Chapter 22

Looking at my reflection in the locker room's full-length mirror, I tried to detect any lingering traces of the scrawny kid who had faced down the knuckle-dragging Tweedles at the high school's front door. God, how incredibly arrogant of me! Greg's sarcasm had been thick as syrup when he commented I'd gotten the year off to a great start.

Well he'd been right. Before I'd even gotten in the door I'd broken the first rule for high school freshmen and especially freshwomen.

Don't stand out.

Not that I had a lot of choice on that score, given that I stuck up like a dandelion on a putting green, even among upperclassmen. Maybe I should have bottled the attitude, or at least tried to control The Stick's take-no-prisoners approach.

Sure, go ahead and blame me! The Stick retorted.

Hey, now that we're about to graduate maybe we could add humble to our attributes?

It's hard to be humble when you're as great as we are.

Speak for yourself! I'd like to think that I'm humbler and wiser now.

Humbler? You say that while you're looking at yourself in the mirror?

I tried to ignore her, but she had a point. I thought I looked pretty good. I had hips now and a waist of sorts, and if I ever did bother with a bra my breasts would just about fill a B cup. Meanwhile my swimmer's pecs provided all the lift they needed.

As for wiser -- God, I hope I learned something from the shit I went through that year.

As for the dress, which was the reason I was analyzing myself so closely, nope. No way would the dress I wore to that first homecoming dance work now. Back then, after Heather McKenzie had done a little nipping and tucking, it had fit me like a second skin, but her tailoring still hadn't left enough to let out now. I'd put on a good thirty pounds, some as a result of hormonal changes, but four years of swimming, archery and weight training accounted for a good bit of it, too.

Ten pounds of mud in a five-pound sack came to mind. No more am I the truffula tree Heather had dubbed me the first time I walked into the lunchroom, and more than a little of that improvement I owe to her.

From my boobs my gaze slipped down to what would have been six-pack abs but for my swimmer's adipose layer. From there I moved on to the sensuously waxed curves of my labes. As in most things in my life it is all or nothing at all, so I am bare-naked bald down there. Not even a landing strip. After my first shave, with Heather's guidance I went for the Brazilian wax. Take it off, take it all off has always been my motto.

I've never been able to decide -- is a pussy still a pussy without the fur?

No matter. I like the way my puffy lips unabashedly invite -- what? Inspection? Investigation? Exploration? Penetration?

All of the above? The Stick contributed.

Indeed. Lovers of both sexes have enjoyed my bald playpen, appreciated it in the most intimately and sensuously delightful ways. Some of those who like to -- dine out, shall we say -- have told me they prefer the beach to the bushes. I guess they don't like pubic flossing. My personal tastes are more catholic. While I enjoy smooth licking I'm just as much at home on safari through a lush forest, seeking that sweet hidden grotto with its delicious nectar and the delicate pearl that rewards me with my partners' orgasmic cries.

As I turned to inspect my firmly contoured buttocks I had to admit I'm equally appreciative of penetration, no matter the orifice. Someone once remarked that they believed people were equipped with "in" holes and "out" holes and it was unseemly to put anything into an out hole, but I find that attitude limiting. Besides, the cunt is both in and out, when you stop to think about it.

I studied my long legs -- muscular, but smooth and sleek thanks to the regular attention of the same cosmetologist responsible for the hairless state of my twat for the last four years. Lalita -- no, not Lolita, Lalita, a Hindi name meaning playful -- has a deliciously stimulating approach to her profession, including finishing me off with delectably intimate post-tonsorial -- if that's the word I want -- care.

Needless to say I'm going to miss my front-window exhibitionism, but to the relief of Alphonse I'm leaving his Minute Spa's living-product placement display in the capable -- hands? -- of a certain little oriental gymnast become diver. She appreciates the very personal services of his staff as much as I have.

But getting back to my study of me, unfortunately the grace of my legs is spoiled by my feet. They are definitely too big, as are my hands. On the other hand, my oversized appendages combined with my long limbs have more than compensated by moving me through the water fast enough to earn county and state golds in the 'fly and IM, along with the attention of college athletic offices. Big feet aside, I'm tall enough to make high heels superfluous, though I've been known to wear modest ones to improve the line of my calves.

My arms are as buff as my legs but I avoid rings or bracelets rather than draw attention to my similarly expansive hands. The only exception is a Mexican silver cuff encircling my right wrist, a symbol of a very special relationship with the woman who wears its mate on her left wrist.

I can't look at it without remembering the bond it symbolizes, and that takes my mind back to the rescue of Mary and her siblings. I'd felt guilty that I hadn't warned Maria what I was going to do, breaking the first rule of a partnership, which she'd drilled into me only weeks before:

"If you're gonna be working my side of the street, Chiquita, we gotta learn to trust each other completely. We gotta be confident that you got my back and I got yours. No goin' off Lone Rangering it. I gotta know what you're doin' 'fore you do it. You gotta know what I'm goin' t'do 'fore I do it. We gotta get so close together we're wearing the same skin -- so close we think alike. Comprende?"

As she'd said it she'd been linking my right wrist to her left one with her handcuffs for the duration of a very educational weekend.

And what had I done the night I'd rescued the kids? I'd gone off "Lone Rangering it."

And afterwards, while I'd been dreading Maria's reaction I'd of course been grounded by Mom for betraying her trust as well by sneaking out to pull off the stunt.

I had what I thought was a good excuse. If I'd told either of them they'd have stopped me and God knows what might have happened to those kids in that case.

As to the aftermath, I don't know why I thought foiling the white slavers would make any difference on the kill-the-program battlefront. But as a result of that KTP call at least Mom paroled me for long enough to call Maria to pass along the news and the caller's number that was captured by my cell phone.

And don't ask me how the caller got my cell number. I never have figured that out.

Then I'd plugged my cell into the charger and waited hopefully for Maria to call back while I tried to concentrate on some badly neglected studying.

What followed was what's meant by a ringing silence, never mind that my ringtone for Maria was a burst of some really spicy Mariachi music. As the silence dragged on through the afternoon the taste of my success began to turn to ashes in my mouth. The thought had been lurking in the back of my mind -- maybe it was a whisper from The Stick that had been drowned out by the miraculous success of the kids' rescue. I began to realize how badly I had fucked up.

As the silence stretched over the weekend the gravity of my sin really sank in. I bludgeoned myself over the head with the dismal revelation I'd wrecked everything I'd had with Maria. I don't know that I'd ever felt so alone in my entire life. I couldn't even go to Mom for comfort because what I'd done to Maria I'd also done to her -- correction -- to both Mom and Elaine, my Mom2.

And if my brother found out about it -- which he certainly would -- I'd be on his shit list, too.

How could I possibly have been so stupid! so selfish! By Sunday night I felt so low I wouldn't have blamed Maria if she had simply wiped me off the bottom of her shoe like I was some stinky dog poop she'd stepped in.

Grounded or not I still had to go to school the next day, and God only knew what my classmates would do if they found out what I'd done. But I was so focused on Maria I wandered through my morning classes like a zombie, hoping my cell would vibrate and I could beg forgiveness.

Lunch was as tasteless as ever, and I barely heard the Lunch Bunch chatter whirling around me. I'd avoided the morning newspaper rather than even glance at the article about the raid, afraid of what it would say.

At least there'd been no mention of me in the story or I'd have been pecked to death the moment I'd come through the school the door, though I did get some whispers and sideways looks that had me wondering if maybe I was missing something.

All afternoon my cell phone remained resolutely silent.

No voice mail.

No texts.

Nothing.

And of course it was Monday. I had to chair another fucking SACNISP meeting, bringing with me the joyous news that I'd gotten yet another KTP message, and what should we do about that? At some point I lost track of the agenda, lost control of the meeting, and in the end Mrs. Devers took my gavel and handed it to Heather, who called for a motion to adjourn, which brought the whole train wreck to a screeching halt. As I was ignominiously shoveling my SACNISP stuff into my backpack Mrs. Devers rested her hand on my arm.

"My office," was all she said.

I was painfully aware of the committee shooting concerned looks in my direction as they got dressed.

I tried to weasel out of the command. "I have to go straight home."

I should have known that ploy wouldn't work. She had Mom on speed dial, then waited patiently while I dressed as slowly as I dared, as if she expected me to bolt.

But I'm not the bolting type. I'd fucked up again by letting the committee down, and I knew it. I'd take my well-deserved medicine.

Bracing myself for an interrogation I wondered what I could say. My participation in the raid Friday night -- or should that be Saturday morning? -- couldn't be shared even with Mrs. Devers. I'd told Mom as little as possible, glossing over little details like sending a guy flying downstairs with a kick in his gut.

If the chains in his face or my kick hadn't killed him the fall might have. Leaving me wondering if I was any better than he was -- had been? I felt sick again. As I followed Mrs. Devers out of the room I moped. What kind of a thug was I turning into? If, by some remote chance, Maria might forgive my betrayal she'd probably avoid me just because I was so damn dangerous to be around.

Shit! Somehow I had to quit getting into these situations where I might kill someone or sooner or later I would succeed -- if I hadn't already. I felt another session of Ms. Andrews's anger management training coming on.

Not for the first time I thought maybe I should become a nun.

Not a viable alternative, The Stick pointed out. Celibacy and you are mutually incompatible. Besides, he deserved whatever he got.

I thought you were supposed to be my ego, not my id, I shot back at her.

I can always play devil's advocate, she responded. You did what you had to do.

Any further internal dialogue was cut off by -- speak of the devil -- Ms. Andrews waiting for me in Mrs. Devers's office. I shouldn't have been surprised. Mrs. Devers probably had my shrink on speed dial right next to my Mom.

"She's all yours," was all Devers said, turning me over to what should have been my former middle school counselor. I'd heard my Mom use the term "grandfathered in" about some real estate thing that carried over from the past and I guess that's why the poor woman still had to put up with me. In a way it was a relief, because I knew I could talk to her about anything and it would go no further. There'd be no recriminations, but still...

"Where to now?" I asked gloomily, avoiding the comforting arm she tried to put around me. I didn't deserve comforting. I deserved to suffer. "The archery range?"

"No, the police still have your bow and arrows for evidence. I was thinking of a quieter, more private place."

I tried an excuse to go to some fast food joint to delay things. "I'm hungry."

Then I realized I really was hungry, which surprised me. But then I'd spent most of my lunch period turning any smiling macaronis around so they frowned at me instead of eating them.

But now, whether I liked it or not -- and I did -- Ms. Andrews presence was comforting and my appetite was returning.

"I've got cookies in my office, and we can snitch some milk out of the kitchen."

"What kind of cookies?"

"Chocolate chip."

My interest increased. "Store-bought?"

"Home-baked."

Well, if there's anything that can penetrate a mood like I was in it is the thought of home-baked chocolate chip cookies washed down with milk.

I was on my fourth cookie, staring at the little carved elephant on her desk -- the one I'd once been so intimately involved with way back when -- before she broke the silence. "Interesting article in the newspaper this morning."

I gave a grunt as my defenses went up. I shrugged, trying to convey I hadn't read the paper.

Well, my mouth was full of cookie, after all.

"Seems a combined local, federal and state task force rescued a half-dozen kids -- orphans -- from child-sex traffickers," she went on.

I reached for another cookie, trying to look as if I didn't know and didn't care.

"Good thing," she observed. "Terrible thing, trading in kids like that. Awful stuff happens to 'em. I know, I've had to treat the results."

Milk and cookies -- mmmmmm.

I'm glad you're enjoying 'em, I told The Stick.

Admit it, you are, too.

Ms. Andrews's calm voice penetrated our little internal dialogue. "The official spokesman for the operation said the whole thing went very smoothly, that the kids are safe and being cared for. They'll need counseling and medical care, of course. The four perps are in custody, one in the hospital. He was found at the bottom of the stairs. According to the doctors he's suffering from facial lacerations, a concussion, a fractured nose and orbital bone, and contusions. Through some miracle he won't lose the eye, and his abdominal injuries aren't life-threatening."

I took another cookie.

"An emergency room doctor was quoted as saying that it looked like he got whacked in the face by something really harsh, then whoever did the whacking kicked the stuffings out of him for good measure, sending him down the stairs. The other three were treated and released into custody. Somehow they got trapped in upstairs rooms and smashed their fingers trying to get out. No one can quite figure out how that happened."

A swallow of milk to wash the crumbs down.

"Smashed fingers. Imagine that! Must make it hard to fingerprint 'em," she mused.

I nodded, feeling a little surge of relief that the guy I'd kicked was okay, sort of, but concentrated on the next cookie, which did taste just a little bit better than the last one. Nice and chewy and chocolatey.

"But the funniest thing in the article was on the inside page, near the end. One of the little girls is quoted as saying they were saved by a giant ninja with blonde hair who got 'em loose and hid in the closet with them when the police attacked."

Damn! I shoulda kept the balaclava on.

"But you know how reliable kids that age can be, under stress like that. Can't take a tale like that seriously," Ms. Andrews went on, looking at me slyly.

I masticated another cookie, washing it down with more milk, my metabolism perking up.

"The block where the house was located rang a bell with me, too," she prompted me again.

She knew. Oh she knew, all right.

Fortunately my mouth was full of cookie, and Mom always told me not to talk with my mouth full, so all I could do was sort of shrug and grunt.

And shove another cookie in as soon as I could.

"I have a hard time imagining you as a ninja, but to a little kid you'd seem like a giant, and you are a blonde.

"And as I say, the neighborhood is familiar.

"And it involves kids in trouble.

"Coincidence?" she asked.

I hid behind my milk.

"Is that what's got you so upset?" she went on in her gentle professional tone, moving the cookies so she could take one, coincidentally moving them out of my reach. "Soon as I saw the paper I knew it had to be you. God knows I'd be rattled, especially if I thought I might have killed someone. I just waited for the call, and sure enough it came."

When I didn't say anything she moved the cookies back, but I was full by then anyway, and moved from behind her desk to sit beside me on the couch so I could lean against her warm, comforting bulk and leak tears. I welcomed her arm around me this time, as I told her the whole thing, even what I'd done to the guy I'd hurt so badly. She listened the way she always does, sympathetically, not judging me, just listening.

When I was done she thought for a while. "So basically the kid had it right."

"Elizabeth," I answered softly, letting Ms. Andrews know she wasn't just some kid. "The kid's name is Elizabeth. She's six."

"Elizabeth. That's your middle name."

I nodded, tears stinging my eyes, remembering the bruises, on her wrists, her shoulders, her legs, as if someone had held her down, and on the insides of her thighs.

"No one should ever have to go through what she's been through," I choked out. "None of them should, and she's only six." I was crying. I hadn't even known that was in there. Ms. Andrews is like that, she finds hurts I don't even know are there and releases them. I guess it's like lancing a boil -- not that I've ever had one -- so it can heal.

"It's not fair," I snuffled at last. "I have two moms, and I have you, you're almost a third mom to me, and I have Mrs. Devers, and so many friends to protect me and care about me, and those poor kids don't have anyone except each other, and sometimes not even that. It's not fair."

I was angry again, and sad.

"No, it's not," Ms. Andrews agreed, combing her fingers through my hair. "But they have a fighting chance now, and you helped."

"Can you do anything? They need to be together. They're family, the only family they've got. Mary and Jake, the older ones, they're twelve and eleven, when they have the chance they try to be mom and dad to the littler ones, but they're just kids themselves. They shouldn't have to do that."

Ms. Andrews sighed. "I'll try. I can talk with Social Services. I know Georgia Swain. She's a good person, overworked and underpaid, of course."

"Like you," I observed sympathetically.

"Like me," she agreed with a wry chuckle. "Overworked, anyway."

"And a lot of it is my fault."

"Sweetie, this is my job, and I love it. Underpaid? I don't do it for the money. Sure there are some kids I sometimes wonder why I try..."

"Like Horace," I couldn't help respond.

She sighed from the depths of her soul. "Like Horace! But you more than make up for the Horaces of the world."

Then I thought of Maria and my mood plunged again. I could see she sensed it.

"Do you think I'm crazy? Bi-polar?"

"What?"

"You know, like what they used to call it, manic-depressive?"

She laughed, then sobered up when she saw how serious I was. Given my mood swings I'd been doing some reading up and saw a future of mind-numbing medications ahead of me.

"One minute I'm on top of the world, ready to take on -- take on kidnappers single-handed, and the next I'm totally down in the dumps. I burst into tears. I want to dig myself a hole and hide in it, I..."

She cut me off. "No, Dee, you are not bi-polar. You're a teenager. It goes with the territory -- especially the territory you've staked out for yourself at your tender age. If I'd gone through what you've already gone through this year I'd be a basket case. I'd lock myself in a rubber room and throw away the key.

"There's nothing wrong with you."

She eyed me shrewdly. "Now, why don't you tell me what's really bothering you."

So I did a full emotional dump on her, about how I'd messed things up with my moms, and with Maria, about how Maria and I were -- had been -- partners, until I'd messed it up.

As usual, Ms. Andrews sat there and listened patiently while I poured my heart out to her.

"Your moms will get over it," she assured me. "They love you unconditionally. It'll just take some time, and continued good behavior on your part. But you know that."

I nodded, and snuffled again. I actually SNUFFLED, like I was still some little kid wiping my nose on my sleeve. I hate to snuffle. Gross. I reached for the tissues.

"Have you talked to Maria?"

"Saturday I called her 'cause I got another one of those 'kill the program' calls. I left a message on her voice mail, but she hasn't called back. She always calls back as soon as she can."

"After that raid she's probably pretty busy."

I shook my head woefully. "She'd call. I know she'd call. She hates me. I know she hates me."

"Why don't you call her?"

I snuffled again. "I'm afraid to," I confessed. While I shredded tissues she thought.

"Give her some time," she finally urged. "Give yourself some time, too. I'm sure she's busy, especially since you told her about that call. She's probably chasing that lead down.

"Meanwhile, I'll see what can be done for those children. They're going to need a lot of support. I know the police counselor, and Georgia Swain. Maybe I can help. Wouldn't hurt if you could give 'em some attention yourself."

I sniffed, a little cheered by the thought. Mary was such a lovely thing, and Jake had been so brave trying to protect his sister. "It'll have to wait until I'm ungrounded, though."

"Just as well. You could be a reminder to them. They're probably not ready for you yet. Meanwhile, you better get home. I'll call your mom and let her know you're on the way."

"Thanks." I blew my nose again, swept up my tissue shreds and tossed them as she called.

"She'll meet you at the front entrance," Ms. Andrews assured me.

It was a silent ride home, and I was returned to confinement. As the week went by I tried to resign myself to the knowledge that Maria wasn't ever going to call again. My days became a gloomy sequence of school and home. I didn't even enjoy swimming practice, if you can believe that, and after I'd turned away from Greg for the third time he abandoned me to my funk.