Chapter 18

"Are you going -- pant -- to the dance -- puff --?"

"Noooo," I drawled out sourly.

"Why not?"

"Nobody's asked me," I answered irritably, my sneakers chuff-chuff-chuffing on the sidewalk, the morning breeze taking its usual liberties with my unclothed state. The neighborhood was so used to seeing me this way I got friendly waves with only an occasional whistle. Missy, of course, was in her running finery.

At least Missy's question was a good distraction from all my other worries, like that "kill the program" phone call, and something funny was going on between Mom and Elaine, and what's Mom got in store for my birthday this time, and I still didn't have "goals" for the committee, and I haven't had time to do any diving, and like at this point I'd lose a race to a guppy, and Greg and I HAVE to pose for Kathy tomorrow afternoon, 'cause her project is behind schedule, and ... you get the idea. Thinking of all that I'd almost gone to ground in my bed again this morning, rather than face the day, but I couldn't abandon Missy and our training runs.

I was current on homework only thanks to self discipline and strict prioritization. Priorities put Missy and my condition near the top of the list.

"Whattaya mean, -- pant -- nobody's asked you? -- puff -- Hasn't Greg -- pant -- asked you?"

It was Tuesday, the second our morning jogs, my muscles were protesting, and I knew from experience that tomorrow, the third day, would be even worse.

And from here on I'll spare you the breathtaking punctuation.

"No, he hasn't. Are you going?" I volleyed back, knowing that wasn't a fair question.

"Well, no," Missy admitted unhappily. "No one has asked me. But I don't have a boyfriend. Why don't you ask Greg?"

"I can't ask Greg! He's supposed to ask me." The thought of asking him gave me chills. What if he said no?

This from a girl who'd defended her BFF from a mob, taken on and soundly defeated a fiendish pedophile? How illogical can I be? My psyche was taking a battering today, which only made me feel worse.

"What century are you living in?"

I dodged that question. "You and I could go together."

I'll give her credit, she didn't slam on the brakes or hang a sharp left down Birch street. Instead she just shook her head. "I have enough trouble ... what's that noise?"

My backpack had suddenly started sounding off with a bugle call, of all things. Thanks to Elaine I was a cavalry charge.

"Hold on a minute." I grunted, slowing and swinging my backpack off. "It's my phone."

That brought Missy to a jarring halt. "Your what? When did you get a cell phone?"

Digging my new phone out of my pack while jogging proved to be impossible so ten paces beyond her I slowed to a walk, finally stopped, dropping the pack so I could dig into it, mooning everyone south of Maple Ave in the process. By the time I found the phone, extracted it and managed to get it open Missy had caught up and it had stopped sounding off. The little screen informed me helpfully that I had one missed call. Well doh!

"Shit!"

"You got a cell?" She was leaning on me, panting, peeking at my newest toy, obviously enjoying the respite.

"It was handed to me this morning, about two seconds before you were at the door," I puffed, slinging my backpack on again, keeping the phone in hand as I resumed jogging, Missy joining me, dragged along, I guess, by the sheer force of my personality.

"I'm finally in the 21st century. I haven't even had time to play with it, 'cause Elaine was still programming it -- or something -- just before she handed it to me."

And why her, I wondered. Mom gets me stuff like this. Something was going on with them. I was going to do some serious sleuthing, if I could just find the time. "Anyway, is there some way I can return a missed call?"

Missy had some sort of a smart phone. Mine was pretty dumb, not that I cared. The thought of having a phone smarter than me made me uncomfortable.

"Gimme."

I handed it to her without breaking stride. I was NOT going to let anything interfere with our training!

"Just push this button, it'll dial whoever just called you," she explained, pointing as the phone bobbed around in her hand. After I figured out which button she meant I got the thing dialed -- what an anachronistic term! -- and to my ear.

"Hi Mom ... yes, it's working ... I had to get it out of my backpack ... I'm naked, where do you suggest I keep it? ... She's still there? ... Oh, you're on the way to the car? ... Well, yes, being that she's a gynecologist I know where she's telling me to put it! ... Stop laughing! What if she were a proctologist? ... Yes Mom I'll call you when I get to school ... Okay, you'll be driving, so I'll call Elaine's cell ... Yes, Mom, hers is speed dial six ... I love you, too."

Wondering where she and Elaine were going together at this time of the day, I snapped it shut, hoping that hung it up. I'd promised never to turn it off. No problem there, I'd barely learned how to turn it on!

"Because of last Friday, huh?" Missy asked.

"Uh huh. I think Elaine laid a guilt trip on Mom. Maybe that's why Mom let Elaine pick up the cost. It's a prepaid, Elaine said, whatever that means. This morning she was setting up speed dial numbers on it, Mom at home, the office and her cell, and herself at her office and cell -- how many is that? Five? -- plus 911, and probably the FBI, the CIA and the National Guard, just in case. When we get to school maybe you can show me how to speed dial, and how to turn the darn ringer off, too, so a wrong number doesn't set off the charge of the light brigade and get me detention. Elaine has a funny sense of humor."

"Sure."

"So, you won't go to the dance with me?" I asked in a teasing tone, half hoping she'd take me up on it.

"Thanks, but no thanks." She knew I was at least half serious, but it didn't upset her. We were settling into our new relationship.

"I've got enough trouble recovering from my dumbness from last year," she grumbled. "I don't want to add a reputation as a lesbian to the pile. No offense."

"None taken. And anyway, I'm not lez, I'm bi -- just ask Greg!"

All I had to do was think of Saturday night and it got my juices flowing. It threatened to be a soggy day down there, so I had a towel in my backpack to sit on, figuring I should set a good example while waiting for The Powers That Be to respond to the committee's request.

As for Missy's social life, with her mom threatening her with a convent it had taken major negotiations for her to get permission to date at all, and double dating was not on the table. After all, it had been a defloration afternoon for both of us that triggered the carnal landslide Missy had undergone.

Under the treaty arrived at, any possible suitor had to undergo a face-to-face with her mom and dad, and her parents had to provide transportation to and from. Talk about a date breaker! Right now the few guys interested in her were bottom feeders -- is that a bad pun? -- hoping to take advantage of her alleged slut-dom out behind the soccer equipment shed. Missy was wise to that. I wanted to tell her it would be all right, that she'd find a boyfriend, but she'd heard it all before.

"So, who do you think will be Miss School Spirit this year?" I asked, changing the subject.

"I dunno. You?"

"I dunno."

"No, I mean 'You!'" She pointed at me. "You could be Miss School Spirit!"

I felt a deathly chill. "Please, no! No way, no how, never, nuh uh! Not me! I'm not the bouncy cheerleader type."

"Neither was Beth," Missy pointed out, "and you've already got more of a rep than she ever had."

"You know she was picked 'cause that ape on the football team -- what's his name? Freschetti -- was trying to embarrass her."

"Didn't work, did it?" She thought a minute. "I s'pose the next logical choice would be the Queen Bee."

"Heather MacKenzie?"

"She's a senior, head cheerleader, and she's got all the attributes." Missy made a gesture around her own not insignificant boobs.

"Maybe." I wondered how that would set with Heather. Given what I suspected I couldn't see her setting herself up for a football team gang bang. Though maybe as a cheerleader she'd already been down that road. My bet was she hadn't. She might even have been a virgin last year, until...

I didn't like to think about that at all. "Anyway, it's not up to mere mortals like us. It's the football team's prerogative. That means I'm safe," I assured myself aloud. "I don't even know anyone on the football team."

"Do, too," Missy panted.

"Who?" Then I remembered. "Oh, yeah, that's right. Matt Mozilla. But he's just on the committee."

In spite of her lack of wind from the jog, Missy sent a hooted, "MONGOOOOH!" echoing down the street. That was the cheer that greeted Matt's feats on the playing fields of Central High.

"I hear he jogged you home yesterday," she informed me.

Damn that grapevine works fast! How'd she hear that so soon?

"Oh, I just heard it," she answered vaguely when I asked.

But being reminded of that connection got me worrying. What if he did propose me for the dubious honor of leading the pep rally and cheering the team on at the Big Game, followed by joining the cheerleaders in the locker room to relieve the football team's testosterone overload? I'd better try to nip that in the bud.

"Won't happen," I said with a confidence I didn't feel. "When is the victim announced?"

"Next week, I think. No, week after next. First it's the dance this weekend -- there'll be a king and queen for that -- no worries there, I guess -- then the homecoming game is two weeks after that. Miss School Spirit is announced the Wednesday before the game."

Maybe that open weekend was to be my birthday celebration? Made sense.

"Oh, yeah." I remembered Carl's rendition of how Beth had been shanghaied into it. On the rather pointed spur of the moment -- something like two day's warning -- she'd come up with a way to shove her selection down Freschetti's throat, going all-in -- or should that be all out? -- with her performance.

That, of course, was two years ago. Last year's performance by a senior girl, a baton twirler, had been tame by comparison, though all agreed that her strip-tease to the school fight song, ending with her flinging flaming batons around, had been pretty impressive. A game girl, that: she'd finished the routine in spite of a second-degree burn. I'd heard through Carl that the bandage on the outside of her left boob only spoiled the line of her cashmere sweaters for a couple of weeks.

"Not a chance," I insisted, more confidently than I felt.

Anyway, my more immediate concern was the dance this coming weekend. Here it was Tuesday already. I mean, really, if Greg was going to ask me he should have done it already, right? Not that I have a lot of experience with this stuff but, I mean, a girl needs time to get all dressed up for a big dance like that, doesn't she?

I tried to tell myself I wasn't even sure I wanted to go. It wasn't like Greg and I really dated. Oh sure, we swam together a lot, and screwed like bunnies, given the chance, but he'd never even taken me to the movies! I didn't really know how to dance, but I liked the idea of being in his arms, dressed all fancy, with music and refreshments and maybe even a corsage -- all that mushy stuff I used to tease Carl and Beth about. And besides, it was the weekend before my birthday and it just seemed a good way to celebrate.

But then I worried, what if Mom has planned her surprise party for this coming Saturday, the day of the dance, instead of a week later, the weekend AFTER my Wednesday birthday? And why does she have to do this to me every year anyway? Wasn't I getting a little old for this? I suppose I could talk with her about it, but she seems to have such a good time blindsiding me I'd hate to spoil her fun.

I didn't bother to ask Missy. She'd profess total ignorance but she'd been a birthday party co-conspirator since we'd been friends in nursery school. She wasn't about to break -- what is it the Mafia calls it? omerta -- the code of silence.

Finishing our run, we wheezed our way up the school walkway just as the Great Unveiling was about to take place. I'd been so protected by my gang yesterday I didn't even know who the Naked in School participants were this week. I'd sorta assumed the Worm's departure might have resulted in an interruption, but I guess not.

Then I remembered my promise to Mom and asked Missy to show me how to speed-dial Elaine's cell, holding my phone to my ear as I watched the proceedings.

As usual, most of the boys were more interested in the graceful strip being performed by Barbara Morgan, a cheerleader from the Junior class, and a very tasty morsel indeed. The freshman girl was a cute little blond, the sophomore a member of the track team, and the senior one of Heather Mac's coterie.

Of Heather there was no evidence. Interesting. Another data point to add to my suspicions.

Everyone pretty much ignored me. I guess me being Naked in School was old news. I might re-think my strategy after today.

The girl spectators, on the other hand, were directing their attention to the boys, of course.

"Hi, Elaine, I'm reporting in. No I am NOT going to stow it there! Especially not with it set to vibrate!I love you, too, and tell Mom I love her! Something's going on here, I gotta go."

What had me distracted was one of my two least favorite people, Bud Lacey, AKA Tweedle Dumber, sidekick to my nemesis Rich Cagney, better known to me as Tweedle Dumb. Like a bad car crash, Dumber was the center of attention. He was nervously picking at -- no, not at his nose -- at his grungy clothes, while the girls looked on in revulsion and those guys not captured by Barbara's jiggle were like yapping like hyenas.

And was Tweedle Dumb, Rich Cagney, supporting his friend? Guess again. That shit was heckling his buddy mercilessly, just another member of pack. Shit! As much as I detested that duo, I found I couldn't just stand there while Lacey was humiliated by all and sundry, including his supposed best friend.

Then I thought of the reception Lacey would get if he even had the nerve to ask for relief, and cringed. No girl would get within six feet of him. If he wanted to release some tension he'd have to do it himself, which would brand him as the lowest form of life. These days the minimum socially acceptable act was a stroke job into a hanky by a willing girl, or guy if they both swung that way. A delicate blow job ending with a hanky catch lifted the recipient's status above that of a centipede. Top of the pyramid was a full facial or to be deep throated by a recognized celeb. Intercourse on the teacher's desk was uncouth.

Missy herself gaped as I went up to the little twerp -- he was on the short and stubby side and I was a head taller than him -- and tried to encourage him. "Hey, it's not hard," I pointed out to him. "You were naked yesterday and survived, didn't you?"

"Uh -- yeah," he mumbled. "But I mean, well..."

I began trying to drag his tee shirt up. "Yeah, stripping in public is kinda hard, I know. But, in the end it's no different than yesterday. Hey, look at me, I'm naked again. Concentrate on me. Give me a little help here, though."

He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so it took a minute for him to catch on and raise his arms so I could drag the shirt off over his head, his shaggy locks fluttering around his face in a blizzard of dandruff. I held the shirt out blindly, trusting one of my bunch to take the hint, and sure enough Fran was right there, handling it like it was toxic waste, but handling it.

My participation created a moment of stunned silence, and then the insults flew, cracks like "how can you stand the smell" and, of course "EEEEWWWWWW!" Ignoring them I knelt and was about to attack his belt when I realized he was wearing the grungiest pair of combat boots I'd ever seen. No way I'd get even his baggy pants off over those, so I went for the dangling laces, jerking his foot out from under him so he had to rest a hand on my head to keep his balance.

I'd have to shampoo later.

No socks. He couldn't go barefoot. Just the crud between two toes probably carried the athletes foot of a full army.

God! The things I do for people, I thought as I unbuckled his belt, having dealt with the second boot, ignoring the toe cheese revealed. I have to admit, there was a bit of a smell as I dragged his cargo pants down and held them so he could step out of them. His underwear -- tattle-tale gray boxers with frayed hems -- went next. I recoiled from his dick flopping free inches from my face. As I slid his undies down his hairy legs I estimated his chances of getting relief from any girl alive as between zero and none.

I thought furiously as I helped him back into his boots. Unless...

I felt a scheme brewing, and wondered what his gym schedule was. As per the rules, he was supposed to shower with the girls. With a little encouragement I bet they'd give him a scrubbing like he probably hadn't had in years, if I could find girls brave enough to take on the challenge. But who... ?

Ah hah! The Future Nurses Club! They did volunteer stuff in the local hospital, dealing with bed pans and yucky stuff like that. Who did I know?

Inez! She was taking biology this year, always talking pre-med type stuff. She'd been the one to blot at Harold's bloody nose last year after it had encountered the back of my skull during Missy's near rape. I got to my feet and looked Tweedle Dumber over, deciding that maybe there was some hope there. His body was a little flabby, but his endowment was ample, and alert. Not that I was about to touch it until it had undergone decontamination.