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Message-ID: <51994asstr$1127110205@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Jim C" <jimc_author@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Lucky Stiff by JiMC (12 of 46)--MF, FF, mc, md, magic, romance
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Date: Mon, 19 Sep 2005 02:10:05 -0400
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This story is copyright (c) 2003-2005.  All rights are
reserved by the author, including that of publication.
Posting on-line is only allowed when permission is explicitly
granted by the author, and then only for the complete story,
including this disclaimer.  Contact the author at
<jimc-author at excite dot com> for more information,
referring to this story ("Lucky Tickets 2: Lucky Stiff").

I explicitly grant permission to post this story to
StoriesOnline.net and asstr-mirror.org.

The following is a work of fiction and is just a fantasy.
Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely
coincidental and entirely unintentional.  There may be
references to people in a historical context, but they are
not really characters in this story.

This is a story that describes sexually explicit situations
in a fictional universe that only vaguely seems similar to
the one we live in.  Most of the characters in this story are
under aged.  However, the target audience is adults (people
over the age of eighteen) with broad minds.

* * *

This is a sequel to the story "Lucky Tickets," and as such,
you may want to read that story first to get a better
introduction to the characters present in both stories.  Like
a lot of sequels, it's not really meant to be read out of
order.

* * *

Chapter 12--Chicago and Confrontation

        Love talkin', is all very fine, yeah
        Jive talkin', Just isn't a crime
        And if there's somebody,
        You'll love till you die
        Then all that jive talkin',
        Just gets in your eye
                -- Jive Talkin' (Bee Gees)


    I picked up the phone in the kitchen and called my mother
to tell her that Kristen was taking me somewhere--a
surprise--and that I'd be home before ten o'clock tomorrow
evening.  My mother didn't have a problem with that.

    Kristen drove me in her Camaro to a small airport about
ten miles away.  Apparently, she chartered a flight that
would take us to Midway airport in Chicago.

    "Chicago?" I asked Kristen.  "Why not just drive there?"

    "I told you I wanted to do something special," Kristen
explained.

    The pilot was a friend of Kristen's father, who piloted
Kristen's family on many occasions.  He knew Kristen as well,
and greeted her by name when she approached him.  "Hey,
Kristen!  Is this your boyfriend?"

    "Jerry, this is Jim," Kristen said by way of introduction.

    "Daniel has told me a lot about this fine young man,"
Jerry said, shaking my hand.  "I'll be staying in Chicago
overnight, and I'll be waiting to take you back."

    Jerry led us to a Cessna turbo-prop airplane.  It was, to
say the least, much smaller than the jets that Kristen and I
took back in November.  He stowed our luggage for us.

    I was nervous when Jerry indicated that I was to sit in
the co-pilot's seat and Kristen took the back seat.  "Are you
sure you don't want to sit in the front?" I asked Kristen, a
bit afraid of being behind a steering wheel.

    "Oh, I've done that before.  I'll let you have the fun
today."

    Jerry noticed my nervousness and told me that everything
would be all right.  After I was belted in, Jerry got out of
the plane and gave it a final once over to make sure that
everything was as it should be.

    "Tell Jerry that he should make sure he has enough gas to
get to Chicago," Kristen said, her nose crinkling at my
obvious discomfort.

    "Gas?" I stammered.

    Jerry laughed as he entered the plane.  "Don't let Kristy
here get you nervous," he said, laughing.  "I've only ran out
of gas a few times, and not in the past few weeks, even!"

    "That's Kristen, and you know better, Uncle Jerry!"

    Jerry winced at the "Uncle" prefix and said, "Stop
torturing Jim, then," Jerry insisted.  "Is this your first
flight, Jim?" he asked me.

    "N-no, sir," I answered.  "It's my first time behind the
wheel, though.  I never even drove a car."

    "Well, driving this baby is a piece of cake.  The weather
promises to be nice this weekend, so you might get a chance
to control the plane.  It will give me a chance to catch
forty winks on the way into Chicago!"

    "No, thank you," I said, incredulous that he would allow
a sixteen year old behind the controls.

    "Uncle Jerry, you're just as bad as me!"

    "Kristen back there first flew... when was it, dear?  You
were twelve?"

    "Eleven," corrected my love.

    "Really?" I asked.

    "It's really simple.  The hard parts are the take off and
the landing, and I'll be doing those today."

    As it turned out, I did get a few moments at the controls
in the air, and I was surprised how easy it was.  However, I
was quite nervous the entire trip, and Jerry seemed to notice
this and understood.  He made no further jokes about taking a
nap.

    Aside from that, the trip to Midway was uneventful,
although it seemed to me that Jerry was quite distracted when
he was approaching the city.  In retrospect, it made sense...
Chicago was a very large hub, even in the 1970s.

    In Chicago, Kristen rented a car--a Datsun that looked a
lot like Wendy's except, to Kristen's disappointment, it had
an automatic transmission.  We drove to a motel near the
airport to unpack our bags.  I noticed that we arrived before
the normal check-in time, but they allowed us in despite that.

* * *

    From the motel, we headed downtown, and I discovered that
Kristen made reservations at the venerable Berghoff
Restaurant.

    "Good afternoon, Miss Swift," the Maitre d' said as she
entered the restaurant.  "Your table is waiting for you."

    My beloved Kristen and I walked past a few surprised
tourists as we were led to our seats.  The waiter handed us
three menus, but Kristen and I declined the wine list.

    "What's good here?" I asked Kristen.

    "Anything with a German name, of course.  I'm partial to
their seafood dishes," Kristen answered.

    As it was, neither of us ordered off the menu.  The
waiter arrived and described a list of daily specials, and
the two of us chose our meals from that list.  I ordered a
Schnitzel that came with a mushroom sauce, and Kristen
ordered the lake trout that the waiter assured us had been
caught that very morning in Lake Michigan.

    "So, what do you think?" Kristen asked after the waiter
left.

    "This place looks old," I said, truly impressed.  I heard
people talk about this restaurant, but never thought that I'd
ever set foot in it.

    The waiter quickly arrived with our Root Beers, which was
as close to the famous Berghoff Beer that we intended to get.
The two of us clinked our glasses together and took a sip.
Kristen, of course, managed to get some of the foam on her
nose, causing me to giggle and offer her my napkin.

    "The place is old," Kristen said.  "I think it opened at
the turn of the century."

    "It looks wonderful.  I'm amazed at the service."

    Kristen smiled.  "The food here is quite excellent, and
some of the waiters have been here for years."

    "What else is on the agenda?"

    "Too early in the year for baseball," Kristen said with a
shrug.  "Wrigley Field would have been killer.  Let's just
walk around the loop and act as if we were tourists."

    "Sounds great to me," I said with a grin.

    "Everything sounds great to you," Kristen pointed out.

    "Everything that involves you... yes."

    "Sweet!"

    The meal was as excellent as we expected.  Kristen left a
large tip.

* * *

    After that wonderful weekend with Kristen, school almost
seemed to be a let-down.

    A high point of the day was after third period music
class, when I showed Mr. Proilet some arrangements that I
worked on over the vacation.

    "Jim," my teacher said.  "These are getting better and
better!"

    "Thanks," I said, a bit happy about the praise.

    Pulling the last set of sheets from the bottom of the
pile, Mr. Proilet looked at the conductor's score and
frowned.  "Try as I might, I can't place this tune.  You
didn't put a title on this."

    I looked at the arrangement that drew my teacher's
attention and blushed.  "This wasn't meant for the band... at
least, not yet."

    "Oh?"

    "It's a song that I'm working on writing.  It's not
finished."

    "A song for your muse, huh?" Mr. Proilet asked with a
gleam in his eye.

    "Yeah," I said, reddening even more.  "Another song for
Kristen."

    Mr. Proilet glanced at it for a few moments before
handing that arrangement back to me.

    The two of us stood near the doorway to the music room.
Mr. Proilet looked around to make sure we were alone.  "What
did you do to Ms. Taylor, Jim?  She seems furious today, and
she seems to think that I've unfairly interfered in a
discipline situation."

    "I don't know," I said with a sigh.  "I avoided doing
anything even remotely disruptive on Friday.  I didn't even
open my mouth once.  She seemed a bit more mollified.  Maybe
that's the solution to whatever it is that is bothering her."

    "Well, I know for a fact that she's definitely not
mollified.  In fact, I think she's out for your blood for
some reason."

    "Huh?"

    "My boy, my advice to you is to be on your best behavior
today.  Ms. Taylor is angry about something and it's about to
explode."

    "What do you mean?" I asked, a bit worried at the
seriousness of my teacher's words.

    "Just be on your best behavior." Mr. Proilet seemed that
he was about to say something more, but then shook his head
and said, "Do you have your music room pass?"

    "Yeah.  It's in my attachÈ case.  The hall monitors know
me; nobody asks me for it much anymore."

    "Keep it handy when you go to the lunchroom, OK?"

    I shrugged.  I opened the case and pulled out the pass.

    "Good, Jim.  Please tell Kristen that I'll have the
keyboard ready for her on Thursday."

    "All right."

    I left the music room feeling the paranoia that Mr.
Proilet instilled in me.  I walked slowly toward the end of
the school where the cafeteria was located.

    A voice jarred me out of my reverie.  "Jim Crittenhouse?"

    I didn't recognize the voice, and I looked up to see a
hall monitor glaring at me... the same hall monitor that
previously let me pass without question since the beginning
of the school year.  "Yeah?"

    "Hall pass," the monitor said, her voice harsh.

    Luckily, my pass was in my hand, since I heeded my music
teacher's advice.  "Here."

    "It's undated," the lady said accusingly.

    "Yes.  It's good for the rest of the school year.  See
where Mr. Proilet and the Assistant Principal signed it?"

    The hall monitor scanned every inch of the pass, looking
at me as if she just caught me sneaking out of the girls
locker room.

    Finally, the lady said, "Well, it seems mostly in order.
Maybe your teacher should be issuing these once a week
instead of for an entire school year.  These things can be
misused, you know."

    "I'll let him know," I said.

    The hall monitor was about to give me back my pass, but
then pulled it back, saying "Maybe I should keep this one."

    "Huh?  You said it was in order!"

    "I said it was mostly in order."

    The two of us stood in the hallway in confrontation.
Other students passed by, slinking away behind the hall
monitor's back.  The hall monitor barely noticed the other
students, but was only intent on me for some reason.

    I looked at the hall monitor's name badge.  I said, "Mrs.
Sneely, maybe you should take me to the front office if you
have a problem with my pass.  You've accepted this pass many
times before and there was never any problem with it until
now.  Maybe Mr. Yank can resolve this matter."

    The lady glared at me.  Mr. Yank was the name everybody
called Mr. Yankovitz, the school's Principal.  She knew that
I just called her bluff.  Of course, if she took me to the
office, she'd be "abandoning her post," allowing miscreants
such as me to wander the halls causing all sorts of mischief.
She also knew that there was nothing wrong with this pass.
Looking as if I just forced her to suck a raw egg, she
finally handed the pass back to me.  "This is the last day I
will accept this pass from you, young man.  Have a proper
pass next time, or I will indeed escort you to the office.
Do you understand?"

    I took the pass.  "Yes, ma'am," I answered, oozing the
respect that I definitely did not feel for that woman.

    "Get going to class!"

    I walked quickly down the hall and out of range of the
hall monitor from hell.  Oh, yeah, I thought to myself.  I've
got to get to that important lunch class, don't I?

    In the lunchroom, Kristen, Patty, and Sherry were already
eating.

    It was Patty who noticed something.  "What's up, Jim?"

    "I just got stopped by the Hall Monitor Gestapo!"

    "Huh?  Which one?"

    "Mrs. Sneely," I answered.  "She was right outside the
music room.  She hasn't asked me for my pass in over a month,
and today it's no longer good enough."

    "That's weird," Patty said.

    "My poor, picked-on baby," Kristen said, pursing her lips
in mock kisses.

    I took a few deep breaths to put the nasty incident
behind me, and listened to the girls talk.  About ten minutes
before the end of the class, Patty turned to me and said,
"Jim?  Can the two of us talk in private?"

    I looked at Kristen for permission.  She simply shrugged.

    Patty and I said good-bye to our friends, and we found
another table that was mostly empty.  "You are definitely
upset, Jim.  Is it about the Hall Monitor?"

    I wondered how much to tell Patty.  I figured that there
wasn't much harm in talking with her.  "Yes," I answered.
"The weird thing about it was that Mr. Proilet warned me to
have my pass out.  It was as if he was warning me that
something bad was about to happen."

    "That is weird," Patty agreed.  "Did he say anything
else?"

    "He told me that Ms. Taylor is on the warpath with me.
I've been very quiet in her class, and she seemed maybe a bit
closer to normal on Friday.  I have no idea why she's so
angry at me all of a sudden.  It doesn't seem fair."

    "Is she the teacher who has you on detention?"

    "Yeah," I said.

    "I can't offer too much advice there," Patty said,
frowning.  "I've never been a behavioral problem in school.
You might want to ask Camille.  She used to be a bit rowdy a
few years back.  There's one thing I can tell you, though.
Don't ever let yourself be bullied by a teacher.  Every
teacher has to answer to somebody, whether it be the
Assistant Principal, her colleagues, the Principal, the
school board, or even the local community.  They live in a
glass jar, and as much as they want you to think that they
are the kings and queens in their own little world, that's
rarely ever really the case.  If you think you are right,
then you should stand up for what you believe."

    I listened to Patty's advice.  For somebody that couldn't
offer "too much," she said a mouthful.

    The bell rang and I went off to my next class, wondering
why Ms. Taylor seemed to hate me so much.

* * *

    I entered English class with trepidation.  Ms. Taylor
glowered at me, but I was thankful that she didn't say
anything.

    I wasn't called upon to answer any questions in class,
nor did I offer any kind of participation other than to take
a pop quiz.

    After the class ended, I remained in the classroom.  I
remembered how difficult Ms. Taylor became last Thursday when
I insisted on taking off between the end of class and the
beginning of detention.  I didn't want to add any fuel to the
apparent fire within Ms. Taylor.

    Unfortunately, Ms. Taylor was not to be so easily
mollified.  "Mr. Crittenhouse, let's take a walk to the front
office, shall we?"

    I was taken aback by Ms. Taylor's request.  I simply
nodded, and followed my teacher silently through the halls to
the front office.

    The receptionist looked at Ms. Taylor and me, and told
Ms. Taylor that Stanley Yankovitz, the high school Principal,
would be meeting us in his office in five minutes.

    My teacher didn't seem pleased.  "Stan?  I thought
that..."

    The receptionist cut her off.  "Ms. Tomago is dealing
with another problem with another teacher.  I've taken the
liberty of giving Mr. Yankovitz the information that you gave
to Ms. Tomago." She then turned to me and said, "You, Jim,
can wait in Mr. Yankovitz's office."

    "But Ms. Tomago...!"

    Again, the receptionist interrupted Ms. Taylor.  "Mr.
Yankovitz will be here in five minutes, ReneÈ.  He wants to
see you before he sees the student."

    "OK," Ms. Taylor said.

    The receptionist gestured me toward Mr. Yankovitz's
office.

    After I entered the room, I heard my mother's voice.
"Jim!  What's this I hear about you being on detention?"

    "Mom?" I asked, confused.  Parents were rarely notified
during simple detention other than the optional fact that a
student would be staying late and there might need to pick
the student up instead of taking the bus.  However, there
were two intramural buses that circled the entire town about
fifteen minutes after detention was over, so transportation
was rarely an issue.

    "The school called me today, and told me that you were
being very disruptive!  They said you even threatened
somebody!"

    I sighed.  Things were definitely coming to a head, now.
Ms. Taylor upped the ante.  Now, there were actual
accusations rather than the vague "disruption" complaint.
Since I never threatened anybody--it wasn't really my
nature--I felt I was on better ground.  I remembered Patty's
advice about not letting myself be bullied by a teacher.

    "What do you know about this threat?" I asked my mother.
"This is the first that I've heard this one.  Last week, Ms.
Taylor said I was being disruptive, but never explained what,
exactly, I was doing that was upsetting her."

    "Jim, your teacher is serious!" my mother said.
"According to her, you have been a severe behavioral problem,
you've threatened another student, and she's recommending
suspension!"

    "Suspension?" I asked, incredulously.  "But I haven't
done anything!  I've never threatened anybody!"

    My mother looked me deeply in the eyes, and finally her
look softened.  "Look, Jim, I'm on your side.  I trust you,
and if you say you haven't done anything, I'll take you at
your word."

    I felt better having my mother there.  Together, we
suffered in silence with verbal and sometimes physical
harassment at the hands of my real father.  If there was
anybody who I could rely upon to be on my side in the face of
unjust accusations, it was her.

    I was bolstered by the presence of my mother, rather than
being put on defense, which might have been the intention of
whoever called her.  The two of us waited for my teacher to
arrive with the Principal.

    The Principal, Stan Yankovitz, was a youngish man in his
thirties, and usually walked around the school wearing a
collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up.  He was known to
the kids as Mr. Yank, and it wasn't a derogatory nickname.
He had a reputation of being stern when necessary, but the
word among the students was that he was also very fair.  He
was the complete and utter opposite of Ms. Tomago, the
Assistant Principal who was a more elderly lady who always
seemed to side with teachers during disputes, despite any
evidence offered that a teacher might be mistaken.

    Luck was certainly with me that day.  Apparently, Ms.
Taylor thought she set it up so I would be confronting Ms.
Tomago.  Instead, I got Mr. Yank.

    My music teacher warned me that Ms. Taylor was out for my
blood, but I never suspected that she would take things so
far and so quickly.

    I looked nervously at my mother, and took a few deep
breaths.  I closed my eyes and remembered Patty's words of
advice earlier that day.  It actually made me feel better.

    The five minutes that my mother and I spent together in
that office weren't spent talking, but in silent
communication between my mother and me.  I no longer saw the
look of alarm at my possibly having threatened another
student, but she still looked worried that my academic future
might be in jeopardy.  She wasn't extremely confident that I
would prevail, but she knew that I didn't lie to her.  Her
trust in me made me feel a bit better.  As I mentioned
before, we suffered through unfair accusations in the past at
the hands of my father, so we were both prepared for the
worst.  I believe that whatever she saw or read in my own
expressions also helped bolster her confidence.

    There was a quick knock on the door as the door opened.
Mr. Yank and Ms. Taylor entered the office.

    The Principal introduced himself and Ms. Taylor to my
mother and me.  I shook his hand and received a firm one back
from him.  Ms. Taylor didn't offer her hand to me.

    "ReneÈ tells me that you've been a disruptive influence
in her class for a number of weeks," Mr. Yank said, getting
straight to the point.  "She says that she put you on
detention last week and you resisted immediately to the point
of having another teacher berate her in front of her
students.  Finally, she says that on Friday, you threatened
another student and she has evidence of that charge." He
turned to my teacher.  "Is that a valid summary of what
you've told me and Ms. Tomago?"

    "Yes, Stan," Ms. Taylor replied.  "In fact, Ms. Tomago
told me..."

    "She's unavailable right now, ReneÈ," Mr. Yank answered
softly.  "OK, those are the charges as I have been able to
discern them."

    "Charges?" my mother said, her face white.

    The Principal sighed.  "Please excuse me, Mrs.
Crittenhouse..."

    "Cummings," my mother answered, automatically.

    "Excuse me?"

    "My last name is Cummings.  I've remarried."

    "I'm very sorry," Mr. Yank said.  "This is all being
pushed through so fast, not all the paperwork has reached me.
Some of it is in the hands of my assistant..."

    "Ms. Tomago should be here," Ms. Taylor insisted.  "She
is very well acquainted with this case."

    "This is not a case, ReneÈ," the Principal said testily.
"This is a conference between a student, his parent, and his
teacher, and I'm here to ensure that the school's interests,
as well as the student's interests, are met." He then
addressed my mother.  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cummings.  I have
studied law, and passed the bar in Ohio, so I may be prone to
use words such as 'charges,' in a matter such as this.  Let
me assure you that this is not a legal action, nor are the
police involved at this point.  That being said, if Ms.
Taylor's assertions prove to be true, you and your son are
entitled to legal representation.  I would rather keep this
more informal--I'd like to establish the actual facts in this
matter."

    My English teacher looked furious but held her temper;
one of the first times I've seen her do so since I came back
from vacation.

    The Principal continued.  "All right, ReneÈ.  You make
three accusations.  The first is that James here is a
disruptive student in your class.  The second is that he
asked another teacher to berate you in front of your class.
And the third and most troublesome accusation is that he
physically threatened another student.  Are these accusations
correct?"

    The teacher looked a bit flustered.  "The threat wasn't
physical, but it was a threat of violence."

    "I see," Mr. Yank said steadily.  "A threat of physical
violence?"

    "Of course.  Sexual violence... rape!"

    My mother and I gasped at that charge.  Rape?

    "Let me make sure that I understand you," Mr. Yankovitz
said.  "You say that he threatened to rape another student?"

    "Yes," my teacher insisted.  "And I have evidence!  Ms.
Tomago said..."

    "Ms. Tomago cannot be here right now," Mr. Yank reminded
Ms. Taylor.  "May I see your evidence, or does Ms. Tomago
have that, also?"

    "I have that!" the teacher said, finally feeling
vindicated.  She handed a couple of notebook pages to the
Principal.

    The Principal looked at the pages, and quickly skimmed
over them all, reading whatever was on it at a very quick
pace.  "This is your threat of rape, ReneÈ?"

    "Yes," Ms. Taylor said.  "The girl he writes about is a
student here... she's actually a senior!  This isn't just
fantasy.  He's writing about himself and a real person!"

    "I see where you're going with this," Mr. Yank said.  He
turned to me and said, "Do you recognize this?"

    I looked at the pages that the Principal held up.  From
where I was sitting, I couldn't tell without getting closer
exactly what was written on them, but I could easily tell it
was my handwriting style.  It was probably the essay that I
wrote on Friday.

    "It looks like my handwriting, Mr. Yankovitz.  May I see
it closely?"

    The Principal shook his head, slightly.  "If this is
indeed evidence of a real threat to one of our students, I
cannot simply hand it over to the person accused, you
understand.  Would it help you if I told you that the date of
this essay is January third--last Friday?  It was apparently
written in Ms. Taylor's class..."

    "Is this the essay I was asked to write in detention?" I
asked.

    The Principal deferred the question to Ms. Taylor.  "You
know very well when you wrote that vicious and vile..."

    "ReneÈ," Mr. Yank interrupted.  "Please answer the
question with a simple 'yes' or 'no.' Is this the essay you
asked James to write during detention?"

    "Yes," Ms. Taylor answered curtly.

    "You are stating that you requested him to write this,
and you are now accusing him of physically threatening
another student because he wrote it?"

    "No," Ms. Taylor said, flustered.  "I told him to write a
story about better times."

    "Excuse me," I interrupted.  "I was asked to write about
a happy moment that I wanted to relive."

    The Principal's eyes grew wide.  "ReneÈ.  Was that the
subject you assigned?"

    "Yes.  It was meant to be factual."

    "So, your claim that this essay to be a threat to another
student doesn't hold up.  You asked him to write about
something that actually happened!"

    My teacher looked confused.  "He didn't write it in the
past tense!  He wrote it in the present tense.  One could
also read it as being future tense.  That would be a threat!
It definitely isn't a reminiscence... it couldn't have
happened!"

    The Principal turned to me.  "Son, you were asked to
write about a 'happy moment,' as you put it.  You instead
wrote it, as Ms. Taylor claims, in future tense.  Is that
true?"

    "Mr. Yank," I explained.  "I was asked to relive a happy
moment.  How else do you relive something without
experiencing it happening to you as it happens?  I was
thinking about one or more of the happy times that I spent
with Kris, and..."

    "Kris... the girl in this story is named Kristen.  Is
that who you wrote about?"

    My teacher interrupted.  "He's writing about Kristen
Swift.  You are familiar with her and her family.  They are
rich and very important in this town and state.  If they were
to find out that he threatened their daughter..."

    "Please, ReneÈ.  Let's take this one step at a time." Mr.
Yank turned to me and asked, "Is Ms. Taylor correct that you
are referring to Kristen Swift?"

    "Yes.  Kris and I..."

    "And this is meant to be a reenactment of a moment you
spent together, or a fantasy about you spending time with
her?"

    "You're letting him get off with rape!" my teacher
screamed.

    "Please compose yourself.  I'm not letting anybody off
with anything.  I want to know what the boy's intentions
were." Mr. Yank turned back to me.  "Please answer my
question."

    "Mr. Yankovitz, I'm not sure I remember exactly what I
wrote in that essay.  To tell you the truth, I was actually
thinking about a few of the happy times that Kristen and I
shared, wondering which was my favorite.  I honestly cannot
remember exactly what I wrote, but I know that whatever I
wrote was a memory of something that the two of us actually
did."

    "Indeed?" Mr. Yank seemed surprised.

    "Impossible!" Ms. Taylor spat.

    My mother interrupted.  "Excuse me, Mr. Yankovitz.  My
son has been in a relationship with Kristen Swift since
September.  I am sure that they are--what do you call them
nowadays?--an 'item' around the school."

    There was a knock on the door, surprising everybody.
Instead of answering the door, Mr. Yank looked angry as he
picked up his phone.  "Sylvia, you know I'm in conference..."

    "Stan, there's a teacher and a student here who claim to
be involved with the situation in your office.  Also, Ms.
Tomago is upset about something..."

    "Let's leave Ms. Tomago out of this.  Send the teacher
and student in."

    The door opened immediately, and Mr. Proilet came into
the room with Kristen.

    "Kris!" I said, feeling much relieved that my beloved was
here during this nightmare.

    Kristen didn't say anything, but came up to me and hugged
me.  "Mr. Proilet told me what was going on, and said that we
should come in here and..."

    "Excuse me, everybody!" Mr. Yank demanded order.
Everybody quieted down.  Once order was reestablished, Mr.
Yank turned to Kristen and said, "May I assume that you are
Kristen Swift?"

    "I am," she answered.

    "It seems you came at a good time," Mr. Yank said.
"James and his mother here have stated that you and he are,
as his mother put it, an 'item?'"

    "Jim Crittenhouse is the person I intend to marry,"
Kristen said, causing me to blanch.  "If that's what you mean
by being an 'item,' then yes, that's correct."

    "I see," Mr. Yank, trying to stifle a grin.  "Ms. Swift,
it has been alleged by somebody that this story can be
construed to be a threat made to you.  Another person alleges
that this is actually a reminiscence of some event that
happened in the past."

    "Who wrote it?" Kristen asked, smirking and obviously
knowing the answer.

    "James Crittenhouse."

    "I see," Kristen said.  "Do you mind if I take a look at
it?"

    "Please just read it, Ms. Swift," Mr. Yank answered.  He
glanced at my English teacher, who looked as if she just
swallowed a bad oyster.  "I don't want people to mishandle
potential evidence."

    Kristen moved over to Mr. Yank's desk and read the papers
on the table.  "Oh, that's sweet!  That was New Year's Day!
He tied me up and kissed me!"

    "This actually happened?"

    Kristen shrugged.  "Not quite.  I made the first move,
not him.  I tied him up first.  He wasn't interested in tying
me up..."

    "I think I get the picture, Ms. Swift," Mr. Yank
interrupted.  "In general, this is an accurate retelling of a
happy moment in his life?"

    Kristen turned to me.  "Oh, Jim!  It was a happy moment
for me, too!" Ignoring the others in the room, she lunged
toward me and took me into a big hug.

    "I think that whether or not this is a threat to Ms.
Swift is moot," the Principal pointed out.

    "That's not the only charge..." Ms. Taylor yelled.

    It was my music teacher's turn to interrupt.  "The other
serious charge is my so-called berating of ReneÈ in front of
a class of students.  As a matter of fact, the only people
that were present were myself, ReneÈ, and Jim, here.  He
notified me that he wouldn't be able to lead the jazz band
after school and asked me to take his place.  When I went to
find out why he was on detention, I learned that ReneÈ
doubled his detention merely because he came to me--before
detention was to start--to ask to lead his class.  He did not
ask me to intercede, and in fact, he specifically asked me
not to do so.  I did not berate ReneÈ, but merely informed
her that she couldn't punish him additionally for something
which we both knew for a fact to be false.  I was willing to
bring that matter to your attention at that time."

    Mr. Yank turned to Ms. Taylor and asked, "Is this true?"

    My English teacher looked a bit flustered as she
answered, "I asked Jim to stay after class and he ignored me
and he went to a teacher where he is a bit of a teacher's
pet..."

    Mr. Yank interrupted.  "All students are allowed ten
minutes between the end of school and start of detention to
take care of things they need to do or to get to their place
of detention.  According to Mr. Proilet, he apparently wasn't
late for detention, but you insisted on doubling his
punishment.  That seems pretty arbitrary and vindictive..."

    "Vindictive?" Ms. Taylor said indignantly.

    "We'll address this at some other time.  From what I see
of the evidence presented, you have deliberately misread what
the boy wrote in his essay..."

    "Did you see the words he wrote?  He was explicitly
describing sexual scenes!  Him... and that senior!  He tied
her up... he intended to rape her... they both admitted it!"

    "Are you now accusing James of lewd and lascivious
behavior?" Mr. Yank asked, raising his eyebrows.

    My English teacher thought that over and the terms seemed
to sound perfect for her.  "Yes."

    "This story takes place in a private residence, not on
the school campus," Mr. Yank pointed out.  "In addition, I
see nothing more lewd or lascivious in this story than
anything written by D.H. Lawrence or even Robert Heinlein,"
Mr. Yank pointed out.  "I might also point out that both
authors can be found in the school library.  If it is
permissible for such writings to be read in this school, I
cannot see why such prose, written as nicely as James seems
to have done, cannot be written."

    My English teacher was speechless.

    "As I was saying, you have deliberately and now
repeatedly misread what the boy wrote in his essay.  If you
didn't want the boy to write what he did, you should have
been more explicit in your instructions to the boy.  After
all, English is supposed to be your subject.  In addition, it
is obvious that you were misrepresenting what Mr. Proilet did
when James asked his teacher to take over his class for him."

    The Principal looked at me and Kristen and said, "This
boy has shown no signs of disrespect.  He has only
interrupted to correct an obvious misstatement, and, in
general, has comported himself in a most adult manner.  I see
no evidence to suggest that he is, in fact, a disruption to
any class!  Mr. Proilet also reminded me that this young man
actually teaches an extra-curricular jazz band that received
a standing ovation at the Christmas concert a couple of weeks
ago."

    The Principal turned to my mother and said, "Mrs.
Cummings, please accept my apologies for having you come here
today.  This seems to have been a matter of misunderstanding.
Your support of your son is commendable."

    It was time for the Principal to turn to Ms. Taylor, but
his intercom sounded again.  "Mr. Yankovitz, I have Mr. and
Mrs. Swift out here and they are insistent on meeting with
you about something that seems to be a matter of life and
death."

    The Principal looked at Mr. Proilet and sighed.  Kristen
simply smirked, and Ms. Taylor looked ashen.

    The door flew open.  "Excuse me, Stanley," Mr. Swift
barged in.  "I canceled a meeting in Denver and chartered a
flight here.  Somebody told me that there was a possible
physical threat of violence against my daughter!"

    The Principal sighed.  It was clear that the situation
was completely out of hand.  "There's no threat against your
daughter, Daniel.  It was a simple misunderstanding."

    Kristen's father wasn't easily mollified.  "I also
understand that my future son-in-law has been charged with a
severe crime.  If this is the case, I will ensure that my
lawyer comes over here and..."

    Again, the Principal looked at Kristen and me.  At the
mention of a lawyer, even Ms. Taylor looked cowed.  The
Swifts were well-known in town.

    I cleared my throat.  "Excuse me, Mr. Swift?"

    "I'm sorry, Jim.  Hello, Kristen.  I'm sorry we're a
little late..."

    "Excuse me, Mr. Swift?" I repeated.

    "Yes, Jim.  Sorry..."

    "Thank you for coming out here.  I really appreciate it,
and so does Kris," I said.  "I think the matter has already
been resolved.  It seems that everything was a
misunderstanding.  Isn't that right, Mr. Yankovitz?"

    "Exactly," Mr. Yank answered.  "In fact, it appears that
Jim has been behaving himself exactly as we would hope a
student would act.  It seems that an accidental
misinterpretation..." He glared at Ms. Taylor as he spoke
those last two words.  "An accidental misinterpretation of
things led Ms. Taylor to mistakenly think that there may be a
problem where, indeed, there was none.  I'd further like to
state that in this school district, we place the safety of
our students at the forefront, and take all such claims very
seriously.  The fact that this was a simple misunderstanding
just means that we didn't belittle a real problem before it
could turn into a disaster."

    Kristen's parents looked at Kristen, who was now sitting
on my lap and holding my hand.  Kristen smiled back at them.
Her father then turned to the Principal, nodded, and said,
"Very well, Stanley.  I'm happy that the situation wasn't as
grave as I was informed." Kristen's father then moved over to
where Kristen was sitting and bent down to kiss her.  Kristen
hugged her father in response.  He then shook my hand as
Kristen's mom hugged and kissed her daughter, and she gave me
a handshake as well.

    "I've got to charter a flight back to Denver," Mr. Swift
said.  "Stanley, maybe we'll meet again sometime at the
country club." The Swifts then left the office.

    The Principal glared at Kristen and me.  "As I was
saying... Oh, hell.  What was I saying?"

    "Mr. Yankovitz?  May I say something?"

    "Yes, James."

    "My name is Jim, not James," I corrected the Principal.
I heard that hated name a few times today, and it was
starting to get on my nerves.  "I'm sorry if anything I did
caused any problems.  If I have done anything to offend Ms.
Taylor or to disrupt her class, I truly apologize.  Since she
has put me on detention, I have made every effort to be quiet
and not do anything that could possibly disrupt her class."

    "Jim, that's not enough," the Principal answered.  "Not
participating in class can also be disruptive."

    "I am participating, but since Ms. Taylor complained that
I was being disruptive, I've been extra careful so that
nothing I do can be mistakenly taken as being a problem.  I
actually enjoy English class."

    The Principal said, "I think there has been enough drama
here for one day.  Mrs. Cummings, I again apologize for
having to bring you down here today.  Ms. Swift... Kristen?
I thank you for helping to sort this problem out, although
calling your father might have been a bit unnecessary.  Mr.
Proilet, I also thank you for helping out." It was very
obvious that Ms. Taylor was omitted from the recipients of
Mr. Yank's thanks.

    The Principal then turned to Ms. Taylor and said, "ReneÈ,
do you see any more need for Jim to remain on detention?"

    The English teacher looked completely defeated.  "No,"
she said, quietly.

    Inside my head, I shouted, "YES!" I was happy, but I made
it a point not to gloat.  Ms. Taylor already achieved a bit
of a victory when I apologized to her, especially since I
still didn't think I did anything wrong.

    As we were leaving, Mr. Yank quietly asked Ms. Taylor to
remain behind for a few moments.

    My music teacher shook my hand and introduced himself to
my mother.  "Jim, I told Kristen what was happening when I
heard ReneÈ talking with Ms. Tomago in the faculty room.  I
also decided that Mr. Yank might be a better arbiter for this
situation.  Mrs. Cummings, I'm proud to have Jim in my class.
He's extremely talented, and he goes beyond just being a
student and actually helps the other students learn.  You
should be proud to have raised such a well-behaved and
talented young man."

    My mother stood speechless at Mr. Proilet's remarks, but
found her voice.  "My son is indeed a very special person.
Thank you for what you've done in this situation.  I never
doubted Jim for a moment, but at one point, I was afraid that
something bad would happen to him unfairly."

    With a serious look on his face, Mr. Proilet said, "I
would never permit that, Mrs. Cummings.  If anything happened
to Jim, I would have fought it tooth and nail.  I would even
resign my position if such an injustice were allowed to
stand."

    My mouth hung open in shock when I heard my music teacher
make that last remark.

    Kristen just beamed at me and hugged me.

    After the situation with Mr. Yank in the front office,
Kristen drove us to the apartment.  "Your father came all the
way from Denver?  When did you call him?"

    "Right after school, when Mr. Proilet told me what was
going on.  Daddy wasn't in Denver, he just canceled a meeting
there.  He actually canceled it a few days ago."

    "Oh," I said, realizing that Mr. Swift didn't really lie,
but he definitely stretched the truth a bit.  I noticed that
Kristen sometimes did the exact same thing.  "So, he's going
to Denver tonight?"

    "No," answered Kristen.  "Daddy and Mom are going to
Chicago, to a certain hotel.  It's their anniversary, and
they always celebrate it at that same hotel, in the same
room.  It has a special sentimental value for the two of
them."

    "That sounds romantic," I said, smiling.

    "You might even know the room number, Jim," Kristen said
with a grin.  "You were there a few months ago!"

    I looked at my sweetheart in awe.  Every day, this little
vixen manages to surprise me.

    As Kristen and I departed for the apartment, I thought
about what my mother said to me.  It was only a couple of
months ago that she was suspicious about me being a nefarious
drug dealer.  Now she told me that she no longer worried
about me, and supported me completely and without question
when she was told that I was acting up at school.  I'm not
sure what changed her attitude toward me, but I am damn glad
that I didn't need to use any of my lucky tickets to change
her mind.

    The truth was that my mother was my counterweight in the
world.  The two of us shared a closeness due to the abuse we
sustained at the hands of her first husband, my father.  My
outburst to Merry on New Year's Eve about my father seemed to
open me up to considering our closeness.  Yes, Mom worried
that I might be dealing drugs in the past, but I realized now
that she didn't want to see me walking in the same footsteps
as my father.

    My mother loved me very much.  I knew that her love would
never fade, nor would she ever love anybody else that way.
In the same way, I loved my mother, and my total
unwillingness to take advantage of her using my tickets was a
good example of it.  She was the only person about whom I
ever made such a commitment.  I even managed to follow
through on that commitment!

    I wondered if, when I have a child--maybe even with my
lovely Kristen--will I be able to love that child as
whole-heartedly and unselfishly as my mother loves me?  It
would be a pretty tall order.

    I noticed that I wasn't being very communicative, so I
asked Kristen, "What's on the agenda for tonight?"

    "First, you will put on a lingerie show for me.  I'm
getting even for those silly polka-dot boxers you made me
wear.  Then, I get you home by ten o'clock.  It's a school
night."

    I sighed, and found to my relief that the lingerie that
she wanted me to wear was really men's briefs, although she
also insisted that I wear some sort of corset.

    We ended up giggling uncontrollably and fucking each
other silly.  I got home at 10:15, but my parents never made
any complaint.

* * *

    My English class had a substitute teacher for a week
before Ms. Taylor returned to class.  Nobody ever said
anything about it, and most students probably thought that
she was sick with a severe cold or something.  Of course,
Kristen and I, as well as some of the faculty were suspicious
that this was a mini "vacation" that was actually requested
of her.  Eventually, Ms. Taylor would transfer to a school in
one of the other suburbs of Chicago during my junior year.

    A few days after the incident, Ms. Tomago, the Assistant
Principal, was transferred from our high school to be a
teacher at an elementary school downstate.  She would claim
that the new job was more in line with what she wanted to do
with her life.  I would find out later that her transfer was
a direct result of what happened in school that day.

    Through the rest of my stay in high school, Mr. Yank
would always go out of his way to greet me when we passed in
the hallways.

    Sometimes, it pays to be a good student.

--
jimc_author@hotmail.com

JiMC is only a pseudonym.  Respect my privacy and I'll respect yours.

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-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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