spend all the money in the world making a
movie -- music can easily eat huge holes in the budget."

"A script you said?" Shellie asked him.

"Yeah, a script.  It's not easy, writing a script.  I have enough
trouble with documentaries."

"You script documentaries?" Mercedes asked, outraged.

"Some of it, yes," Rob told her.

While those two were talking, Shellie was digging into her
backpack.  She pulled out a wad of paper, maybe six inches thick.
 There were a lot of separate items, all held together with
brads.  "You want scripts?  Try these."

She held them out to Rob.

He took the stack, and hefted them.  "These are scripts?"

Shellie looked at him as if he were brain-dead.

I leaned down and put my head on the table, shaking all over.

"Davey?"  Mercedes asked.

Shellie didn't speak; she just put her hand on my shoulder.

I got a grip, then sat back up.  "Focus is everything, I imagine,
right, Rob?"

He wasn't sure what I was talking about, but he nodded.  "It's a
waste of time to film out of focus."

"Yeah, well, I forgot something.  I'm sorry, I just get so
wrapped up in things I forget everything else.  Today it was
western dress.  I was so pleased with my joke I forgot something
important.  After baseball practice I will be going to the
hospital.  Maybe right away, maybe later, I won't know, probably,
until after school."

"Chris?" Shellie asked.

"Yes, today is the day they decide if they're going to cut open
her brain -- or just let her die slowly over the next few
months."

"Davey," Rob said, his voice hushed, "I don't think I could walk
two steps in your shoes.  I couldn't, man!  God!"

"Movies," I said, hardening my resolve.  I would do what I had to
do.  "We should think about it.  I think we all pretty much want
the same thing."

"An exit visa from San Angelo," Emily said.

"Exactly!" Mercedes agreed.  "As soon as possible."

Mercedes turned to me.  "Davey, can Shellie and I go over to your
house to study?  Even if you don't get back until after we have
to leave?"

"Sure."  Of course, I had a question in mind: why?

Mercedes explained without my having to ask.  "Going to Shellie's
house is quiet, but I just don't feel comfortable there.  By the
time practice ends, my dad will be home.  The little light bulb
went off over his head the other day about how Shellie and I are
friends.  He's still in a state of denial, but I don't feel very
comfortable there either.  I can take it for a while, but not
forever.  I can't go back to babysitting, Davey.  I can't.  Which
means moving back with my sister is pretty much out of the
picture."

I patted her hand.  "We find ourselves in the midst of some very
talented people.  I've never written a movie script, much less a
stack of them.  I've never thought about making a movie, and it
sounds like we might make two.  Then there's the science fair
project, and I find that's a big bite to chew on as well."

Mercedes leaned forward and turned to look past me at Shellie. 
"I can tell him, Shellie.  I know you were the bearer of the
tidings, but this is our project."

"Okay," Shellie said, sounding less than excited.

"Davey, Shellie and I were talking last night.  IMs actually. 
She knows a lot of people online; quite a few of them are
Japanese.  The Japanese think an octopus is a delicacy."

"Okay," I said, not sure what she was talking about.

"Her friends tell her that salt water aquariums aren't any harder
to maintain than freshwater aquariums -- but salt water fish are
usually more temperature sensitive than fresh water fish.  An
octopus costs a bunch of money... thirty bucks for a small one."

Rob interrupted, laughing.  "That's your idea of expensive?  Do
you have any idea how much my parents paid for a stupid little
poodle that yaps?  Ten times that!"

Mercedes doesn't like being interrupted and she glared at him.

"Some octopi are very hard to raise; some have short lifespans. 
The Blue Ring Octopus lives about six months; you can get one
that's a hundred years old in octopus years.  Oh yeah, the Blue
Ring Octopus has a lethal bite.  You die in seconds if it bites
you.

"Then, our dear, sweet love gave us a reality check when it comes
to science.  Do you know what a control is, Davey?"

I blinked.  Yes, I'd been awake that day in biology class.  I
knew what a control was.  Or, to put it another way, we were
going to need two octopi, at least.

"So, as you can see, we are nowhere near where we need to be, to
even get the ball rolling."

"Well, not with live critters," I told her.  "But I've been
looking into what we need to do, and what we have.  It's all
there, Mercedes.  We have what it takes when it comes to
equipment."

"We have one tank, and we need two."

"We have one big tank; a lot of the octopi only grow to be the
size of a grapefruit.  We can put a divider in.  Besides, if we
get two of the same species, there has to be little boy octopi
and little girl octopi... if they all ate each other up, they'd
be extinct."

Mercedes sniffed in derision.  "Black widows and praying mantises
aren't extinct."

I sighed.  "We can do this, Mercedes.  We're smart people, we
have most of the things we need; we lack knowledge and
experience."

"Your dad told me we were going to the Corpus Christi aquarium,"
Shellie told Mercedes.  "They have to have someone there who
knows how to keep octopuses.  You can find out who and ask
them."

Mercedes and I looked at each other.  "I'll look into it,"
Mercedes said quickly.  "I'm sorry.  Lately I get a little
depressed."

"You could always come with me to the hospital," I told her, half
facetiously.  The other half of me wanted someone's hand I could
hold and who had a reasonable chance of it still being here
tomorrow.

"A lot to think about," Shellie said.  "We all should do that." 
She looked across the table at Emily and Rob.  "We are agreed
about one thing: this place isn't the future."

"I'm going to do anything I have to, to leave," Rob said. 
"Whatever it takes."

It was strange.  The rest of us, all at once and without
prompting said, "Amen!"

Before we could get off on another tangent, the bell rang and it
was time to start afternoon classes.  Shellie fell in next to me,
as we walked towards geography class.  "You're not mad at me, are
you, Davey?" she asked.

"Of course not.  Both Mercedes' father and Ms. Weaver have said
they'll look over our experiment protocols and comment on it. 
You saved us from looking dumb because I'd forgotten all about
controls."

She flashed me her beautiful smile and I felt like I was walking
on air and put spring in my step.

One thing about Colonel Terrell, you never get bored in his
class.  Instead of him standing in the front of the class, a
woman was standing at attention, wearing starched fatigues, and
the Marines Corps Globe and Anchor on her collar points, and
three chevrons on her sleeves.

"Take your seats, people!" her voice boomed through the room.

I sat down in my seat and looked at her.  It was Colonel
Terrell's "assistant" from the day before, only this time her
lack of hair wasn't as obvious because there was a starched hat
on her head.  And most interesting of all, her nametag read
"Terrell."

When everyone was seated, she spoke again.  "Colonel Terrell has
asked me to show some of the photos I took during my recent tour
in Afghanistan.  If someone will get the lights, my assistant
will put up the first slide."

I turned around and looked.  Colonel Terrell was at the slide
projector.  That was, I thought, really cool.  He didn't mind
being mocked; that or Shellie had trained him to be cool with
it.

The lights went down and the first slide came up.  It was a boy
of about ten, grinning like crazy, holding a package of M & M's
in his hand.  He was wearing a t-shirt, some sort of embroidered
vest and dark, loose fitting trousers.

"This is one of the fearsome Afghan warriors.  Or at least that's
what he told me."

There were giggles in the class.

For the next half hour she showed us a lot of pictures.  Some
were soldiers riding in vehicles, heavily armed and burdened with
a lot of equipment.  Other pictures were of groups of Afghans in
various kinds of native dress.  I had expected to be bored, but
there was always something interesting in each picture.  Finally,
she ended with a picture of a fighter jet, flying low over some
mountains.  Behind the jet was rank on rank of ragged ridgelines,
stretching out to a very distant horizon, the peaks immersed in
mist.

"I took all the other pictures, a Marine pilot took this one.  If
you look close, you can count twenty-one ridgelines in this
picture.  You're looking out over a hundred miles.  Afghanistan
is a little country on the maps, but it's huge when you are
actually on the ground.

"Now, are there any questions?"

One of the girls in the class asked, without waiting to be
recognized, "What happened to your hair?"

"What time of the year is it?" the Colonel's daughter replied.

"Almost fall."

"And it's almost fall in Afghanistan.  The name of the season
before fall is 'summer.'"  She smiled at the girl, and then
motioned at Colonel Terrell.  "Assistant, the next slide,
please."

There were a number of drawings of bugs and other things that
looked like worms appeared.

"You remember the young man in the first picture?  He'd just been
to sick call.  He had lice, bedbugs, fleas, two kinds of
ringworm, a tapeworm, and at least two types of intestinal bugs
that were giving him the runs.

"You can't see it in the picture, but he has a nasty scar on his
thigh.  His little brother stepped on a land mine, blowing his
legs off.  This guy took a piece of shrapnel in the leg at the
same time.  The local doctor used maggots to keep the wound from
turning septic.

"The Marines use just about every insecticide known to man, and
we still can't keep out the bugs.  After one week in country you
learn that a head of hair isn't worth having to continually
scratch.  Plus, you would not believe how many diseases are
vectored by lice, bedbugs and fleas.  Someone said 'war is hell,'
and what they were talking about is that more people die from
disease than combat -- and it's still true if you're not
careful."

I waved goodbye to Shellie after the class was over and made
tracks to PE.  Once again I was sent to batting practice.  I
sighed when I was once again shown how to pull the ball.  I asked
Coach Delgado if I could talk to him privately and he shook his
head and told me to take some swings.

The first pitch that came to me was just perfect, demanding to be
swatted as hard as I could.  I took a half-hearted stab at it,
and missed the ball by a mile.  I was very late swinging.  I
swung at and missed the next two pitches.  Then for my own peace
of mind and the hell with what the coach wanted I hit the next
one over the center field fence.

"That isn't going to work, Harper!" Coach Delgado immediately got
on my case.  "I don't want to see anyone dogging it!"

"Sir," I said, trying to sound apologetic.  "I am trying to pull
the pitches and not knock them over the fence.  But my timing is
all off.  I am not dogging it... it just feels all wrong in my
head."

One of the assistant coaches came up and whispered something in
Coach Delgado's ear.  After a second, the Coach nodded.  "Harper,
put down the wooden bat.  Get one of the aluminum bats.  Use
that."

I tried hard to calm my temper, before getting another bat.  I
hated it the first second I picked it up and swung it.  I don't
care what people say, the feel of an aluminum bat is completely
different from a wooden bat.

I went back to the plate for my last few swings, and Coach
Delgado nodded to me.  "Hit away, Harper."

The pitch was very low and I let it pass.  Then the next pitch
was higher, and I all but played it like a golf ball.  I winced
at the dull "clonk" sound the bat made when it made contact with
the ball.  Still, the ball sailed down the third baseline, fair,
right into the corner.  A double, probably.

"A bunt," I was told.  "Then run it out."

Sure, I'd been shown how to square away to do a bunt.  Thanks,
but no thanks.  I'd been hit a couple of times by balls and you
can keep it.  Instead, I stood normally.  The pitch was well
inside, but I backed up a bit, made sure I was on top of the ball
and didn't swing the bat.  Sure enough, this time it was a good
bunt, going into the dirt a few feet in front of the plate,
heading towards third.  I ran it out and easily beat the throw.

Then it was pitching practice, more work on curveballs.  At least
that was fun.

Then it was the end of the period and time for Spanish.  I
checked my voice mail before I went in, but there were no calls.
As soon as I was out I checked again, and there still wasn't
anything.

Baseball practice was more of the same as we'd done during PE. 
At least I had pitching practice before batting practice.  Then,
as a surprise, I had fielding practice, first catching fly balls,
and then actually playing on third base during batting practice
for other people.  I only got one ball that came my way and it
was easy to field.  The throw was a lot longer than I was used
to, though, and I bounced the ball in front of Mercedes.  She did
manage to keep hold of it, but it would have been a toss-up
whether the batter would have been safe or out.

Chuck and Rob started choosing sides.  Chuck promptly took Jack,
and Rob took me.  A little while later the teams were complete;
this time Mercedes and I were on the same team.  Of course, I was
paying for that, because Josh was on my side, and Trace on the
other.

One thing that Rob did that was different was he wanted me to
pitch last, but I was still the DH.  I was mildly peeved when he
told me I'd be batting fourth, but I kept my mouth shut.

It was frustrating, too, to sit on the bench and see Jack and
Chuck get hits, then be driven home.  At the end of their
batting, they'd scored two runs.

Still, Rob got a single, and while Mercedes hit a ground ball
between first and second, the right fielder was playing up, and
got to it in time to throw her out... Rob made it to second,
though.

Our left fielder went up to bat, and I went to fetch my bat.  It
wasn't there, only aluminum bats.  "It's sitting in the corner of
my office, Harper," Coach Delgado said, "and it's going to stay
there until you get a better handle on hitting instead of
swinging away on every pitch."

"I'll keep that in mind, the next time I'm down in the count," I
told him.

"You'll keep a civil tongue in your mouth, Harper, or you'll be
pushing a broom in the locker room instead of warming the
bench."

I watched the left fielder put a solid hit up the middle and Rob
rounded third and came home.

I went to the plate and cleared my mind, trying to focus my anger
on the ball.  I checked the first base coach, who didn't have a
sign out.  The pitch came and I crunched it again; there is
nothing sweet about "clonk."  The ball didn't seem to go as far
as usual, but it went far enough.  A moment later I was
high-fiving my teammates and it was three to two.

We stayed one run ahead through the next two innings.  I was
still mad enough to be unconcerned that Josh was calling all
belt-high fastballs again.

I blew down the first two batters in six pitches.

Then, Coach Delgado came out to the mound.  I was curious what he
wanted to tell me, but it turned out his comments were reserved
for Josh.  "What is this?" the Coach asked, his voice angry. 
"Vary the pitches."

"I know what I'm doing," Josh told Coach Delgado.

"And I'm telling you to vary the pitches."

"I know what I'm doing," Josh told him again.

"And so do I.  Sit down."

Coach Delgado turned and called to Rob.  "Get someone else up to
catch."

Well that was interesting, because we had one guy who hadn't
played and he was a right fielder.  Right field is where you put
guys who can't catch very well.

Still, he togged up, and Coach Delgado ran over some simple signs
with both of us.

So, what did the moron ask for?  Fastball down the middle.  I
shook it off and he looked stunned.  Then he signed for a
waist-high curve and I nodded.

It was Chuck and he ruined my perfect inning on the third pitch,
getting a piece of it, and hitting it foul.  Still, three batters
in ten pitches with three Ks -- not too shabby!  Combine that
with a home run, and two doubles, six RBIs -- not shabby at all!

As we were heading for the locker room and the team meeting, I
pulled out my phone.  My first ever text message!  Mom had said,
"C U after practice."

So, there I was, just a little distracted when we started.  Once
again Coach Delgado asked the captains what they'd taken away
from the scrimmage, and there were some good comments.  Then came
the kicker.

"I saw someone checking a cell phone out on the field a little
while ago.  I know that in the packet you received at the start
of the year it was said that cell phones aren't permitted during
practice.  Let me make this perfectly clear: if I see someone
with a cell phone on the field again, they are off the team. 
Just as simple as that."

I stood up faster than anyone could think.  "I'm outta here!"

I went to my locker, grabbed my things and was headed out the
door a second later.

"You go through that door, Harper and you're done."

I turned to Coach Delgado.  "Four times people have tried to kill
me.  It's a comfort knowing I can dial 911 if I need to.  A
friend is going to have brain surgery sometime tonight.  There's
a good chance she'll be dead this time tomorrow.  Silly me for
wanting to know how she's doing."

He started to talk and I shook my head.  "You don't want my
advice on how I should hit.  Fine.  You didn't speak up when I
told you I didn't want to ever have Josh catch for me again. 
Fine.  You think anyone with a cell phone should be off the team.
 Fine.  I'm off, because I'm always going to have my cell phone
with me.  You don't want my opinion; you don't want to hear my
explanation about why I do things.  Fine."

And I did leave.  The room was deathly silent and I made a
private vow that there was no way on earth I would wear a team
uniform again.  Never.

Mom was waiting in front of the school.  She took one look at me
and shook her head.  "You can't go looking like that, smelling
the way you do."

"Stop by the house," I told her.  "I quit the team.  This time, I
will not go back.  I'm sick and tired of people who think they
know more about me than I do.  People who think they can tell me
how to live my life, and not bother to ask why I might not want
to do it their way."

She started her car, and she drove me home.  I was out of the
shower when Mercedes and Shellie came in.

"They're never going to let you back," Mercedes told me.  "Coach
Delgado said that being a team means you do what you're told."

"Fine, I don't have a problem with doing what I'm told -- if it
makes sense.  I just have a problem with people telling me to do
things and don't care why I think they're wrong.  I'm not stupid;
I know there are things I don't know.  But all of this 'Do this
and don't ask questions!' just drives me nuts."

She hugged me and kissed me, and then Shellie did, too.

When we got to the hospital, Mom looked at me.  "Are you calm
enough to talk rationally?"

"Yes," I told her.

"I swear, the first time you get out of line in there, I'll drag
you out by the ear."

"I know this is hard to accept, but I bet if Dad did something
like that you'd find a way to get him aside and tell him what the
problem was.  I just don't see you dragging him anywhere by the
ear."

Okay, I was pissed again.

She picked up on that right away.  "My, aren't we full of ourself
today!"

"Maybe.  Or maybe I've reached a point in my life where I want
some input in what happens to me and what I'm supposed to do. 
I'm not supposed to have a cell phone on me at practice.  What if
someone starts shooting at me?  Or the others on the team or the
people in the stands?  Am I just supposed to stand there and not
dial 911?"

Her eyes flashed angry.  "You can't dial 911 from your cell
phone.  It doesn't work.  It's why before you got it, I
programmed the speed dial number one with the police phone
number."

"Okay, I can still dial that.  Without a phone, all I can do is
run around and scream and shout and get shot at.  Is it too much
to want to stick it to these sick people chasing me?  Is it? 
I've had a cell phone for four years, mother.  You know that, you
gave it to me.  Since fifth grade.  It sits on vibrate in my
pocket.  I've never, in those four years, had any trouble with
any teacher.  When I checked my messages it was after practice,
on the way to a team meeting."

"Do you even care about Chris?  Or anyone but yourself?"

I couldn't believe my ears.  "I'm here; hopefully by now you've
figured out that this is where I want to be.  I'm concerned about
Chris and I want to do what I can for her, even if it's not
much."

"Then why haven't you asked about how she is?"

"The first words out of your mouth when you saw me were about the
way I was dressed and smelled.  Do you think I didn't notice that
myself?  Did you bother to ask what was up?  Nope, you assumed I
was a stupid idiot who couldn't dress himself and was a little
weak on personal hygiene.  Mom, you trained me yourself, you did
a better job than that."

"So why didn't you ask about Chris?"

"Because I have a problem with focus.  I get sidetracked from
something and I can't remember five minutes later that I have
that something I needed to do.  I didn't tell Mercedes about the
Corpus Christi trip, she found out from her parents... after I
found out about it.  I could have called and told her, but I
forgot.  I completely forgot Shellie, and for that I am totally
ashamed.  I'm not sure what I can do to improve my memory, but I
really need to do something."

She was quiet for a while and then changed the subject.  "I
talked to Chris' parents after their meeting with her doctors. 
They've found a suspicious spot on her brain.  They concentrated
these tests on a particular area, based on her symptoms, and did
some other things and found it.  Something maybe the size of a
green pea, maybe smaller.  She goes in for surgery tomorrow
morning at six.

"There is a ten percent chance they'll hit something critical and
she'll be dead in seconds.  The lump is at the junction of a lot
of important parts of the brain: movement, sight, memory
processing.  There may be minimal impairment or she could end up
a vegetable.  They won't know about that unless or until she
wakes up, sometime tomorrow afternoon or early evening."

"Mom, I swear to you that I can go in there and read to Chris,
talk to Chris, and I will do my level best to be cheerful and
happy, and I won't talk about tomorrow or the next day...
whatever it is I have to do."

"Well, don't overdo the good cheer, either; it looks and feels
insincere.  She knows the odds, her parents told her about them.
They even told her that if she wanted to, they'd call it off, if
that's what Chris wanted.  She said there wasn't any choice."

"Mom, I've met Chris twice.  She's a nice person, okay?  Life is
giving her a..." I stopped myself before I found out what my
mother thought of my potty mouth, "rotten deal.  This is no
trouble at all."

"You could be home, studying with your friends."

"Mom, we're all getting straight As.  Mercedes missed a question
on a homework assignment, that's it.  Emily and I have perfect
scores in math, biology and English, Shellie is perfect in math
and English and hasn't messed up anything in her biology class. 
Mercedes is perfect in everything but math.  We study well
together, and missing a day here or there is no big deal."

"I don't think I was talking so much about study time as together
time."

"Mom, maybe someday you'll realize that just because we're high
school freshmen and still considered to be little kids, that
doesn't mean we can't think for ourselves.   Sure we fool around,
but we're careful not to fool around too much, you know?"

"Everyone I knew when I was your age, including myself, wasn't
careful nearly as often as we should have been.  Abstinence may
be the best form of birth control, but random chance is about as
bad as it gets."

"Why don't we go in and talk to Chris?  We can continue this
later."

She smiled.  "You took the words right out of my mouth.  Come
along, Davey."

Chris had a surprise for me, sort of.  She looked a lot like
Colonel Terrell's daughter, her head had been shaved bald.  She
grinned when she saw me.  "Look!" she ran her hand over her bald
head.

"I'll be back directly, Davey."

She left and Chris patted the bed next to her.  I sat down on the
edge.  "Can I tell you a stupid joke?" she asked.

"Sure."

"They made my parents leave when they were cutting my hair.  I
got to see it in a mirror."  She looked at me soberly.  "It was
really hard to keep clean in here; I wish I could have had it cut
a while ago.  Anyway, I thought it looked cool, and when my
parents came back I just said the first thing that came into my
head.  I told them I'd wanted a butch cut, but the nurse told me
that it all had to come off."  She grinned at me.  "You should
have seen the look on my father's face!  I mean, he wears a butch
haircut!  But he took it all wrong, if you know what I mean."

"I do," I told her.  "And I'll tell you a funny story too.  Today
we had a guest speaker in our geography class.  She's a marine
and just back from a tour in Afghanistan.  Her hair isn't much
longer than yours.  Her father is our teacher, and it sure looks
to me like he's very proud of his daughter... and not concerned
how her hair is cut.  She says that Afghanistan has lice and
bedbugs, all sorts of vermin."

"My cousin had lice a few years ago in second grade," Chris said.
 "They shaved him bald too.  Half the kids in his class got
shaved, including some of the girls."

"So," I told her, "you look very distinguished.  Odd, but
distinguished."

I waved at the paperback sitting next to the bed.  I saw the
bookmark had moved most of the way towards the end of the book. 
"I can help you read if you want."

"I read a lot today; it's frustrating and I get mad at myself,
then I end up mad at the book.  So I decided to take a break." 
She smiled at me.  "I'd much rather talk to someone.  My parents
will be back in an hour or so; they're at dinner.  Eight o'clock,
that's the time."

I frowned.  I thought the operation was tomorrow?  I couldn't
figure a polite way to ask, but I was forgetting that I was an
open book.

"At eight they give me the pill.  I take it and the next thing I
know, it will be tomorrow evening."

I swallowed.  I suppose that's a good thing, I guessed.  You
wouldn't want to lie awake thinking about it.  I'd had some
trouble sleeping a time or two when it wasn't anything like what
Chris was facing.

"Davey, please."  I looked at her when she spoke.  "I know what's
going to happen.  I've known for months that something bad was
going on, it's been clear for weeks what was going to happen. 
This way is best, Davey.  A snooze and I wake up cured.  Or I
don't wake up.  I'm okay with it, Davey; you don't have to worry
about hurting me or scaring me or saying something wrong... you'd
be about the millionth person to do it.  You get used to it.

"Tell me, what did you do today?" she asked me.

I decided that telling her the tale of a quitter wasn't going to
fly.

"Well, a couple of days ago, Mercedes made a bet with me that I
was going to wear a dress.  I said I wasn't.  This is how you
make bets, you understand?"

"Sure.  Davey, I tell you true, girls wear dresses all the time.
I've seen Scotsmen wearing dresses.  It's not that big a deal."

"Well, for some of us it is.  I got to thinking this morning, so
I put on western clothes.  Alas, when I told Mercedes that she
lost because I was wearing western dress, she disagreed.  So the
bet's still on.  I told her it had to be before Christmas, and
she told me I'd do it before Thanksgiving."

She laughed.  "You know what she's thinking of?  She really loves
you... but she really wants to win, too."

"What is she thinking?" I was curious.

"Halloween," she told me.

I laughed.  "Never saw that coming!  I think you're right.  I'll
tell you what," I told her.  "We will have a Halloween party at
my house this year.  I will wear a dress, if you, Chris Luna,
promise you will be the one person who doesn't laugh."

"Does that mean I'm invited?"

"Well, if you're not there, you couldn't very well laugh, now
could you?  I invite all my girlfriends to my parties!"

I thought drool.  I'd had one party, sort of.  Wanda had invited
Mercedes and Shellie, not me.  I'd forgotten.

"Then I will come and I promise not to laugh, okay?"

"Okay!"

She looked at me.  "A second ago, you had the strangest look on
your face."

"I have two failings, in my otherwise perfect personality," I
told her, buffing my nails on my shirt.

Chris giggled.

"I have the opposite of a poker face; everyone can tell what I'm
thinking without any trouble."

"It's true," she said, nodding.

"Yeah, well it's embarrassing, particularly when I'm thinking
about something stupid I've done."

"Stupid?"

"I forget things," I told her.  "I don't mean to, but there are
things I'm supposed to tell people, and I forget.  We had a pool
party a couple of weeks ago, my sister and I.  I didn't invite my
friends.  My sister did when she found out I hadn't.

"In a couple of weeks, we're going to the Corpus Christi
aquarium. Mercedes' family and mine, and our friend Shellie.  I
didn't tell them, either.  Mercedes' father told her, and
Mercedes called up Shellie and told her.  Shucks, I even forgot
to tell them I was coming here tonight; they thought we were
going to my house after school and study.  I was a little late
mentioning I wasn't going to be there."

She reached out and took my hand and squeezed my fingers. 
"Davey, will you promise me something?"

"Sure, Chris, anything at all."

"Go see a doctor.  For me, it was so stupid.  I'd pick up things
in my left hand, like a book or something.  I'd carry it a few
feet, and when I'd put it down, my hand would tremble.  I told my
mother about it because I thought it was odd, but she told me
that happens to her too, all the time at the store.  She'll carry
around one of those little hand baskets and when she gets to the
checkout, her hand shakes.

"Davey, my mom's a wuss, she doesn't exercise at all.  Fatigue
will make your muscles tremble."

"I spent a morning the other day doing chin-ups," I told her. 
"Boy, do I know that's true!"

"Yes.  But it shouldn't happen in five or six steps.  And then my
right hand started doing it.  We didn't go to the doctor for the
first time until my left hand was shaking every minute or so.  I
don't know if they could have done anything any sooner, but I do
know that waiting until it gets worse is a really bad idea. 
Promise me you'll see a doctor.  Soon."

"What's this about a doctor?" Dr. Jacoby said as she came in.

"Davey forgets things."

Dr. Jacoby smiled.  "Now and again, I wish I had that ability
myself."

"Important things," Chris persisted.  "Often."

Dr. Jacoby smiled at her and then turned to me.  "Chris is an
inquisitive young woman.  She's wanted us to explain to her
what's going on every step of the way.  Pretty much, we did."

She turned back to Chris.  "Chris, the most common reason we
forget things is because we really don't want to remember them. 
It's psychological."

"And the most common cause of muscle tremor is fatigue."  She
held up her hand and a few seconds later, her arm started to
tremble.

The odd thing was, as soon as Chris lifted her hand, Dr. Jacoby
turned and was looking at me.  It was odd, kind of deja vu.  I
know me best; people should believe me when I tell them what's
going on.

"I'll talk to my mother," I told Dr. Jacoby, "but I think I
should come in."

"Thank you, Davey," Chris said.

"Have your mother or father call the office tomorrow.  Or, since
your mother is coming in with Emily tomorrow morning, she can set
up an appointment then."

"I could come in then, too," I said.  I regretted it the instant
I said it.  Not tomorrow, not in the morning.  Before lunch would
be best.

"No, we never did finish that physical.  This will take a while.
An hour, maybe two."

Office, lunch and geography; I could live with that.  We could
throw in PE while we were at it.  I suspected that real soon now,
I'd be off the jock track; I wasn't going to miss it.

Dr. Jacoby stood up and started tugging on the curtain.  I saw an
instant of pain on Chris' face.  She looked at me.  "That means
you're supposed to leave."

"I know," I said, feeling helpless.

She held out her arms and I leaned down and hugged her, then
kissed her on the cheek.  "See you on the flip side, girl," I
said, remembering something from a movie I'd seen.  "Be strong!"

She gave me a thumbs up, and when it trembled, she grabbed her
wrist with her other hand, and when that didn't work, she tented
her knees and forced her hand to be still.

Yeah, I thought, I will be seeing you on the flip side, won't I?

I went outside and leaned up against the wall, my back to the
hall.  I wasn't crying; that time had come and gone.  No, I was
sure wishing a lot that whoever it is in the universe who looks
after brave people would look after Chris.

I heard voices in the hallway and I pushed back away from the
wall and tried to look composed.  The woman flashed me a
sympathetic smile, the man looked grimmer.  It wasn't my place to
be here, not now, I realized.  I nodded and turned and walked
back to the nurse's station.

Mom was chatting with a pretty, younger woman, a nurse in her
late twenties.  A nurse who didn't seem to speak English all that
well.  Mom saw me and said something to the nurse, then turned to
me.  "That time?"

"Yes," I told her.  I really didn't feel like talking.

"Marie Carrillo, this is my son, Davey.  Davey, this is Marie. 
She's from the Philippines.  Her husband is in the navy and is
stationed at Goodfellow."

"Hi," I said.  I realized I had all the sincerity of a turnip, so
I kept it simple.

"Hi," she replied.  "I should go check on patients, Mrs.
Harper."

"Thanks for the conversation, Maria," Mom replied.

We walked out to her car and she started it up.  "I guess Dr.
Jacoby came in a little early."

"Yes," I told her.  "A pill and you're out.  Wake up or not."

"Better than lying awake all night wondering and worrying about
it."

"Oh yeah!" I said with feeling.  "It's all the rest that's hard
to deal with."

"Life, Davey, can be hard to deal with.  Some of us, Davey, take
simple pleasures when we find them.  I'm worried that at some
point in time, you might decide that your father and I should
maybe do things differently than we do."

I remembered what Pammie had said about Mom to Wanda.  "I said
something to Dad about it this morning.  What was surprising was
that he was more upset when I cussed in front of him later."

She laughed.  "That's Phil.  Davey, accept it.  He and I, and to
a degree, Wanda, march to our own individual drummers.  Now, I'd
like to get home.  Tomorrow Emily has an early appointment with
Dr. Jacoby."

She started the car, and I startled both of us when I reached out
and touched her arm.  "Not yet, there's something else," I told
her.

"What's that, Davey?" she asked, looking composed.

"Chris was asking how I spent my day; I didn't want to burden her
with any heavy baggage.  I told her about my focus problems. 
About my forgetting things.  Just now, I did it again.  She asked
me to promise her I'd see a doctor about it; Dr. Jacoby came in
just then and listened.  At first she was dismissive, but Chris
made a point about her problems started out simple at first and
everyone, including her, pooh-poohed them.  Dr. Jacoby didn't say
it in so many words, but evidently I'm not old enough to make a
doctor's appointment on my own."

"That's because you're not a woman and pregnant and considering
abortion," Mom said, her voice bitter.  "Anyone else, of course,
below the age of eighteen needs a parent to deal with the medical
world."

"Dr. Jacoby gave me a short physical when I went in for my sports
exam; I was supposed to make another appointment to finish it. 
It slipped my mind."

"Most of what you've told me you've forgotten could easily be
because it's all tied in to your emotions."

"Maybe.  That's what Dr. Jacoby said.  And then Chris held her
hand up and said muscle fatigue was the most common cause of
muscle tremor."

Mom looked at me.  "And so now you're worried?"

"I'm forgetting things.  Odds are, I won't remember this
tomorrow; you're right, when I'm emotional, things fly out the
window.  I'm hurting people I care about, Mom.  I told you
before, that's the bottom line for me: I care about them.  I
don't want to hurt them and if there's a possible problem, then I
want to know for sure."

She laughed.  "Davey, dear, you are on the wrong path in life! 
About a year ago your father said he was feeling a little puny
one Saturday morning.  I took his temperature and it was a
hundred and three.  He told me to fetch him two aspirin and he'd
sleep a bit more before going into work."

She smiled, thinking fondly of what had happened, I realized. 
"The silly goof has no idea what pills look like, he almost never
takes any.  I slipped him a sleeping pill instead of aspirin. 
Knocked the silly bugger on his ass for the rest of the day.

"It's a guy thing, I think.  Someday when you're in better shape
I'll tell you about my dad.  A bigger fool was never born!"

"So, would you see Dr. Jacoby tomorrow and make an appointment
for me?"

She smiled sweetly.  "Davey, once or twice in my life, I've
forgotten something important.  I don't think your father has
forgotten much of anything, period.  Yes, I'll take care of it."

"The best time would be eleven," I told her."

"Which means we would all miss lunch," she riposted.

"I would too," I parried.

"Well, it wouldn't hurt me to miss a lunch or two.  Not if I want
to maintain my girlish figure!"

When we got home, I saw that Dad was already there.  I figured
that it was more likely that the sun had exploded and no one had
noticed than he'd not heard about my quitting the team.

Sure enough, he was standing in the living room, his arms folded
across his chest.

Mom leaned close, and kissed me on the cheek.  "Enjoy, Davey!" 
She walked across the room, kissed Dad on the cheek and told him
the same thing, and then she headed for the kitchen.

"I offer you a simple choice," Dad said.  "I hate myself for
doing it, but there are times when you have to step up to the
plate to stop proud people from turning into brain-dead idiots
whose only goal is to prove their point.

"If you want back on the baseball team, I will have Vic Ortega
call Coach Delgado and explain that you have a cell phone with
you at all times by request of both the local, state and federal
government."

"Dad, that's just one thing."

"I know.  My instincts say you've quit and that's the way it
should stay.  My parental instincts are to take your side and
stick it to all the coaches I never had the nerve to stand up to
when I was your age.  Jesus, I sure as hell hope Jack is taking
notes!"

"Jack?"  What did he have to do with this?

"Jack.  He trusted his coaches at that camp; we were taught to
trust them.  He was used and abused, Davey.  Used and abused. 
Sure, there are high school programs where he'd have been given a
wink and a nod when he got back from camp; where if he had to
take a whiz test, the water boy would have filled in.  All of
that."

I contemplated it for a few seconds.

Dad spoke up.  "One thing.  This is it; you've used up your
welcome, not just from me, but from everyone.  Quitting once was
bad.  Quitting twice?  The only reason I'm even thinking about it
is because you're my son."

"Tell me, Dad, you watch baseball, right?"

"Sure.  You know I do."

"Well, think on this.  I make contact with the ball on every at
bat.  Not just sometimes, not just in my dreams, but every at
bat.  Nine times out of ten, it's either a home run or an extra
base hit.  What coach in his rational mind would ask someone like
that to bunt?"

"Because it's the odds," Dad said.

"Ninety percent, Dad!" I told him.  "That's what I'm hitting. 
Actually, in the games I've played, it's a thousand.  I've always
gotten on.  Always.  Odds?  You want odds?  I hit maybe a
hundred, when I try to pull the ball or try to bunt.  Or try to
hit a bloop to the field."

He shook his head.  "No one hits that good."

"You've watched me bat.  When didn't I get on base?"

He stopped and thought, then frowned.  "I'm not a stat guy, you
understand.  I just go to watch a game played well.  I don't go
when it's played badly.  I have to admit, the sound of you
whacking a home run is music to the ears!  God, I hate aluminum
bats!"

"Well, before I quit, Coach Delgado took the wooden bat I was
using away from me and made me switch to aluminum."

He stared at me.  "That little detail was lost in the
translation.  I wonder what else has been lost?"

"I don't like this catcher, Josh.  He calls for me to pitch all
fastballs."

"I remember him."

"Yeah, well, I had him catching today.  All fastballs.  After
pitch six, Coach Delgado benched him."

"And your point, since that seems to be what you wanted?"

"The next pitch I was asked to throw?  Belt-high fastball."

He grimaced.  "Lots of things lost in translation.  Remind me to
fire my scout."

There was a few seconds of quiet.  "He made you bat with
aluminum?"

"Yeah, even when I put the ball over the fence, twice this
afternoon, it's 'klonk' and not 'crack.'  God, I love that
sound!"

"Everyone who's ever played the game or listened to it on the
radio loves that sound.  But the penny-pinchers always seem to
have the last word.  Twice over the fence, eh?"

I explained my stats from the scrimmage game.  He stared at me
for a few seconds, and then walked over to the phone.  "Ruy,
Phil.  Look, I have a favor.  I know it's getting on towards
nine, but I'd like to ask Mercedes a few questions."

A few minutes later he put the phone down.  He looked at me, a
little pale.  "I must say, I never realized coaches could be
so... perverse.  He either isn't keeping track or he doesn't
care."

"Dad, I get the impression that he comes from the 'I'm in charge'
school of management."

I saw the barb land home.  How many times over the years had I
heard my father decry that style of management over the dinner
table?

"There are limits, Davey, to the things I can do.  Retiring
Wells, that was pretty much a slam-dunk.  He was a spineless
weasel who lied to me.  Coach Delgado is smarter; at least, I
thought he knew what he was doing.  I'm not sure how I can get
him tossed."

It was like a spotlight from the skies, shining down, piercing my
brain.  I started laughing.

"What?"

"Two years ago, you found me reading 'The Prince,' by Mac the
Knife.  Your words."

"Machiavelli, yes."

"I just had a Machiavelli moment.  Dad, I like winning, okay?  I
just flat out like it.  But that doesn't mean I'm willing to
sacrifice my self-respect in order to win.  Tell me, does a
player like Mark McGuire get threatened in a team meeting with
being kicked off the team because his cell phone rings?  Or does
he get called into the office and chastised and warned first?  Is
that such a bad model for a coach to follow?"

"No, I don't think it's a bad model.  I have fired people on the
floor, but it was always because they were endangering others. 
If I tried to fire someone whose cell phone went off on the line,
I'd have the union all over me.  Regardless of the rule that says
no cell phones.  But this isn't Machiavelli."

"No, Machiavelli is saying that Coach Delgado was temporarily
appointed, while the district decided what to do about a new
coach.  A new coach... a new leaf."

Dad looked at me, then walked into the kitchen.  I was surprised
to see his back.

Then, it was him, coming back.  Odd symmetry, I remember
thinking.  He handed me a wine glass, with a tiny splash of dark
liquid in the bottom.  "A toast, Davey.  To Machiavelli!"

"Machiavelli!" I agreed, having read in books how you were
supposed to respond to toasts.

He tossed down his splash of what I assumed was wine.  Proud and
pleased, I tossed down mine.  I nearly choked to death.  It was
worse than vinegar!  It tasted like piss!  Don't ask how I know!

"What's this?" I said, waving the glass.

He laughed.  "Why that's fine French wine.  Chateauneuf-du-pape,
a world-renowned burgundy.  Why, I pay almost nine dollars a
bottle for it!"  I'm not sure why he thought that was funny.  

"No wonder we're a little unhappy with them.  It tastes like
piss."

"It's an acquired taste.  You have my permission to put off
acquiring it for another decade."

"So, why now?"

"Forewarned is forearmed."

He pointed towards the family room.  "Davey, you look like that
word you said, warmed over.  Get some rest."

I went to my room and saw Pammie, once again in my bed.  At least
this time I had to guess if she was undressed or not; I guessed
undressed.

I stripped out of my clothes and crawled in on my side.  She
mumbled something, but didn't really wake up.

I closed my eyes, willing for the day to go away.



Much later, much, much later I awoke.  Pammie was breathing warm
air into my ear, and I had an erection that wouldn't quit. 
"Davey, can I tell you a secret?"

"Sure, Pammie," I told her, mildly exasperated.  It was still
dark out!  I could be sleeping!

"Guys, Davey, don't inherit cock size from their mothers.  It's
that Y chromosome, Davey.  Maybe my father doesn't believe in
chromosomes and inheritance, but I do."

"Pammie, you aren't making much sense."

"Eight or nine inches long, two inches in diameter, Davey.  The
secret is, when you get that big; I plan on already being in
line!  That, and I won't be rolling over to fall back asleep!"

With that, she rolled over and went back to sleep.

I remembered Wanda's graphic description of Dad.  I reached down
and ran my hand over my cock, which promptly rose to the
occasion.  That big?

Nah!

<1st attachment end>


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