Chapter 19A

When I woke up in the morning it was very bright in the room, I rolled over to look at the clock and saw that I had slept later than I could remember ever doing. I did the math and found that I had my usual eight hours. It was just delayed a few hours because I had got in so late the night before.

"Or the morning of," I corrected myself.

Being a night-owl was a new experience for me. I felt that the day was almost half gone because I hadn't gotten up before nine.

I slid off the high mattress and padded over to the mirror that I had used to reassure myself that I was someone who was quite capable of taking care of herself. The reflection was a girl in the usual all-over light-tan, blemish-free skin I normally wore. This rang a small bell in the back of my head and I remembered that I had gone to sleep wearing my fully-animated Dragon-skin. I thought about it and remembered what had happened when I conked my head on the roof of Smith and Jones' car. My skin had reverted back then too.

"The animation takes conscious control to maintain," I reasoned. "The static stuff stays put until I change it, but anything moving means I have to keep thinking about it to keep it going. That's good to know."

I suppose I had become complacent because it was so easy to turn it on and off now that I had had so much practice at it. I was happy to have figured it out, because this was one more clue to how all this worked.

Because I was running late, I remembered that Brute's breakfast was late, too. The surge of guilt sent me right out the door to get the poor dog some food. It wasn't til I was halfway down the second flight of stairs that I noticed I was still in my skin.

"Not early enough to be streaking outside," I thought, and I called up my blue bikini from my mental wardrobe.

I still felt underdressed. The backyard was private and all, but this late on a Saturday morning there were likely to be more people out doing stuff in their yards. I tried to expand the bikini into a pair of shorts and a tube-top. When I paused to look in the hall mirror, the shorts looked very nice and quite credible, but the tube-top was a miserable failure. It looked absurd wrapped around my boobs and into my cleavage and wasn't going to fool anyone, even at a distance on a foggy day. I went back to the bikini-top with triangular cups that worked pretty well, if you didn't notice the nipple-rings poking out of button-holes on the front.

The shorts also looked good out in the sun, especially after I had worked on the seams and the texture of the fabric some more, so I filed them away as another item I could return to whenever I wanted.

I hadn't really thought much about using my skin-changing ability to simulate clothes. Mom seemed to be determined to make me as much of a clothes-horse as she was, and Mr. Morton was such a design genius, that it didn't seem necessary for me to invent fake clothes. The bikini was a spur-of-the-moment joke and I had put so much effort into developing the Dragon that anything less impressive seemed anticlimactic. The bikini and the shorts proved that I could do other things though and that intrigued me. As long as the garment I copied was normally thin and tight-fitting, I could probably duplicate it in a way that would pass as long as no one got a really close look, or touched it. If someone got that close, they were probably someone I wouldn't mind finding out that I was really naked anyway.

The more I thought about it, the more the idea appealed to me, though. My imaginary clothes would never need washing — something that occurred to me while Brute and I wrestled around the yard. They would never wrinkle, or get ripped, or fall off my scrawny ass, as some of my shorts kept trying to do.

I had seen some photos on the Internet of models wearing body-paint that looked like clothes and I thought that I could probably outdo them with the level of detail I could manage. I had also seen some photos of girls wearing paint that was just for decoration and that intrigued me too, but I'm not enough of an artist to think of something original. Finger-painting in kindergarten was about as far as my artistic leanings went. I probably owe somebody royalties for copying their Dragon.

Still, if I could save Mom from spending time scrubbing grass-stains out of the seat of a pair of shorts, it seemed worthwhile to wear my new outfit when I was going to be in the dog's domain. I always showered after playing with him anyway, and my skin was both repairable and shrink-resistant. As choices in clothing went, during Spring and Summer, a bikini-top and shorts was just about a uniform for girls hereabouts. If I could get away with any kind of ersatz clothing, this would be the most likely outfit.

So, when I stepped out of the shower after washing the smell of Brute off of me, I put back on the same shorts and top, just to see if anyone would notice.

Breakfast wasn't the cold bowl of cereal I had expected for being such a slugabed. When I came downstairs the second time I smelled wonderful things happening in the kitchen. I was about to poke my nose in when the door swung open and Jim came through carrying a glass and a pitcher of orange juice.

"Good morning, Jim," I said, perhaps too perkily.

Jim barely glanced at me in passing as he walked around to his usual spot at the table, plopped down in the chair and very carefully poured himself a tumbler of juice.

I remained standing to give him the best opportunity to admire my imaginary clothes, but he took a gulp of juice and then hung his head and stared morosely into the glass.

"Ah!" I said, understanding the situation. "Is someone a wee bit hung over this morning?"

Jim mumbled something that I was probably better off not hearing and took a smaller sip of juice before resuming his bleary-eyed study of the pulp floating in his glass.

"A better person than me wouldn't say this," I said, nobly. "But, you did this to yourself, you know."

"Yeah," he mumbled. "I know. I shouldn't have drunk all that beer. But I was fine until this morning. Or I thought I was."

"What did Mom say when she saw you like this?"

"Nothing. But she didn't have to. Neeka said it all last night when I walked her home."

"Oh."

He looked miserable enough, so I dropped the subject. I was sure that Neeka had already made all the points I could have, and besides, I wasn't in the best moral position to be preaching to him about the evils of alcohol. But for my ability to run my metabolism at high speed, we might both be suffering.

"Mom is experimenting with omelets this morning," he volunteered, probably grateful for my silence. "She's in there making the mother of all omelets now."

"That's good, because I can eat a horse."

Jim just nodded. Perhaps he wasn't sure if his stomach was ready for eggs quite yet.

"Where's Bud?"

"Mom said he went over to Jolene's house this morning. He rode his bike over." Jim chuckled. "He hasn't had that thing out in over a year."

"She rode hers over here, so he must have got the idea from her. Besides, now they can go riding together. And on bikes she'll probably feel comfortable."

"If they don't just hang out at her house. He was nervous about meeting her parents, you know."

Actually, I didn't. Bud didn't talk much about his feelings, even when we were in the sack. Unless it was about what we were doing at the moment, that is. I didn't know if he had or hadn't met Jolene's folks until this moment. I wondered if they had gone riding or if they were just hanging out at her house.

I imagined Bud sitting on a sofa with Jolene with her parents in the room. I couldn't begin to imagine the conversation. I just had no frame of reference for the situation. I had certainly never had a boy come into the house and try to have a conversation with Yvette. It would have sparked World War III if one had tried!

Jim's head cleared enough for him to raise his head and squint in my direction. He rubbed his forehead and said, "Nice. You look nice today."

It sounded a little forced, so I wasn't sure if he was being honest or he just thought I was fishing for the complement by posing. Either way, he gave no indication that he had caught on to the deception.

"Thank you," I said, pulling out a chair, just a Mom came in with a couple of plates.

"Well," she said, seeing me at the table, "Good morning, sleepyhead! You don't look nearly as bad as Jim here." Jim said she hadn't said anything to him directly, but she couldn't resist getting in an off-hand dig.

"Don't give me any credit," I confessed. "I was every bit as bad as Jim. I just got away without suffering the consequences. Don't worry. I'm on the wagon from now on. No more liquor for me." I shrewdly left the door open for the occasional beer.

"Me too!" Jim groaned emphatically. "It's just not worth it."

I suspected he may have been thinking about the talking-to he had got from Neeka the night before, rather than his hangover; but his regret seemed sincere, so I didn't pursue it.

Mom took her cue from me and went back into the kitchen without another word. She came back with another serving of omelet and I wondered how many eggs she had cracked to make one omelet this big.

"When are you going on your 'play-date'?" She asked. She was reminding me, in case I had forgotten about George.

"I guess as soon as I finish this, I said.

"You're going to wear that top? I thought you'd want to save that for the beach tomorrow."

I chewed politely before answering. Mom knew about the fake bikini. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye to see if I could tell if she knew which one I had on at the moment. She wasn't smiling. She didn't know. She couldn't tell. Damn, I was good!

"No. I was thinking about my demin jumper," I said, once I had swallowed. "The one we got at Mr. Morton's the first time?"

The jumper was one of the things we bought 'off the rack' that was a bit too small. It was a sleeveless baby-blue one-piece with a darling lace collar and matching little lace cuffs around the arm and leg-openings. The legs were cut as high as a pair of short-shorts. Unlike most clothes, it was small enough in the rear so that it fit my butt very nicely; which was why I bought it. And it zipped up the front, so I could be as daring as I wanted to be with how far I left it open. The only drawback was that it was really too small in the bust. I had to leave the zipper down quite a bit, or it looked like it was squashing me.

I had thought of the jumper because it was the closest thing to play-clothes that I had and I wanted to get into the spirit of my play-date with George. I was sure George would like it, and it might jar his mother into accepting the fact that her son was all grown up now.

Mom was staring, now. A smile spread across her face as she realized that she was being put-on.

"The shorts too?" She asked.

I nodded and stood up so she could get a good look.

"Amazing! The rings gave it away as soon as I noticed them. But it does look remarkably real."

"Thank you. I wondered if anyone would notice."

She nodded toward Jim, who was concentrating on eating his portion of the omelet and keeping his head from falling off his shoulders. I shook my head and shrugged. In his present condition, Jim wasn't really a fair test. With Bud gone and my date with George coming up, this was another experiment that would have to be postponed.

I found that I had a pair of canvas flats that matched my new denim jumper. They were a couple of years old and a little faded, but they would be perfect for the look I wanted — seven going on eighteen and ready to play. When I checked myself in the mirror I found that the 'seven' part wasn't working very well, but it still looked darling, and with the zipper I could regulate the level of sexy from mild to 'oh, wow'. I decided to start off a tooth or two past modest and make adjustments from there. I had no idea what George might want to do.

Actually, I had one idea. Based on our first encounter, I was pretty sure George would like me to help him with his 'problem' whenever it came up. I was cool with that. Treating it casually, rather than seriously, would make it easier for George to deal with. Having me act like it was no big deal would take some of the stress out of it for George. And his mother too, I reminded myself.

George might qualify as one of my 'projects', but mostly I just wanted to get to know him. He seemed like a nice guy and the fact that he and I were the same height made him almost irresistible. Growing up, I had learned to cope with living in a world full of people who were all much taller than I was, but it was still wonderful to have met someone who was on my level. If for no other reason, I hoped George and I would become good friends.

Once I was dressed and ready, my fanny-pack in place, Mom suggested I might have forgotten something.

"Where do the Whitleys live?" she asked.

"Moreland Court. It's over by de Leon Park." In fact it was two blocks from another house where I had spent an interesting afternoon. Small world.

"How had you planned to get there? That's three miles from here."

"Walk. Jog. I'm dressed for it and it's a nice day. It will only take me a few minutes. Less if I can sprint when no one's looking."

"But you'll get all sweaty! Let me take you."

"I bet I won't. I will take more than a short jog to make me sweat. But thanks, I'll take you up on that."

It took Mom longer to get fixed to drive me over than I had expected it to take me to get there on foot, but I figured this was just another way she wanted to show me she cared, so I was patient about it.

I was also patient when she pulled into the Whitley's driveway, turned off the engine and got out of the car. I suppose I thought she would just drop me off. I didn't think that she would want to meet the Whitleys, too. I mean, even though she was leaving me with strangers, she hardly needed to verify that I would be in good keeping. Although when I thought about it that way, it seemed very motherly of her.

I don't know if Lucinda Whitley was expecting to meet Mom or not, but she didn't seem surprised to see both of us when she opened the door. After a brief introduction, she showed us into a modest but immaculate living room that looked like it was ready for an appearance in a magazine. Even the magazines on the coffee table seemed to have been selected and arranged to match the colors of the room. I wondered if Mom and Mrs. Whitley had the same decorator.

We were just sitting down when George came in. He looked happy to see me. Judging by the thorough up and down look he gave me, my choice of outfit met with his approval. I wanted to give him a big hug for that, but I wanted to see what Mom and Lucinda would have to say to each other, so I took George's hand and pulled him down to sit next to me on the couch. Unfortunately, Mom had other ideas.

"Sam," she said, "why don't you and George run along and play while Lucinda and I have a chat."

I couldn't think of a good argument as to why I should be allowed to stay, other than blatant curiosity. I wouldn't have tried to argue even if I could, it wouldn't have been polite. So George and I left the room so our mothers could discuss us in private.

George took me upstairs to his room, which was equally as immaculate as the living room. I was impressed that it was just as clean and organized as my own room, which I made a point to keep in the same pristine condition as it was when Mom presented it to me. That condition was in marked contrast to Jim and Bud's rooms, which were anything but clean and organized.

George saw me looking and confessed, "It's not usually this neat. Mom and I spent all of last night and most of this morning straightening up. She even made me change my shirt before you got here."

"You didn't need to do all this for me!" I said.

George's knit shirt and pressed khaki shorts did look good on him, though. I was flattered that Lucinda had gone to so much trouble on my account.

"Well, I think it's mainly for your mother. I showed Mom the address you gave me and she just about hit the ceiling when she found out who your mom was."

"Oh!"

I felt a momentary pang of jealousy that this visit had suddenly become about a visit by 'Mrs. Reynolds'. After which, I didn't know whether to laugh or be embarrassed. I had been upstaged by Mom's social status and reputation and I was ashamed of my reaction. I had been through a lot lately, and I guess I had got used to being at the center of things. Here was a perfectly clear reminder that no matter how dramatic my life had become, not everything was about me.

"It's OK," George said. "My room probably needed to be cleaned up anyway. And I found a few things that had got lost, too."

That sounded more like it. You could have misplaced any number of things in Jim's room and not found them for days. Mom's comment about not leaving any surprises for the cleaning people started to make more sense.

"So," I said, trying to get my mind off the conversation going on in the living room — a conversation that I now understood was even less my business than I had supposed it to be. "When you told me about your school, I pictured this big prison full of boys, all dying to get out. I guess I thought they kept you under lock and key." I had even fantasized about smuggling myself in so I could find out what it would be like to be the only girl locked up with hundreds of lonely boys.

"I probably exaggerated some. It's not really that bad. It just seems like a prison because it's all guys and no girls. The security is pretty tight, though. There is a fence around the place, and guards at the gate. You have to show your ID to get in in the morning, and you need a pass to get off the grounds during school hours. It's just a lot more... restrictive than regular school. The sports requirement is one thing. They also have a strict dress code that's very last-century, you know?"

"Yeah. I understand." George and I had more in common that I had thought. I knew just how he felt, dealing with all those rules and restrictions.

"So, you want to go over and hit the mall, or go to a movie, or just hang out here and listen to some tunes. I have almost all of Steel Flytrap's CDs."

I hated to tell George that I had never developed a taste for Metal. It all just sounded like an excuse for a headache to me. I wasn't real fond of Rap, either. I preferred music that had a melody and didn't hurt your ears. I scanned George's collection politely, but there wasn't much there that appealed to me.

The idea of going out somewhere with George did sound good, though.

"I don't want to put your Mom out or anything." I said.

"Oh, she won't mind. I already asked her if she minded me taking the car, in case we wanted to go somewhere."

I had been so used to being dependant on others for transportation that I hadn't even considered that someone with a driver's license could just walk out of the house, get in the car and go wherever they wanted. I suppose having a doting mother, as well as my own personal chauffeur, and a rather unique form of transport had spoiled me and insulated me from the ordinary pleasures of the real world. Going for a ride with George sounded perfect.

"OK, let's go," I said. "Anywhere you want!"

Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Whitley were chatting away when George and I stuck our heads in long enough for him to tell his mother we were leaving.

"That's fine, dear. Have a good time!" Mrs. Whitley called out as George grabbed the keys off the hook and we dashed outside.

Mom just smiled and waved at me as George dragged me along behind him. I suppose an opportunity to get out of the house sounded pretty good to him. We barely touched the steps on the way out of the house.

George rolled all the windows down as soon as we were in the car. I started to object, because the wind would mess-up my hair, but riding along with the breeze blowing through the car seemed to go along with the sense of freedom I felt, so I didn't say anything.

"Um, I like your — ah — shoot, whatever it is," George stammered, taking a hand off the wheel long enough to wave at my playsuit.

"'Jumper'," I said, "And thank you kindly. I think it's cute. If a little snug."

I pulled my shoulders back to emphasize where it was snug on me. George turned his head and looked. He looked a little too long and when he looked back he had to jerk the wheel to keep the car from running into the curb.