Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 WRITERS' FORUM

   by Holly Rennick

   AUTHOR'S NOTES

   This is a re-write of one of my first efforts.  Back then I thought it
marvelous to knit improbabilities into spectrums of predilection.  But of
course it hardly worked, except maybe for readers with checklists.  In my
re-write, the stretch is a tad more bounded and takes just half the words.

   And my oh my!  That earlier version reads as if I combed through 300
supposedly-erotic stories for sticky-wet adjectives to string together.  I
apologize to any of you who tried to read it.  Let's hope I've learned
something.

   WRITERS' FORUM

   Public school teaching, some might say, is in itself an unreasonable
expectation.  That's self-defeatism, of course.  We can indeed teach.  At
Truman High School, many of us do it quite well, thank you.

   I'm Nora Vanderpool, Language Arts faculty, and my first year at THS,
I'm pleased to report, is working out for me.  How things go once you're in
the door (as opposed to looking in from the hallway) determines success.  I
didn't bolt after my first day when the kids couldn't even hear me tap my
desk.  Tap quieter, advised the teachers who've been around.  I've found it
works.

   THS principal Parker Johnston is a solid educator -- hardworking, a bit
square about budgets, flexible enough to match our abilities to the
pedagogical needs, at ease with students.  Sometimes he'll eat in the
cafeteria, not in the faculty lounge, even.

   I decorate my classroom with travel posters, quotations (half by women)
and baby pictures of such famous Americans as astronaut John Glen and
Senator Margaret Chase Smith.  I've a say in what the library acquires. 
The District-approved list doesn't include Ferlinghetti, but he's still a
significant poet.

   I'll grant that some teaching expectations, while not unreasonable, are
a bother.  I didn't get my education degree to earn my rotation as hall
monitor, for example.  Bit I do it.

   Spring Semester expectation.  Mr.  Johnston wants THS to be more than
classrooms.  Every faculty member gets to lead an extracurricular activity
-- lucky us!  PE teachers are automatic coaches; it's all they know how to
do, anyway.  "Take ten laps, Sports Club." The Music Club kids take private
lessons and the advisor schedules a recital.  For us English teachers,
however, our extracurricular is usually something like the Distribution
Arts Club.  We get to sell popcorn at football games.

   The dregs of possibilities lie before me.  Pep Club?  I couldn't care
less about sports yells.  I may teach English, but I'm no sucker.

   Let's make it something worth doing.

   Such as writing.

   ***

   My Writers' Club idea blindsides Mr.  Johnston.  Writing won't be
anything kids would want to do, he deems, because they already take
English. Mr.  Johnston, you see, has his Masters in Ed Admin.  Writing uses
language; it isn't English, I explain.

   The challenge, of course, is recruitment.  You can't have a club with
just an advisor.  But enrollment doesn't prove to be formidable.  There are
kids who aren't particularly athletic, who don't have some prodigious
performance skill, who don't want a "distribution" job skill, and who, once
they see it might even be fun, are perfectly willing to use a pencil. 
(Pens for final proofed submissions only, my practice.)

   An announcement in my classes, a sign on the hall board, and Writers'
Club is born.

   What I should have anticipated, had I thought of myself, is how school
divides by gender.  Girls do this; boys do that.  When I was 13, I wanted
to play the trombone.  I signed up for the clarinet, though, because, "What
girl would play the trombone?" My switch was wise, but my reason was wrong.
A trombone weighs a ton and gets spitty.

   So our first Writers' Club meeting sees one female advisor and eight
female recruits.  The boys are probably in Rocket Club learning countdowns.
They'll graph fuel/distance ratios or something.  The Space Race is their
ticket.  Science needs new microscopes?  Presto!  District provides.  An
unabridged dictionary for me?  Maybe after June 30 if there are unspent
funds in Line Item 32p.

   The all-girl aspect of Writers' Club isn't bad.  Established and novice
alike, we learn through community.  We all know parts, but not the same
parts, just like Band.  Everyone knows that girls are better than boys at
community.  Boys spend too much time pushing each other.

   A Writers' Club sits in a circle, not parked in rows.  This is a club,
right?  My introductory words are along these lines.  We'll be working
together.  We'll have differing opinions and be better for the discourse.
Discovering who we are is what we're about.

   Let's take a few minutes to mention writings we've enjoyed.  If we don't
read, we'll not do well at writing.  I start off with a few comments about
Jane Austen.  As none of the girls recognize the name, I make a mental note
to look at "The Three Sisters" down the road.  Not all reading's easy, but
then what good thing ever is?

   We work our way around the circle.

   Jane, somewhat petit for grade 12, loves Agatha Christie.  Why?  Because
the characters are such characters, even if you don't understand all the
English stuff.  The girl's right, I reflect.  I don't get into the
difference between English and British.

   Nan likes Dr.  Zhivago.  Other heads nod, probably more indicative of
movie watching than reading, but it's a link.  Nan's also a 12th-grader,
but her self-assurance makes her seem older.

   Sylvia turns out to be a fan of Jean Stiler, an author new to me, but
apparently big in mystery paperbacks.  Sylvia likes how the main characters
deal with life.  Sylvia, our third senior, is on the big-boned side.  She
has the thickest braids I've ever seen.

   Rosemary's favorite is the autobiography of Helen Keller.  I'm
impressed, as Helen Keller didn't write down for children.  Rosemary's
tall, quiet and thoughtful.  Already having her in 11th-grade English, I'm
pleased she's chosen my club.

   Susan, a blonde junior, loves Madeleine L'Engle.  We all know "A Wrinkle
in Time", but Susan can rattle off another five.  Susan's blouse is the
type that falls outward at the neckline.  She throws her arm a little
higher than necessary to push back her hair.

   Sandra's finishing a library book about Amelia Earhart and hopes to do
something likewise adventurous.  Amelia might actually still be alive, she
thinks.  Sandra's a sophomore.  Her braces make her grin really grin.

   Heather, the other sophomore, says that Wilma Rudolph was the 20th of 22
children and won three Olympic golds.  Heather's a cute cookie with short
hair and big eyes.  Her banter suggests a quick mind.  "Wilma had to race
to get a place at the breakfast table."

   Debbie, grade 11, turns beet-red admitting that she loves every kind of
romance.  The others giggle and then, as one, spontaneously applaud. 
Debbie thinks they're poking fun, but when she realizes that they know
exactly what she's talking about, jumps up and dances around like a pixie.
It must be her pixie haircut and pubescence, since I've seen no accounts of
pixie dancing.  We're in an uproar!

   This might be an okay club.

   We wrap it up with a few organizational details.  We'll need
refreshments.  A signup sheet solves that.

   We'll think till next week about what we might actually do.  Book
reviews?  Take turns reading excerpts we write?  Whatever we decide, I'll
do, too.  As it should be.

   I do have one idea.  "Writers' Club" doesn't say much.  But "Forum"
means we're writers, serious about it.  From what we've said, we like
things by and about girls, right?  So that's where we could focus.  It's
not that we don't appreciate the other side, of course, but we can't cover
it all.

   We all laugh, decision unanimous, and not because I'm the teacher.

   "Next week everybody come with an idea."

   ***

   None of the girls have given thought to how we might run Forum, but as
Heather's brought cupcakes, we can munch while we think.  Nobody wants a
reading list.  More to their liking is writing little things and see how
they come out.  I like the do-it-myself approach, too, though I'd not vote
against the reading.

   I say that I might chime in now and then about a point of style or
vocabulary.  "But I'll live with creative grammar if you've got content. 
Just no 'it's' for 'its'.  Deal?"

   "Deal," in chorus, even if half of them don't know the difference.  I'll
give them my little sheet of 28 common writing mistakes, the error embedded
in the rule.  Here's one: "A list should be parallel in structure, balanced
in length, sequential in logic and informing regarding its content." Would
they get it, I wonder?

   "And rewriting's how prose gets better," I remind them.  We'll go
slowly, I tell myself.

   "Now there's one thing that we should promise each other, ladies." I
should call them ladies, not girls.  "It's this.  A writer writes from her
heart," pressing my hand to mine.  "We're working with drafts, if you get
my point.  So here's the deal.  What's said in Forum stays in Forum.  It's
professionalism.  We're writers."

   Some say that I get passionate about this stuff.  I look around.

   Nan looks around too.  "Hey girls, this is serious.  Are we in on this?
Stuff stays in Forum.  I am."

   "Me too."

   "Absolutely," and around the circle.

   "And she'll be cool, too, about us," rules Nan, looking straight my way.

   Of course.

   Enough preamble.  "Okay.  Can I suggest two things for today, since we
ought to do more than eat Heather's cupcakes?  I love these sprinkles. 
First, down to the library and everybody choose something.  Don't worry
about how long it is."

   We do that much.

   "Now mix them up so you don't get yours.  Your job is to read just one
page in the middle, just one.  Next week tell us how it caught you.  If you
want to read the whole book, fine, but just tell us how that middle page
came across.  Word choice, construction, whatever happens on that page. 
We're talking about words, not story.  Make sense?"

   It apparently does.

   At our next Forum (M&M's for nourishment), we give our middle-page
analyses.  A few girls found sentences that have oomph because the writer
doesn't employ a catchall verb or generic adjective.

   ***

   Our first writing (not "homework") is three or four lines about waking
up.

   Most girls catch the spirit.  We're groggy, toes still in the dream
world, weaving disjointed thoughts in semi-consciousness, perhaps irritated
at a sibling banging around.  Debbie even works in a little humor: The
TV-show buzzer signals that she's won the grand prize!  Then her eyes opens
and it's her stupid alarm clock.

   Within a couple of weeks we're making criticisms that come across in
good spirit.  Avoid using that verb twice, for example.  Look for evocative
verbs.

   "'When the sun rose next morning.' Other verb possibilities, girls?"

   "It went up," offers Heather.

   "What about 'ascend'?" I guide.

   "Jesus ascended because it was a big thing, but the sun just rises."

   I like a girl who defends herself.

   *** By week three or four, we're looking forward to each other's
contributions.  Me, probably most of all.

   ***

   It's April when the girls ask if we can write little imaginary stories
about growing up, "You know, girl stuff."

   "Of course."

   "Like making out," clarifies Nan.

   "Well, sure," I allow.  It's good to share with friends.  I myself don't
write about things that personal because maybe I don't have much to write.

   Expression's what Writer's Forum's about, I encourage.  Anything's fair
game for fiction.

   ***

   My girls love the subject of sex.  It's perfectly normal for teenagers
to think about it, of course, and from my perspective, a staple of
literature.

   Sylvia has a paperback about "first loves"; that's what she calls it
anyway.  It's something I'd not have chosen for the library, but it's not
badly written.

   Someone has "Sexual Behavior in the Human Female" which I find a little
far-fetched, but the girls don't.  Not really literature, of course, but a
good example of scientific writing.

   Sandra, Heather and Debbie "date around".  I guess that they don't care
if I guess what that really means, but how could I not when they mention
rhythm method vs.  condoms.  At least they're being careful.

   Maybe they see me blush.

   "You're one of us, remember?" Jane reminds.

   "Nobody has to talk," Rosemary answers for me.  "Anyway, making love's a
pretty broad topic."

   ***

   Here's some of their work written in May.

   The topic is "First Encounters".

   Nan

   Her tale hints of a dark story from the boy's perspective, a writing
challenge for a girl.

   They were home alone.  He wondered why she'd barged in and evicted him
from the tub.  Come here, she ordered.  He reached for the towel and didn't
understand why she kept it.  He was the wet one.

   She put her right hand on his shoulder, pressing him against the wall.
He didn't know why she was drying him.  She dabbed, letting the back of her
hand bounce him.  She gave him a little push, then another, right where she
shouldn't.  She was older and he couldn't stop her.

   She cradled him in her hand, just like he did in the tub.  As in the
soapsuds, he watched himself grow.  He liked the way she touched him, he
decided.  He was like guys her age, she said, pushing and pulling all the
time.

   She made him follow her to her room.  She let him wrap the towel around
himself in the hall.  Get on your back, she said.

   He wasn't sure why she undressed too.  He hadn't known about her hair.

   It might be awhile till they got good, his sister said, but he'd learn.
Why was she getting above him?

   Nan is red.  I'm spellbound.  The rest of Writers' Forum seems less
impressed.

   ***

   Jane

   Here's what she does with a 200-word limit:

   It's hard, running spot for the talent show, but April kept the Steve
McKay's magic act properly framed.  April could tell that his box had a
fake bottom.  Robin's light-booth job was easier, just keeping an eye on
the fixed equipment.

   As April swung to follow Steve strolling stage-right, she felt Robin
touch her back.  She didn't have time to ask why.  Then the bottom of her
sweater.  She kept Steve centered.  Then up her backbone.  Don't, she
thought.  Fingers worked her snap until it parted.  Please don't.

   Robin's hand climbed her shoulder to push the bra strap sideways.  April
stayed with Steve's stage left.  Robin pushed the strap down to the elbow
and tugged April's arm.

   April had to release the spotlight handle and do the aiming with her
other hand while her freed wrist was drawn up her sleeve until the loose
strap could be worked around.  That completed, April switched arms.

   Again strap over shoulder, pushed to the elbow, hand pulled back until
the strap passed.  Freed again to broad-spot Steve's final bow.

   Robin gave April's bra back a few days later.

   "Super story," I judge, trying to be non-judgmental.  "Him doing
something to her she does every day, taking off her bra."

   A few girls exchange glances and then agree it's a good story.

   Forum breaks up when Heather stone-faces, "Gee, we thought Drama got a
new vibrating light, but couldn't understand why it stayed where Steve
McKay had been a minute and a half after he left."

   ***

   Sylvia

   Sylvia has her friend Scott.

   Here are excerpts from Sylvia's "Mandy's Diary".

   At the Dairy Queen, we each knew the other didn't really want to be
running around in a group.  You can't really talk.  It was funny how we
liked the same records, but there was more to it.  I began to like his
records even before he played them.

   I wanted to wait.  I'm glad he didn't ask, because then I'd have to
decide.  Finally he just pecked me, right there on the sidewalk.

   I'd choose outfits that came loose in the middle.  Sometimes while I was
choosing, I'd pretend that my hand was his.

   He'd never had sex, not like me when I was little.  We talked about
being in love, sharing everything.  We just never said we were talking
about going to bed.

   He made his room wonderful.  Flowers from the garden.  A Four Freshmen
long-play.  I told him he better mess things up before his parents got home
so they wouldn't be suspicious.

   I didn't show him how so he'd find the way naturally.

   How am I to know how autobiographical this is?  From their comments on
the story, however, the others presume I know that Sylvia and Scott sleep
together.  He must be a nice boy, I decide, because she's a nice girl.

   ***

   Debbie

   Debbie likes to push the rules.  "Miss Vanderpool?  Can I use the 'F'
word?"

   "It's in the dictionary, but it's usually not the best choice."

   "So no?"

   "Let's just say that characters who say it wouldn't be very educated. 
If you want them that way, use their voice."

   The 5/6 template: give all but one of who, what, why, where, when and
how.  The reader supplies the missing.  Debbie's 5/6 outline:

   What: Making love.

   Where: In her uncle's office.

   When: After school.  She's supposed to study till Mom picks her up.

   Why: They started off joking about make-up homework when she said
"make-up" like "make-out".  He found where she was ticklish.  He said she
was very mature."

   How: Wonderfully.

   Who: Reader's choice.

   The girls say the character should go with someone her own age.  Debbie
says that's in the next chapter, then to no one in particular, "You're
probably right."

   ***

   Susan

   Write the same thing in each person.  Susan's piece is about a girl in
the registration line.

   Third Person.  When Jennie turned to let another student pass, her front
brushed Kim.  She started to step back, but didn't.  Neither did Kim.

   Second Person.  You were just waiting behind Kim to turn in your
registration.  It was just an accident, the bump.  But neither of you moved
away.

   First Person.  I hardly realized that Kim was right there, so when the
kid pushed past, I ran into Kim's elbow.  I knew I felt soft, really soft.

   Susan blushes, but her voice doesn't falter.

   I take over.  "All three persons.  Which works?"

   Sandra ventures, "I like 'I' and 'you' best.  'She' seems kind of
distant."

   Rosemary concurs, "It's always better to put the reader in the story,
like Miss Vanderpool says."

   "So finish the story," challenges Nan.

   "Jennie and Kim signed up for all the same classes," ad-libs the budding
author.

   My heavens!  It's one thing to craft a line.  But on the fly!

   ***

   Sandra

   Sandra tends toward pieces about casual intimacy.

   "It's a camp story I'm gonna call 'Woodchuck Cabin's Sneak-Out'. 
Opening line: Whispers, snaps, zippers.  Muted cries of exhortation,
exertion and ecstasy mingle by the lake.  Sally looked at the stars." She
pauses, then flashes her braces.  "See how I got three 'ex' words there. 
The Thesaurus."

   "How about exaggeration?" from the back.

   "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a..." from another side.

   "Sandra, you're just in 10th."

   The way they rag her, she knows they love every word.

   "Strong start," I rule.  "Just kill the 'stars' bit."

   "Girl Scout camp, she forgot to say," some wag adds.

   Sandra laughs orthodontic silver.

   ***

   Heather

   Heather's a giggler who still talks about "playing" with her friends. 
This paragraph, however, isn't for giggles.

   She still hardly knew him.  They'd been chatting about their schools,
how unreasonable teachers are.  Suddenly she was on the floor, him pinning
her beneath, jerking at her sweater."

   Heather flushes and sits down.  Story over.

   "You can't stop there!" from the others.

   "Sure she can," I decide.

   Afterwards, Heather scribbles on her draft until the others leave.

   "Heather."

   "Yeah?"

   "Your paragraph..."

   "He's okay."

   A guy who forced her?  What should I do?  Maybe I'm just a teacher,
but...

   "I can..." I try.

   "Just a bad way to lose it, though," she makes it matter of fact.  "It's
better to have told about it, right?"

   "We're your friends here."

   "That's why I come.  Thanks."

   Writing's scary sometimes.  I'm scared sometimes, too.

   ***

   Rosemary

   Rosemary's piece is an example of short phrases fired for rapid action.

   Little Helpings.

   How you'll leave the milk crate below your window.

   How you'll clear your collections from the sill.

   How you'll pretend to be asleep when I climb in.

   How you'll have fluffed an extra pillow.

   How you'll pull the blanket over our heads.

   How you'll tell me to hush.

   How I won't.

   How you'll help me crawl out the window.

   Rosemary's perhaps 5-feet-7, wears her brunette hair in a flip.  When
they're taller than you, they seem your age.  I picture the liaison,
Rosemary stealing to her boyfriend's room.  She never says it's she, of
course, but how could she otherwise write that?

   On the way out, I catch her eye.  "That was pure poetry, Rosemary."

   She smiles.

   Maybe we think more about poets.

   I know what perfume she likes (April Dawn).

   Once at my desk, she'd put her hand on the back of my neck while I
explained an assignment.

   One day she'd stayed after school to help me paint.  District does one
color.  If you want contrasting trim, they provide the brush.  To not get
paint on her cardigan, she'd changed into a tee-shirt by the bookshelf away
from the door.  She was wearing a butterfly bra with crisscrossed front.

   There was the time when the class pressed in to hear my Victrola.  Yes,
I said Victrola, that old fashioned record player the little dog listens
to. Rosemary was leaning over my shoulder.

   There was the time my arm touched her when she was helping me staple
reading lists.  She didn't feel my arm and didn't move away.

   On Valentine's Day she gave me a pink heart-shaped cookie, "love,
Rosemary".  Lots of kids give you little things, so it meant nothing.  She
sat beside me to show how she'd calligraphed the frosting.  I thought of
giving her a tiny bottle of April Dawn in return, but a teacher can't
single out students.

   Sometimes when I wake up I wonder what Rosemary will wear that day.

   ***

   The girls want my story, maybe something fictional set when I was about
their age.  I think a long time and come up with "Girls State".

   The two hid out in Sue Lynn's dorm room to avoid General Assembly.  Most
of the delegates to Girls State seemed stuck-up to Annette, maybe because
they were from bigger high schools.  Sue Lynn was friendly.  When Sue Lynn
suggested the two hide out that afternoon, Annette was game.  Nobody would
miss her.

   Sue Lynn locked the door so the counselors wouldn't find them and
stretched out on her bed to talk.  Annette flopped beside her, finding Sue
Lynn's arm a ready pillow.  Annette was surprised when her new friend
kissed her, but it felt like what a friend might do.  When Sue Lynn
advanced her tongue, Annette pulled back, but Sue Lynn pursued and Annette
liked it.  Sue Lynn grinned when Annette tried it back.

   'You ever kissed a girl before?'

   'Just my cousins,' acknowledged Annette.

   Annette started when Sue Lynn pushed up her jersey, but it was too late
to say, no.

   Only when Sue Lynn slipped down her hand did Annette become frightened.
Already too scared to struggle, she shut her eyes.

   Afterwards, they lay side-by-side until they heard other girls in the
hall.

   Annette promised to write, but never did.

   Forum is quiet for a moment.

   "It's okay for girls to kiss, Miss Vanderpool."

   "Maybe," I concede.

   Rosemary stays after school the next day to help me re-shelf books. 
When I go up the step-stool, Rosemary steadies me from behind.  I can smell
her April Dawn.

   She takes my hand to help me descend.  "Miss Vanderpool?"

   "Yes?"

   "Annette should have written."

   With that, she goes to clear a lower bookshelf.

   ***

   "You okay with all this?" asks Heather after a particularly-direct
discussion of what some boys think a prom date means.  "Maybe you see it
different because you're older."

   I hesitate.  "I guess I'm older, but that doesn't mean I know that much.
Maybe it's more common now, or something."

   My look must have told them the rest.

   Sandra's the first to speak up.  "Well I'm pretty much a virgin too."
She wants to stand with me even more than to be like her older friends. 
Bless her.

   "The V word's okay?" asks Debbie to break the ice and we laugh together.

   But I don't want them gushing this stuff.  "Well, that's just how it's
worked out."

   Sylvia thinks a moment.  "Doesn't matter, Miss Vanderpool.  You can
finish your story lots of ways."

   ***

   Not having had sex isn't necessarily a liability.  That these girls are
experienced isn't about me, anyway.  I was brought up when you save
yourself till marriage.  If you don't respect your body, you can't respect
yourself.

   In college, we knew whom.  Some girls let their boyfriends dry hump, as
they called it.  Some girls would even touch his penis.  It was
understandable, even, why some girls went all the way.  They were engaged.

   Me, I knew where I stood.  Goodnight kiss.

   Robert, for example, would take me to plays.  We liked the newer
playwrights.  When you dress up and enter the theater, you clutch your
guy's arm for everybody to see.  Afterwards we'd eat Italian and Robert
would walk me to my dorm.

   Robert was far too opinionated about things he knew little about (e.g.,
Rodgers and Hammerstein) and too much the authority on things in which I
had no interest (e.g., bebop).  I wasn't about to spend myself for less
than the guy that I'd be with forever.

   But it was nice going to the play.

   ***

   It's Debbie who moves us into a more serious verb form -- future tense.
She'd been at a party where there was booze.  What started out as arm
wrestling ended up as intercourse with someone she didn't even know.  She
wasn't even sure if other kids didn't watch.

   "And they want me to come to a party this weekend," Debbie looks ashen,
"to be the dancer," beginning to tear.

   I've misjudged her, I realize, in thinking she takes sex as a lark.

   Maybe Rosemary realizes she's been harsh, too, because she takes
Debbie's hand.  "Debbie, you tell them that I'd already invited you to my
birthday party.  It'll be just a tiny party because it's a bit before the
actual date, but we'll have fun."

   "Hon, we all end up doing wrong stuff sometimes," I add from my chair.
"I know, I've..."

   The class looks at me.

   "Miss Vanderpool." It's Nan.  "You remember about stuff staying in the
Forum?"

   Of course.

   "Well it does."

   I'm not sure what she's talking about.

   "About you and your friend, you know," she clarifies.

   My friend?

   "It's okay.  We promise." It's Nan again.  She rises, then sits back
down.  "It's like some of us just know.  You were telling us you're a
virgin because you're our teacher."

   I feel blank -- perfectly blank for the moment.

   "We don't care," suggests Jane.

   "If you love him," Sylvia qualifies.

   "So," declares Nan, "sleeping with Mr.  J stays here.  Don't worry."

   Sleeping?  My boss?  My God, no!

   "It's cool," justifies Jane.

   "You're both grownups," adds Debbie.

   Everyone's silent.

   "I've never even..."

   Writers' Forum is silent, weighing my denial.

   Finally, "I believe her," from Rosemary.

   "So do I," from another side.

   I sniffle.  "Thanks, girls.  I'm just...."

   "Well I'm sorry for Mr.  J," interrupts Heather.  "Think about him,
seeing you everyday, so pretty and everything.  I'll bet he..."

   And then, just as abruptly, laughter as Nan hits Heather with her Life
Magazine.  More laughter, even me this time.

   I look around the circle.  "You see," I see a way to end this, "I don't
go to camp, I'd trip on the milk crate, I don't do stage lights, I'd mess
it up standing in line, and I forget the rest."

   We laugh and laugh, the better way to talk serious stuff.

   Nan reminds us, "There's kyping Mr.  J's bath towel."

   Heather's drama voice, "We could purloin him.  Oh girls, pray don't bid
me so gently to deflower this damsel."

   Lord!

   She keeps going' "Oh, but you deny me choice!  I must, you demand, love
her as I have never loved before!"

   Where does she pick up such Elizabethan?  Certainly not from a THS text.

   There's nothing like laughter.

   "If we didn't have harmartias," I tell them, "We'd be the Selling
Popcorn Club.  Who knows what 'hamartia' means?"
"Hamartia: fatal flaw.  H-A-M-A-R-T-I-A," sings pixie Debbie.

   ***

   It really doesn't matter that the girls know about my non-start love
life.  Such things never stay hidden.

   I knew of Parker Johnston's erstwhile career as a reporter before
figuring it's easier to teach than to do (thank you, George Bernard Shaw).
The rest of us took it where it needed to go -- it's easier to principal
than to teach.  He tried to tell us about the heavy burden of budgeting.

   So Parker knew something of writing.  More power to him.

   I'd been revising curriculum guidelines.  With six lesson plans due
daily, progress is slow.  Free verse?  Memorization?  Thornton Wilder? 
Should vocabulary be topical or root words?

   But you can't Pink Pearl your mind.  I was lonely.  A principal's door
is always open, Parker's motto.  If my top button was undone when I
delivered Language Arts Goals (Draft 3, Not for Distribution), so what?  It
was after school.

   "For example, don't split the grade-level assessment," I advised, bent
forward to underline something.  "They'll agree with this," pointing to a
random item and dropping my shoulder, "but does it fit with the Strategic
Plan?" I held my posture while Parker's glance wavered between the draft
and me.

   It felt mischievous.

   Rose in the front office hadn't a clue, which made it almost
adventurous.

   I was hauling a Victrola to my classroom when the touch occurred.  This
yard sale bargain would make my classroom one-of-a-kind.  A stack of thick
black plastic disks came with my purchase, so I figured we might see how
lyrical wordings change.  The boys would love the old gadget.

   Parker was coming down the stairs as I was going up, embracing my
contraption.  "Here; I'll help."

   I knew my purchase was awkward, more so than did he.  He lifted the
wooden base before realizing that the top was affixed by balance. 
Preserving the latter required our mutual coordination, me not dropping my
acquisition before he'd assumed the weight.

   For just a moment, the back of his hand jammed my brassiere.

   At first he may have not have distinguished between me and machine.  But
my breast rode with him as he lifted and then slid down his knuckles.

   Parker froze, ears pinkened.  "Oh, Jeez, I'm sorry."

   "It's nothing," I awkwardly replied, hurrying to reclaim the teetering
records.  To fill the pause I added, "Accident."

   He followed me to my classroom, bearing the Victrola like a baby.

   I showed him where to set it, chatting to ease the lingering
embarrassment.  "You never know when you'll save a Victrola, do you?"

   Afterwards I felt shaky.

   ***

   After the next faculty meeting, Parker caught my eye.  I busied myself
for the few minutes it took to clear the room.

   "Nora," directly, "Maybe we need to decide what's going on.  Can we meet
somewhere?" He blushed.  "I mean not at school."

   But I had friends who'd screwed up their careers, literally.  District
takes a dim view of administrator/teacher relationships, especially if he's
married.

   We met at Allmont Park, sat in my Rambler and I'd explained how
friendship can get misconstrued.  As he didn't dispute it, maybe he'd
arrived at the same conclusion.

   I suppose some kid was at the park.  "Did you hear that Mr.  Johnston
laid Miss Vanderpool?"

   Writers' Forum must think they have a more interesting advisor that the
one in my chair.

   "Trust me girls, there's nothing going to happen."

   They understand.

   ***

   Clubs have an awards ceremony, a party, a field trip, something at
year's end.  I suggest going to a professional drama.

   Heather has another idea.  "We deserve a ceremony for literary
improvement." Everyone laughs.  "We'll dress up and everything."

   We'll use the auditorium because readings are better from a stage.  Moms
and Dads will have their "And they did all of this in their club!" sorts of
affirmations.

   "Can we invite Mr.  J?" Eyes my way.

   They know we're not together.  "It's up to you ladies." Actually, I'd
like Parker to see that writing works for high school students.

   Nan gets the principal scheduled.

   Each girl will read a half-page.  I'll critique (complimentary, unspoken
guarantee).  When I remind them that our guest of honor, the principal, is
a journalist, they suggest that he make remarks as well.

   Their drafts tend to be lengthy.  "But this part is where I alliterate."
We prune and prune.

   The parents will want front seats for photography.  The two "critics"
will sit in the back so the readers will remember to project.

   We'll use Debbie's yard for our "Authors' Reception".  After the adults
leave, the girls will have a sleepover, what girls always do.

   "Miss Vanderpool, why don't you sleepover, too?"

   "Me?  Oh no, it would ruin it having a teacher there."

   "No way!  You're a member.  You think we just talk about Barbies?"
challenges Debbie.  "You'll love my room."

   Rosemary weighs in.  "You'll have fun.  We tell stories and everything."

   "Well, it's been years," I admit.

   "We do it all the time and wear our funnest pajamas," urges Sylvia. 
"I've got a Dumbo pair!"

   "Are you sure?" I hope my Sears nightgown will do.  It's all I have.

   The Awards Ceremony is splendid.  We wear nice dresses.  Rosemary, in
off-white with string straps, is stunningly cute.  When she assists with my
scarf, my nipples mark my blouse as would two buttons under a bed-sheet. 
"I'm nervous about my reading, too," in fear she's noticed.

   Party pretty Rosemary throws her arms around me in teen exuberance. 
"We'll do great," her hard breasts riding over my softer ones as she
imparts a lipstick kiss before skipping off to arrange the podium.

   ***

   I'm proud.  We began with eight members and were still eight.  Pep Club
started with about 40 and is now down to the six cheerleaders.

   Parker and I sit in Row M, clipboards ready.  Sylvia's Scott spotlights
the reader, leaving things dim in the auditorium.  Parker's knee bumps mine
when he sits down, but it's an accident.

   They've decorated Debbie's yard with crepe paper, balloons and pictures
from a sacrificed deck of Authors.  The cake's a "book", each layer a
different "chapter".  Sandra's pizza squares are as taught in Home Ec.,
mathematical and not too spicy.

   The girls promptly abandon their heels.

   Parker, in the role he does well, chats with the moms about writing. 
Secretaries will always be in demand.  Thirty-three years for Rose.  She
holds the place together, he acknowledges.  Parker and the dads analyze the
pennant race.  Does Sandy Koufax still have it in him?

   Barefoot Rosemary hugs me from behind.  "How'd I do?" but mixes back
into the others before I can answer.

   ***

   As I'm inserting my second pizza square ("Do have another") into the
hedge, Jane materializes beside me.  "Miss Vanderpool, just follow me like
we're going for Cokes or something."

   I've no idea of what this is about as we circumnavigate the parents.

   She steers me around the house to where I'd parked my car.

   "Get in.  We'll keep people away.  Don't worry." Nan darts off.

   What?

   I comply and look back toward the house where Jane is pointing Parker my
way.

   "Won't start?" as he approaches.  "Let me give it a try."

   Oh God!  It's as clear as can be.  They're trying to get Parker and me
together.  They staged it, starting from having us critique together!

   An end-of-year prank.

   "I think it's their idea of a joke or something," I venture.

   "Your car's okay?" He seems truly perplexed.

   "I think they want to us to get, you know..." I admit.  "They're
probably watching."

   Parker thinks a minute.

   "Hey, Nora.  They're just kids." Then he grins.  "Damn!  You've got one
spunky club!  You're some teacher!"

   I manage a smile.  "You're not mad?"

   "At who?  Night, Nora."

   "Whom.  Night, Parker."

   ***

   Back in Debbie's house, I face my girls, lashing out before apologies
can be offered.  "What must he think?"

   Nobody wants to respond.  It's Susan who admits that they hadn't
realized it would be so complicated.  It works for kids their age.

   "Miss Vanderpool, we thought you wanted to.  He's a nice man."

   I start to cry.

   "We're sorry.  You can sit down." Someone helps me.

   "You were just scared because you knew we were spying," suggests
Heather.

   "I shouldn't be?"

   "Sure you should," she agrees.

   "We thought the auditorium might help.  We made it dark back there,"
Sylvia volunteers.

   I allow a little admission, "He bumped my leg." An exaggeration, I
suppose, but they'd appreciate it.

   A few laugh, but others remain concerned about the failure.

   "So, Miss Vanderpool, we're still a club?"

   "His hand ascended like floodwater." I wane a smile, recalling an
insipid line from someone's early Forum fiction.

   "As she whirl-pooled into love," remembers the author, Sandra, clutching
her heart and trying swoon.

   We all laugh.

   "And you'll still stay for our overnight?  We want you to."

   "Sure girls." They obviously think of me as one of them.

   Friends are worth a lot, even if they're your silly students.

   ***

   In Debbie's room we turn to matters more practical.

   Debbie asks.  "Want my bed?  It's softer than the floor."

   "Rather be like you girls," I decide.  I don't want to be teacher. 
"Thanks, though."

   "Okay, then," turning toward Heather.  "Come on, sweet pie.  We got some
bouncing to do!" she giggles and uses two hands to pull her friend onto the
mattress.

   The rest of us arrange ourselves like the spokes of a wheel.  "Better
for stories."

   That's how we did it in my day too, I note.

   Rosemary pats the spot beside her.  "Your place."

   ***

   "If you want to go to the bathroom to change, you can, since you're a
teacher, but we just do it together usually, especially if we're dressed
up," Nan lets me know.

   Not that I'm immodest, but leaving to undress does seem a bit prudish.
My neighbor Rosemary helps with the small buttons at my collar and I assist
with the back buttons of her dress.

   The girls shed their bras casually.  Their panties are of various
pastels.  I always sleep in mine.  Jane's completely naked before she even
starts digging through her bag.  I try not to look.

   Rosemary's wearing her thin-strapped bra, the lacy one.  I'd hoped she
might, not that it matters, of course, but because I wanted all the girls
to feel pretty.  When she undoes her hooks, back to me, then turns, her
breasts are smaller than I'd imagined.  No, I hadn't even imagined; I'd
just made an automatic assumption about a girl bigger than me.  Her nipples
look like little jellybeans.

   She folds the garment carefully and lays it on her overnight bag.

   Her breasts remind me of opposing encampments in capture-the-flag, of
summer evenings, how we'd stealthily approach the enemy base and then
recklessly dash toward the banner.

   I undo my brassiere under my gown.

   ***

   Running down the hall to brush my teeth, I don't worry about Debbie's
father.  Moms lecture dads about sleepover protocol.  In all my years of
overnights, I never remember a dad in the hall.  I do remember girls
wearing their bras under their PJ's for breakfast, though, just in case.

   In my absence, Rosemary has donned Christmas red pajamas.

   Rosemary has me comb out her hair.  Each tine of her brush is knobbed,
good for the scalp.  She leans back against me while I brush.

   "Know what?" she asks, rolling her head back enough to see my eyes.

   "What?"

   "I didn't think you'd take off with Mr.  J."

   "No.  It wouldn't be very smart."

   "Not that either."

   ***

   There's commotion at the window.

   "Yeah, I got one.  See you later." Sylvia's climbing out, blanket in
hand, braids swinging as she drops.

   Where's she going?

   "She'll be back," Rosemary promises.

   I must have looked confused.

   "The grassy place behind the swing because we don't want Scott in here."

   ***

   Several of the Forum busy themselves lighting candles.  Debbie and
Heather stop wrestling long enough to hit the light-switch.

   In the circles of candlelight, I can see the girls.  Susan and Sandra
are holding hands.  Nan's perched on Jane's lap, an arm around her friend.
Debbie's pinned Heather and is pretending to steal her top.  Pretending?

   Girls!

   Story time almost seems like being a girl again, especially the
incarnations of legend: the Valedictorian whose girdle splits when she eats
one too many hors d'oeuvres at the Honors Banquet; the girl swimming nude
and a beaver steals her clothes to build his dam.

   An upward flashlight makes the storyteller's face look spooky.

   Heather reports one I remember from a million years ago: "You enter a
totally dark room and don't even know who the boy is.  No jewelry or
anything that might give you away.  Hairnets so you don't know each other's
haircut."

   Heather adds that it's better if you already know each other, just not
exactly which person.

   Do kids these days really do that sort of stuff?  Surely not!

   "Anybody ever goose Robert Keenly?"

   It doesn't seem to matter that I had the guy as a student.

   But more is happening than tall tales.

   I can hear the two on the bed snapping each other's panties.

   Our neighbor Sandra is pretending to pout, "Hey, they're all I got!"
while Susan announces from the same shadow, "I'm School Nurse, so I'm
checking out her flatness problem.  So hold very still for your pelvic," in
attempted authority.  "As best I can, Ma'am," grandstands the patient. 
Nurse voice: "Or I'll have to take your temperature."

   Everybody breaks up.  Me, too.  It's a slumber party.

   I hear Nan say something sweet to Jane.

   Nubile bodies dart about, sharing goodnight embraces.  Silhouettes seem
to be one, then two, then one again, perhaps with a lithe arm or leg
protruding in unexpected direction.  A girl gasps until a hand muffles her,
then giggles.

   The two on the bed are one above the other, but I can't tell which is
which.  I hear kissing.

   They know I'll not tell.  Our Forum rule.

   I'd not tell, anyway.  They're my friends.

   ***

   Part way through the rustlings, Rosemary scoots behind me and puts her
hand on the back of my neck.

   "Getting relaxed helps you decide."

   Decide what?  I'd made it perfectly clear about Parker.

   Rosemary kneads my shoulders.

   I like it.

   Her cheek touches my hair.  "You can ask me anything.  It's sleepover."

   Anything?  A sleepover game?

   Okay.

   I get up my courage, "Rosemary?" whispered so others can't hear.

   "Ask me," whispered also.

   "Your poem about your boyfriend and the milk crate.  Do you love him?"

   Rosemary thinks a moment.  "Maybe we need to read it again."

   I'd read it a million times, even.

   "So I get to ask you something," her mouth beside my ear.

   "Sure."

   Rosemary reaches around to trace my collarbone.

   "That story about Girls State.  When she went to bed with that other
girl."

   "It's just where they were."

   "She had an orgasm," not as a question.

   Why is she telling me this?  "Maybe."

   I feel her undoing the top button of my nightgown.

   "Rosemary...?"

   "That made her afraid," she finishes her thought.

   "So what?" It isn't any of her business, anyway.  Should I move away?

   "She doesn't need to be," opening the second button.

   I feel the air on my throat.

   "It was just a story," raising my hand to still hers.

   "Okay." She lets go.

   I lean my head back onto her shoulder.  "Rosemary...?"

   "It was good she told it, though," she pre-empts.

   I slip my hand under hers and undo the third button.

   She pauses a moment, then moves her hand back under mine.

   I breathe in and hold.  Nobody can see us, I tell myself.  Nobody
outside, anyway.

   She slips her hand inside.

   In the flicker of candlelight I let her feel my heart.

   ***

   The candles poof away, leaving only the moonlight filtered through the
curtain.

   "Nightie night, sweet peas!" announces Nan.

   "Night, Mommy," someone teases.

   "Can we kiss you goodnight, Miss Vanderpool?" somebody asks from across
the circle.

   ""We all love you," from another.

   "Girls don't think there's only so much love."

   Shadows on my left and right.  Someone bends in to kiss my cheek. 
Another kisses my forehead.  Another arranges my gown, adjusting the hems
this way and that.

   Fingers massage.  Still Rosemary's?  I don't know.

   The teacher isn't a teacher.

   "We'll take care of you," one of them promises.

   "You're one of us."

   They comb my hair.

   Writers' Forum begins my bridal preparation, for that's what it is.

   "Don't be scared.  We're all here."

   "Here's your pillow."

   Hands lay me back on my sleeping bag.

   I feel the breeze as they remove my gown.  How there could be a breeze
in Debbie's room, I don't know.

   "You're beautiful, Miss Vanderpool."

   A last a lithe body, long-legged and naked, presses beside me and the
others move back, all except one who keeps rubbing my foot.

   How little distinguishes a horizontal female in the darkness, but of
course I know who is making love to me.  Even without the waft of April
Dawn or her jellybeans, I know from her touch.  In a broader sense, though,
it is all my girls.

   I'd feared another's possession, helplessly trembling again.  What had
happened at Girls State was to a Nora who didn't know how to say no.  A
Nora who was masturbated by a girl she hardly knew, not even a boy.  A Nora
who climaxed, hot and sweaty.

   I could say no again, but denial can't remain denied.

   Her lips are liquid.

   I remove my own panties, parting as she enters, withdraws and again
enters.

   I'm trembling, but not a tremble of fright.  I'm trembling my way out of
a shroud and into the light.

   I hold Rosemary as tightly as if she were part of myself.

   My orgasm rolls from my groin up to my breasts, down to my knees, up to
my face, down to my toes.  I feel summer rain.

   I want Rosemary never to leave.  The one who's again rubbing my foot
never to leave.  Them all never to leave.

   My girls say I moaned, but not loudly.  They say I even laughed.

   ***

   Rosemary is curled about me like a book-cover, her breasts against my
shoulders.  "I'm still here, Nora."

   They've zipped our sleeping bags together, ensuring that Rosemary and I
are cuddled before slipping back to their own.

   The window illuminates Jane bobbing above Nan.  Rosemary leans to me. 
"We talked her out of fucking her brother." "Who?" "Remember Nan's story?"
I do.  Oh God!  Thank God for friends.

   By their voices, Heather and Debbie are facing opposite ways.  Someone
whispers, "One a penny, two a penny," and others chorus, "Hot cross buns."
Gales of laughter.

   Susan stage-whispers from across the room, "Hey, Jane up in the light
booth!  Why's that vibrating light still on us?" "Cause she's making a
movie, dummy!" broadcasts Sandra.  After pillows fly her way, Susan rules
that she and Sandra get to make a feather bed.  I can get mine back,
though, "It being her first overnight," throwing one to Rosemary who tucks
it under my head.

   I do to Rosemary what she'd done for me; it's all I know how.

   It will get even better, Rosemary promises afterwards, but that's not
the real reason girls sleep together.

   ***

   Much later we hear a scrape at the window.

   "Sylvia?"

   "Give me a tug."

   With a little help, Sylvia scrambles in, braids undone.

   "You used one?" Nan questions.

   "Like you said, no little Scotties till we get married," Sylvia's
confirmation.

   Sylvia just wants to sleep.  Before she does, though, she comes over to
Rosemary and me and kisses us both, putting my hand on her breast to bid
goodnight.

   ***

   I'd climaxed that time at Girls State, but I'd not made love.  But as I
realize now, making love isn't just about climaxing.

   That morning we sleep in -- slumber party rule inviolate.  The rule
about trading panties is new to me.  I'll do it this once, anyway, even if
Rosemary has no hips.

   I'll get the Dairy Land man to give me a milk crate, even.  But that
would be stupid; I can just give Rosemary a key to my door.

   Going for breakfast, I notice that we've all put on bras under our PJ's.

   THE END

   ***

   Holly on the Web

   Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to the server.  My
problem is that I've no systematic way to update the various servers.  As
literary errors (or just poor word usages) are made known to me, I'll
repair that which is salvageable on /~Holly_Rennick/.
My website's not much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native
language.  If you take the time to read me, don't wade through an earlier
version.

   You can contact me via the site's message form, that HTML code by the
smart people at ASSTR.
   Holly