Chapter 19: Rooney’s Downfall

Sunday went by in slow motion. Not that time was dragging, I was. Every small thing seemed to be an effort. I wonder why, I smirked. But there was homework to complete, and chores to finish. By nine o’clock, I said goodnight and went to bed.

I felt a little more human Monday morning and got to school without too much trouble. Although I was trying to concentrate on assignments and what the teachers were trying to impart, in the back of my mind I was worrying the problem of how this thing really worked. It was a kind of ESP, I suppose, with big limitations. I was very surprised to find that it could work on me as well as others. But I needed to understand that better. I didn’t want to do something to myself that would be irreversible, perhaps leave me damaged mentally, so I’d better walk that road very carefully.

But at least the trick with the ejaculation filter -- damn, I need to find a better name for that -- worked, and it was reversible. Now I started speculating about this while Mr. Martinez droned on about creative writing.

I know now I can set limits on the pleasure level so, for example, it wouldn’t get past the tipping point where I would cum. And I could manipulate the strength of my own orgasms, at least to the extent of goosing them up a little. Could I also extend them, for example, make them last longer? Or maybe have five little orgasms instead of one big one? How should I know? What about after I had had an orgasm and I was lying there flaccid, unable to continue. Could I channel a stimulation that would give me another erection, much as I can cause a woman to have another orgasm before she was quite ready?

Then I thought, I should be more scientific, conduct these experiments in a more controlled environment. Perhaps I should advertise for lab assistants to collaborate on the investigation. I could put an ad in the school paper: “Wanted, lab assistant for human sexuality research. Female, dedicated, open to a wide variety of sexual stimuli. Contact...”

Nice idea, but no. This will have to be more of a free-form research project. Some of this I can do on my own, for example masturbate and then try to channel an erection to my dick. Would that it were that easy.

And what about that odd thing that had happened with Melissa where she piggybacked on my orgasm, apparently some kind of crosstalk on the channel I had established with her. Was that something I could manipulate?

Then there was that kind of ... intuition that I had when I was talking to certain people, where I could sense what they were feeling, like I did with Kelly and Kerry, and also with Bryn Rowley. The sense was rather nebulous, not specific at all, like I could sketch or outline the feelings they were having without being able to draw an accurate representation of it, them -- there were always several feelings at once.

Oops, silent alarm bell. Martinez is thinking about me. Pay attention. And sure enough, he turns toward me and says, “Mr. Carter, let’s hear your short story.” Fortunately I had actually checked my assignment and written one. Not necessarily good, my heart wasn’t in it, but I read it aloud and listened to the criticisms as if I were taking them to heart.

Then we were saved by the bell, the real one, and went off to our next classes. In the hall I saw Kelly at a distance with some of her friends, and she smiled and winked at me conspiratorially. I hoped that they both would keep their word about secrets and trust.

I saw Larry Nebbins later in the hall and thanked him for the party invitation. He went on for several minutes about how awesome it had turned out and what party animals his friends were. He seemed not to have noticed my absence at all. Just as well. I was glad that he hadn’t been part of the conspiracy.

Over Monday and Tuesday I continued to get more approaches from older girls, some not-so-subtle flirting, but I attributed it to Amy’s loose lips and the rumor mill. It would probably die out soon, to be replaced with other, fresher rumors.

Atwell and Cullough seemed to be keeping their distance, to my relief, but I continued to get some hostile glares from some of the jocks and their supporters.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, a math quiz which I aced because I could feel Mrs. Morrison thinking about the proper approach to each question as she reviewed the test. Damn, this gift made school so much easier.

After school I did hapkido class, then home to shower and do a little homework before dinner. Mindy, my sister, was in middle school now, and had fallen into the social life there like she was born to it. She talked about parties, and clothes, and who liked whom, and going to the mall with her friends. Was I like that at her age? I couldn’t remember, but I don’t think so. Maybe it’s different for girls.

She had actually mellowed in the past year, and no longer woke me -- she was a morning person, I was not -- with a kick at my door and a shout of “Hey, stupid-face.” Now it was a hard knock, and “Time to get up.” I had not determined if that was a result of my linkcasting her “Your brother’s a nice guy, ease up” every couple of days, or it was just her maturing. Anyway, she was almost housebroken now.

Except for the gossip, which was unceasing, and which she assumed everyone was as excited about as she was. We sat at the dinner table -- macaroni and cheese, salad -- and she rambled on about how Billy really liked Cindy, but she hasn’t decided about him yet, and the middle school dance on Friday, and how Mr. McGonigle in English is so cute, and how Becky’s older sister got asked out by Rooney Cullough, isn’t that awesome?

I looked up at that, but she had already gone on to another topic, a math quiz coming up and she hated math, when she finally had to stop to take a breath.

“Mindy,” I asked, “who is Becky’s older sister?”

“Amanda. Why?”

I asked, “How old is she?”

“You looking for a date, Tom? You want me to introduce you?” She was on a roll now.

“Seriously, Mindy, how old is Amanda? I don’t think I know her? Does she go to my school?”

“She’s fifteen, and yes. She’s a sophomore, I think, and really cute. She had braces and everything, but those just came off and now she looks a lot older, and she’s starting to go out to parties, ‘cause her folks were real strict and now they think she’s old enough to go on dates. With boys. In cars.”

She said that with a finality that was expected to leave me gasping at the sheer magnitude of this achievement. She looked at me, because she knew that I had something on my mind and wanted to know what it was. Maybe it would be something she could feed into the gossip machine.

“So? Why the questions about Amanda?”

“Mindy, how close are you with Becky? Do you know Amanda?”

“Becky and I are real good friends. I don’t really know Amanda at all, except to see her. Why?”

Even my parents were paying attention now. I tried to think about how to phrase this.

“Mindy, Rooney is not a nice guy. Especially not to girls. He’s really charming, and is a kind of a celebrity in basketball, and he’s got a car, but he’s not nice. Mindy, he hurts people if he doesn’t get his way, if you know what I mean. When you see Becky in school tomorrow, be sure to tell her that, and tell her I said so, and be certain that she tells Amanda. She really should not go out with him.”

Mindy said, “But he’s cute.”

“Mindy, this is important. Cute does not mean nice. Tell me you’ll do it.”

My parents asked some questions, and I explained that, while it was rumor, it came from a first-hand source. He had a reputation among the older girls, so he concentrated on the younger ones. They discussed whether they should tell someone, but it really was just rumor. But they did tell Mindy that she should do what I asked.

Reluctantly, she did have that conversation with Becky, who was stunned at the suggestion that a well-known person like Rooney could have a dark side. After all, he was a senior, in high school, and he had his own car, and he played basketball, it’s just not possible, your brother must be making it up. But she did promise to pass it on to Amanda.

It was Thursday after school before we got the word back: Amanda refused to believe it either, and she was not going to give up her chance to go out with a celebrity. After all, Rooney had had his picture in the newspaper after that last game. Tom was probably trying to get back at Rooney.

I was frustrated, but I had done what I could. I knew that come Monday, Amanda would not be the same person, she would be fearful, distrustful, always looking over her shoulder -- broken in some important way.

I felt like I should do something, but who would believe me? Everyone knew that I had had a confrontation with Rooney, and it wouldn’t take much for many people to believe that it was my fault, that Rooney was the aggrieved party.

Plus this was all third-hand information, rumors whispered from one person to another. The school administration really liked the winning basketball team; it put the school’s name in the papers, and that reflected well on the administrators.

I worried this problem until it was frayed at the edges, and it was showing on my face, I’m sure, because I got comments from several of my friends asking whether my goldfish had died or something. I got to lunch early again on Friday -- some kind of goulash, best not to ask -- and sat at an empty table and stared at a potato chip.

I was surprised when someone sat down across from me, and more surprised to see who it was: Bryn Rowley. We hadn’t spoken since I had chastised her for telling Amy Antonnetti about us.

“Carter,” she said by way of greeting. “Did your dog die?”

I looked at her long enough that she said, “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, you weren’t. I’m worrying about something that I don’t think I can fix, and it’s got me all twisted.”

“Tell Aunt Bryn and she’ll make it all better.”

“I doubt you can,” I said, but I thought I had to talk to someone about it, and it started with her anyway, so why not. She was forking her salad with a vengeance as I related the story about Becky’s sister Amanda and her pending dream date with young Rooney.

By the time I had finished, Bryn had stopped eating and had put her fork down. I could not read the look on her face.

“So he’s going to do it again.”

“Maybe. Probably.”

“What’s Amanda’s last name? She’s a sophomore, you said?”

I told her, and she took her tray and stood up. “Let me ask around, see what I can find out. Hang out in front for awhile after school, I’ll find you.”

I tried to get my head back into study after lunch, but I kept coming back to the Rooney problem. I couldn’t even give any thought to my speculations about channeling and linkcasting.

At 3:30 the bell rang, and it was like Moses shouting, “Let my people go!” A whole weekend without school, they didn’t have to be told to get out of Egypt.

By the time I collected my books and put the unneeded ones in my locker, the halls were almost empty. I went outside and sat on the steps. It was cold, but protected from the wind so I was okay there for awhile. Bryn showed up about five minutes after I did, and sat down next to me.

“I asked around and found out who some of her friends were, and I knew a few of them, so I talked to them. The deal is that this is basically her first date ever alone with a guy, though she’s gone to supervised parties. Her parents rule with a pretty firm hand. And it turns out that Dad is a pretty big basketball fan. He didn’t want to let her go on a date at all until she was at least sixteen, but when Rooney called and asked her if she’d join him for an evening of light-hearted, wholesome entertainment, how could he say no?

“And then, by a few crafty introductions from one friend to another, I got to meet Amanda herself. I brought the conversation around to dating and she let on that she was looking forward to her first date with, are you ready for this, Bryn? Rooney Cullough! She waited for me to be suitably impressed. I put on my best concerned face, and hemmed and hawed, until she finally had to ask me what was wrong.

“Then I was reluctantly forced to tell her what Rooney had done to my friend Bar..., well, never mind her name, to my friend, and how screwed up she is now. And do you know what, Tom?”

I shook my head no.

“She didn’t care, she didn’t believe me. This was scurrilous vilification, a besmirching of a good man’s name, the noble Rooney is not capable of these things. So she’s going. She got the word from you, she got it from me, and she’s determined not to let her chance at a magical night pass. I know she’s only fifteen, but she’s a really stupid fifteen.

“I did get some information about where they’re going from one of her friends, because it’s all she can talk about with them. So they’re planning on attending a party at Bucky Wilson’s place, he’s a senior, and the word is that Bucky’s parents are -- how shall I put this? -- lax. Nay, indifferent. His parties tend to involve a lot of alcohol and drugs, not just weed, so my guess is that little Amanda is going to taste her first alcoholic drink or three or four there.”

“Bryn? Why are you not working for the CIA? You got all that between lunch and three o’clock, and you talked to Amanda?”

“Well, I kinda owed you one, Carter, so this is payment. I don’t know what good it will do, but that’s what I was able to find out.”

“Thanks, Bryn. Somehow this makes me feel a little better. Maybe I can work with this.”

She kissed me on the cheek and left, saying over her shoulder, “You’re a good guy, Carter.”

I gathered my books and my backpack and started trudging homeward, wondering what I could do with this information. I didn’t know Amanda, but she didn’t deserve to have what I thought was going to happen, happen. And if it did, it would certainly affect her sister, Becky, and because they were friends, it would affect Mindy, too.

I was so wrapped up in this conundrum that I didn’t see the car that had pulled up beside me and the driver waving until they tooted the horn. I did a classic Three Stooges double-take, and found Kerry waving at me. She beckoned me over -- apparently the power window didn’t work -- and I opened the door and stuck my head in.

“Hi, Kerry. What’s up?”

“Nothing, just headed home. You want a ride?”

Sure, why not, it was chilly, so I got in. She chatted about her classes and the SAT’s, and then stopped and looked at me. “Carter, I don’t know you that well, but something’s on your mind. Something about the other night?”

I shook my head no, and figured what the hell, maybe she’ll have an insight. So I told her everything I had heard, leaving out Bryn’s name. Kerry was silent for some time. Before we got to my house, she pulled over to the side and parked.

“You know, he asked me out once. And Kelly, too. Not at the same time, different times. And we both said no. I think we’ve got a kind of radar about guys, we know which ones are basically decent but with dirty minds -- like you, Carter -- and who may be questionable but might be worth taking a chance on, and which ones are just creepy.