Chapter 12

It's Sunday night. Lance is presumably sleeping the sleep of a sated male in his own bed, while I'm in my bed, in the dark, rummaging through my memories, trying to see if there are any clues in my past that might help me chart my future. I'm adrift in a sea of fog compared to people I know well.

My brother knew that he'd be a scientist from the time he'd taken apart his first alarm clock to find out what made it tick.

Of course it was a very old alarm clock. I wonder what kids learn from taking apart a digital clock.

His GF Beth had set her eye on a medical career as she dissected her first frog in sophomore biology. I suppose by now the "be-kind-to-animals" groups have put an end to that.

What do kids like Carl and Beth take apart these days?

On a less controversial track, Kathy Powers took her first steps toward being an artist in pre-school when she grabbed a handful from the big bucket of crayons and drew a picture of her teacher on the table.

Okay, it was a three-year old's surrealism, but even then the teacher didn't know whether to frame the table or make Kathy sit in the corner, so she did both. Kathy still had a crayon hidden in her chubby little fist and the pre-school wound up with a corner worthy of being framed as well.

At the age of three, after hearing it on his mother's music box Terrell Ford plinked out "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" on a toy piano. She'd thought "how cute." The next Sunday, during church, he'd gotten bored with the sermon so he sneaked over to the old upright piano that was all the church could afford and launched into Bach's "Sheep May Safely Graze," which the music director had used for the offertory the week before.

The sermon was forgotten.

Who else? Oh yes, Stephanie, Kathy's squeeze. She was positively retarded by comparison. Given a plastic whistle when she was five she was eight when she badgered her parents into buying her a flute.

Prodigies all!

When I was their age I'd gone from dabbling in the bathtub to doing laps across the pool, so I guess that's something. But, as my brother pointed out, swimming doesn't offer much of a future. Much as I love the feel of the water sliding over my naked skin, surely there's gotta be something more to life than plodding from one end of a pool to the other.

I loved soaring off a diving board until ... you know.

What else?

Well, there's always sex, but the competition from amateurs these days is fierce, though there is talk of licensed brothels in some quarters. The professional life span is about as brief as that of a football lineman and client selectivity -- I have to love my partners -- severely restricts the market, even for a bisexual.

So what really turns me on, other than sex and swimming?

I love learning, reading, always have, but don't have any one favorite course, except maybe history. My grades are, well, modesty forbids mentioning. Let's just say they're more than adequate.

Extra-curriculars? German Club, swimming of course, class officer and a few others, but nothing that really lit my fire after my freshman year chairing SACNISP.

That had kept my adrenaline flowing, a real E-ticket ride, that was for sure. A high point had been marshaling the forces to protect the innocent and shutting down the forces working against The Program.

I still remember the thrill I felt when Cameron had handed me that envelope as she'd come out of the school office to brave the hallways. Was the hard evidence that might lead to the source of our problems right in my hands?

I'd wanted nothing more than to rip it open to find out what had caught her eye. I was hoping it would tell me who the bad guys were so I could get 'em locked up and the keys thrown away.

I'd received a message from Maria telling me that if I violated the sanctity of that envelope before the crime lab got it she would beat me to death. Then, after pissing on my grave she'd arrest me for tampering with evidence.

That afternoon, with the envelope still burning a hole in my backpack, I'd had to preside over the post-mortem of Operation Guardian. We of SACNISP had scheduled it figuring we'd either want to celebrate our victory, or lick our wounds while figuring out how to deal with the mess I'd created.

Amazingly, everything had gone well and we quickly decided we would continue to provide bodyguards for the NiSers at least for rest of the week.

After we'd dislocated our shoulders patting ourselves on our backs we were faced with what to do with the poor fool who'd decided to molest one of the troops during the opening phase of the operation. He'd made the mistake of picking on the school's star volleyball player. Ingrid had the reflexes of a leopard and the grip of a trapeze artist. He was lucky that his right arm was still attached.

My fingers still ached from giving her a congratulatory handshake at lunch.

She held him no ill will. In fact, she was worried she'd hurt him, but I was able to reassure her on that point. Given her attitude I was formulating a vague plan in the back of my mind. As we'd chatted at lunch she'd agreed to be available after school when we'd be dealing with the malefactor.

As a result, I was tingling in anticipation when I gaveled the meeting to order for the next item on the agenda.

"What're we gonna do with the twerp?" committee secretary (and buster of my cherry years ago) Mike Collins asked from his place beside me at the conference table.

"Just for a start, he should walk the halls naked for the rest of the year." That was from Retta Jones.

I wasn't sure I wanted to know what came after the "just for a start." As far as she was concerned, anyone who looked cross-eyed at a program participant deserved to be paraded up Main Street to the town square to be placed in the stocks so she could personally flog his naked butt.

At the moment said "twerp" was occupying the chair in the school office reserved for those awaiting the disciplinary attention of Mrs. Devers, the school secretary standing guard. It was said that her gimlet eye could penetrate skulls and reveal the innermost thoughts of a miscreant.

What's a gimlet? -- according to my dictionary it is either an alcoholic beverage composed of gin, lime juice and a spot of soda, or a small tool with a screw point, grooved shank, and cross handle for boring holes.

In this case the latter definition applies.

Thank you lang arts.

I felt for him. Oh the shame of occupying that seat, sweating and shivering in full view of all those who passed through the office.

Retta's proposal opened the floodgates from the rest of my committee. Elated by our success, punishments being tossed around included a command appearance on-stage at an all-school assembly, or an undetermined number of laps around the outdoor track, naked of course, while current and former program participants urged him on. As the suggestions for his punishment soared past the unconstitutional to the realm of physical impossibility I picked up my gavel and beat the table into submission.

While the discussion had raged, Mrs. Devers had maintained her seemingly disinterested perspective as our advisor.

"Has he said why he did it?" I asked her. I'd been so busy I hadn't even had a chance to meet him.

She shook her head. "He's basically a good kid, never been in serious trouble before, but not one of our brighter lights. He's a sophomore named Wil Williams, new to the district. He says he just thought it would be fun, that 'everyone else was doing it.'"

"Ah, a nominee for a Darwin award," Matt Mozilla observed wryly. "If everyone else was marching off a cliff he'd probably try to buck line."

"Anyone here know him?"

Walter Miflin, our male sophomore member raised his hand. "Wil -- with one 'L' -- Williams. He's in one of my classes, pretty quiet. Kind've a loner. He doesn't have many friends."

"We've got to make an example of him," Retta insisted. "We should strip him naked, paint his privates Day-Glo orange and turn him loose in the halls. See how he likes it! Oh, and tie a helium balloon to his dick so we can track him."

"Sorry," she apologized after I'd gaveled the laughter down.

"Don't be. I feel the same way," I assured her. "But we're trying to get away from The Program being used as punishment."

She greeted that reminder with a sullen grunt. It was a sore point between us.

I turned to Mrs. Devers. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"I'm waiting for you to decide. This is your show. I'm just your advisor."

"Thanks a lot!"

"You're welcome," she responded with that uninformative smile of hers.

I had the feeling she was up to something.

I sighed. "Let's get him in here and see what he has to say for himself."

"Shouldn't he have the opportunity to face his accuser?" Samantha pointed out.

"She's available," I admitted. "But then what?"

"I will abide by your decision," Mrs. Devers answered.

"Meaning?"

"If you decide on a punishment, I will impose it, as long as it doesn't violate school rules or policies. I think the orange paint and helium balloon would be considered cruel and unusual," she added dryly.

"Thank you," I responded with exaggerated sweetness.

"You're welcome," she came back, just as sweetly. Ugh. I could not escape the feeling that she had something up her non-existent sleeve. She usually functioned as judge, jury, and executioner. I couldn't stop thinking she was sharpening her own ax, and that my neck was on the block. Otherwise, why would she want to put this on us?

Something about this stank -- stunk? -- stinked? -- smelled to high heaven.

"Mrs. Devers, would you be so kind as to bring the accused before this committee?" I asked her warily.

"Wait a minute!" Samantha Keeler, our resident nit picker, future librarian, and current parliamentarian and Program authority waved for attention.

I recognized her by pointing the handle of the gavel at her.

"Are we suddenly being constituted as a student court?" she asked.

That got us all looking at each other. I looked to Mrs. Devers, who'd pushed her chair back already. Something about her told me she'd been very pleased with how things had been moving up to this point.

The Stick, my conscience and alter-ego, was suddenly on high alert.

After a moment of silence everyone was talking at once. Some were in favor of the idea -- Retta especially -- others not so much. Retta wanted us to try the guilty bastard and then hang him. Others weren't as eager to take on the responsibility.

I suddenly realized why I really didn't like the track we were taking. I was not about to take on presiding at any trial. After that, where would it end? It was bad enough I'd been hijacked into chairing the committee. I suddenly saw that we were headed down the track into something we did not want -- at least I didn't want -- and Mrs. Devers was at the throttle.

The noise level was soaring as Mrs. Devers came up out of her chair.

I brought the gavel down so hard it broke. "Wait a minute! Everyone sit down and shut up!"

Star receiver that he is, Matt intercepted the gavel's head before it caught Max Wang in the ear.

In the sudden silence I realized what I'd said, how I'd said it, and who I'd said it to. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Devers. Please sit down."

She'd frozen when the gavel had lost its head. Looking at me like she thought her head -- or maybe it was mine -- might be next, she sat -- slowly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Devers."

God, what had I just done?! This was my vice principal, the one others called "The Devil" for her uncompromising discipline.

Taking a deep breath I went on more calmly. "Samantha, thank you. That's a good point.

"Thank you very much for bringing that up," I added fervently, babbling while I tried to gather my wits. Reclaiming the lost gavel head from Matt, my mind racing, I tried putting my symbol of office back together. All that did was give me a splinter, leaving me sucking on my finger.

Finally, clinging to my power as chair of the committee I tested the brakes.

"No, we are not a court. We are not going to become a court. We are the Student Advisory Committee to the Naked in School Program. Thank you very much for bringing that to our attention, Samantha." I wanted to hug her, even though she's not really my type. Well, actually, maybe...

She nodded. There was a murmur of agreement from around the table, except from Retta.

So far the brakes were working. I had the majority of the committee behind me, but would that be enough?

"Isn't that right, Mrs. Devers?"

The eyebrow I aimed at her was not only cocked but loaded. One wrong word and I was ready to walk out the door, and suspicion about Mrs. Devers's goals was nudging me closer. I was on a hair trigger.

Not to over-dramatize, but I think one little nudge from her -- from anyone -- and I'd have gone off like a rocket. I was tired. I hadn't slept last night, trying to figure out all the things that could go wrong today and how to stop them. It had been my plan, so I'd been ready to take the blame if it failed. Fortunately it hadn't, but I was a bit fed up with the whole mess. Aside from today's victory, temporary as it might be, the only other accomplishment I could point to was towels for naked people to sit on.

Whoopee.

I did a mental nose count. Not to flatter myself, but I was willing to bet at least half of the committee would go with me. Certainly Matt and Heather would -- they'd put themselves on the line rounding up the senior class troops to be bodyguards. Probably Mike would out of personal loyalty. Samantha would just because she's Samantha and worships order.

Anyone who wasn't with me, well, they were welcome to deal with the whole fucking mess.

As poker faced as ever Mrs. Devers nodded -- reluctantly -- but she nodded.

I went on, still fighting to keep my voice steady. "We will listen to what he has to say. This is not a trial -- we don't have that authority -- but an inquiry. I will not let it become -- what's the word I want? Adversarial? Confrontational? We want answers from him -- information -- not vengeance. We need to know what's going on and who's behind it so we can figure out a way to stop it permanently."

There was no mention of justice. I took a deep breath, looking right at Retta. "Anyone who feels different can just walk out that door!"

She grumbled, but subsided.

Okay, that was kinda harsh, but like I say, I was tired, and frustrated. In spite of today's success I knew all we'd done was slap a band aid on the sore. For all I knew we'd have bodyguards escorting our NISers for the rest of the year, assuming we could assemble enough willing bodies. Once or twice would be fun, but beyond that it would interfere too much with schooling. The teachers would resent the time being lost, if nothing else.

I was thinking maybe I should walk anyway.

Mrs. Devers thought for a time, studying me. "Yes, you're right, Madam Chairman, of course. It is, after all, your committee."

And don't you forget it, The Stick unhelpfully put in. "Thank you, Mrs. Devers," I said aloud.

We were bitches seeking to dominate circling each other. The subtext between us was that we would talk, later. I wasn't looking forward to that, so I sought refuge in Roberts Rules.

"I move that we open a formal inquiry into the program violation that took place this morning outside the school office."

"Seconded!" Heather McKenzie sounded off.

Samantha bit her lip, not about to suggest that as Chair I might not have the right to put forward a motion, that I should have asked someone else for it.

"I make the motion," Mike Collins, our reserve parliamentarian put in, saving my ass on that nit.

"I still second it," Heather repeated.

"It has been moved and seconded," I ruled. "Discussion? Retta? You have the floor."

Her position was simple. There was no presumption of innocence. She pointed out that he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, by the cookie jar herself. Retta wound up putting forward a motion that we immediately be reconstituted as a student court, that we immediately try and convict and sentence the perp, and that we immediately order -- she corrected herself to "ask" -- Mrs. Devers to carry out the sentence.

That got the debate rolling.

Mrs. Devers just sat there. What was she up to?

I listened as others debated my -- Mike's -- motion, worried that there were not as many in favor of it as I'd hoped.

Samantha sailed a folded sheet of paper down the table to me. I read the note and realized I owed her a plate of chocolate chip cookies -- two plates of double chocolate brownies. Her question about us becoming a court had saved me once, now her parliamentary knowledge was saving my ass again. Frustrated without my gavel I used the head of it to tap for order.

I guess I'd scared 'em. They instantly shut up and looked to me.

"I'm sorry, Retta, but you're out of order. There's a motion before the committee that we hold an inquiry. That motion must be dealt with first. Of course you're free to vote against the motion, and if it is defeated you can then make a motion that we become a student court and have a trial.

"But," I went on, watching Mrs. Devers out of the corner of my eye, "that might delay things considerably, mightn't it, Samantha?"

She had the savvy to look thoughtful, though from her note I already knew what she'd say. "Well, if we should try to become a court there's the issue of establishing who is prosecutor, and providing a defense, and procedural rules to be decided," she mused in her meticulous future-librarian way. "At the very least we'd have to get it past The Powers That Be -- probably the school board -- before we could do anything."

Retta opened her mouth, but Walter Miflin, fellow sophomore and her erstwhile significant other, put a hand on her arm and calmed her down.

Love. Ain't it wonderful?

"Is that true, Mrs. Devers?" I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from her to make sure it had been driven home.

"Yes, it is."

I still couldn't read her expression at all, damn the woman.

By contrast I was doing mental handsprings. Not that I was really happy, but for the moment, at least, I'd blocked whatever scheme our beloved Vice Principal (and I did love her, even at that moment) had been trying to hatch.