Gynophagia Chronicles: Samantha
Thursday, September 24, 2218
Franklin High School 8:30am
From Samantha Marie Wells’ Memoirs
“...and last night, she 'ad me profin' briefs,” Elizabeth was saying.
School had just re-opened. The police had locked the place down since Monday, and we had been doing classes remotely, which was tedious and we got a lot less done. We'd be spending the next three Saturdays in school to make up for it. Swim class was completely different without Miss Bauer. Miss Bettencourt was not the harsh taskmistress Bauer had been, but she tolerated no funny business either. She had even inherited Miss Bauer's swat and had even reminded us what it sounded like once.
“I'd love to get an interview,” Lee Anne said. We were just coming out of the pool and up the stairs to the locker room. The line to the showers was already a mile long with noisy girls yakking.
The news was filled with nothing but this story, and other stories like it from across the country. Marcus Jackson and rival Dillon Kramer had come together on the issue. Both had delivered powerful speeches on the subject and promised action. This morning had a story by me quoting Congressman Jackson on joint legislation he and Dillon Kramer were working on. I couldn't get a quote from Kramer, but I did manage to get his public statement from his website. The crafted legislation would be targeting unions that certified unqualified labour or represented illegal immigrants with double penalties for both and prison time for anyone knowingly involved.
“How did you get that story up so fast?” Lee Anne asked of me.
“I called,” I shrugged. “It wasn't difficult to write.”
“Kramer is so far ahead in the polls,” Elizabeth said. “He can afford to be gracious. And I think Jackson wants to save face for when he loses the election. He'll still be in congress. His constituents aren't going to vote for fuck all else.”
“Any word on Kramer supporting the Sanchez-Jackson bill?” I asked.
“I haven't heard a word on it,” Elizabeth said as we finally entered the shower and the cold water streamed. The three of us shared a shower head as we pealed out of our wet outfits.
“What's your impression?” Lee Anne asked.
“I met him only last evening. I have no read on the man, so I don't honestly know.”
“Well,” Lee Anne said. “In other news, it looks like the school board is royally pissed about the Naked Swimming petition.”
“Did Andrea tell you that?”
“No,” Lee Anne said. “I heard Miss Masters and Miss Emerson talking. They seemed a little scared about it. I think the School Board is feeling their power because this whole thing on Monday allowed them to kick out the food worker's union.”
“They were saying that?” I asked.
“It wasn't that they said it, it's the way they were talking. It's the impression I got.”
I shook my head. “You know what Miss Masters would say about that.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lee Anne said. “I know, I know. Don't assume anything when you're reporting.”
“I just wish the would heat the water,” Elizabeth said.
“Sam, what the hell?” Jenna stood red faced and furious naked in front of me.
“What?”
Behind her, Gracie, Reba and Andrea stood with worried looks on their faces.
“When were you going to tell us you went to Tropicana Blue?”
“You went to Tropicana Blue?” asked Lee Anne. “THE Tropicana Blue in Orinda?”
“I thought you told them!” Reba said.
“No! No she didn't,” Jenna said. “You even published a review of it in the Herald? What the fuck? What else are you hiding, Sam?”
“Jenna, stop!” I said. “I went with Reba. I didn't expect to go...”
“She didn't... she...” Reba started.
“Wait until I tell Mom, Sam! I swear you're gonna get it!”
I opened my mouth to protest, but I said nothing. I stood there guilt as charged and humiliated. Lee Anne and Elizabeth had become silent and backed away from me. I had spent a week as the golden child, and that was about to come to an end. I thought about it as I dressed and made my way up to class. I reasoned with myself that I did not want to make my sisters jealous. Maybe that's why I spent so much time tutoring Gracie and Celine. Penance? I don't know. But Gracie had this look of disappointment on her face that truly got to me far more than anything Jenna said. Jenna was Jenna. I expected her to scream about anything at any time. Gracie's disapproval was something else entirely.
“Samantha has a boyfriend?” Jenna piped up again. “My God, Sam!”
“Reba!” I said. “Please stop!”
“But I thought you'd want them to know about Michael!”
I shook my head and tears streamed down my face.
“You have a boyfriend?” Gracie asked, incredulous.
“He's not! I mean, we kissed! But that's all! He's so much older than me and he's beautiful and he's got to have a lot of women he can have any time, I don't stand a chance...”
“He kissed you?” Gracie asked. “Sammie, what was it like? Was it nice? Was he good? What did he do?”
I said nothing at all. Gushing, Reba told the story describing in gory detail about the dress, about the jewelery, about the dance and the kiss... that kiss...
“Gawd,” Jenna said. “Sam, I am so pissed you never told us anything! Why don't you trust us? I'm your sister! We could get converted tomorrow, or even today and you hold back? What is your problem? You think your better than us?”
“No!” I protested. “No! I don't! You're better than me!”
“Oh bullshit!” Jenna said. “Bull fucking shit, Sam! Don't even go there, you shit! Don't even talk to me!”
“But...”
“Fuck off!”
It was about to get even worse.
As we passed through the grand hallway at the school entrance, every single teacher and every single employee, minus the kitchen staff, was there. The moment I came through the door the entire assembly broke into applause! There was a big sign went up that said “We Love You Samantha!” The look of abject rage that Jenna shot me told me everything I needed to know about how she felt about that.
Miss Masters came up to me and hugged me, as did Miss Emerson and even Miss Farmer.
“You have no idea what you did for us!” Miss Masters said. She was weeping.
As suddenly as it happened, the moment passed and we surreal-world disappeared and we were back in school. The banner was gone and the gathered faculty broke up to call their classrooms to order, or at least make the attempt.
We trudged up the steps and down the hall to our classroom and not one word was said to me. People whispered about me. I heard them. I just kept my eyes down and tried to pretend I couldn't hear. Jenna marched with stomping feet in front of me and Gracie looked back more than once.
I took my seat, got out my PDA and waited in the voice filled room for the few moments before Miss Masters appeared followed by another, younger woman with a perfectly pressed slate gray suit, sharp features and bob cut blonde do with not a hair out of place. She stood at the door leaning on the jam holding setting a brief case down on the floor waiting.
Miss Masters took attendance and caught my eye, smiled a sad sort of smile, and stood upright to come round in front of her desk. At that point, we broke up, the non-journalism students moving off to their respective classes. Gracie had her disappointed look on her face as she turned to see me on her way out, the journalism majors began to filter in, taking their seats and breaking out their PDA's and papers to hand in. Twenty three in all, nineteen girls and four boys. The were a studious lot, though they could get chatty.
“Today we're going to get a presentation from one of my former students,” Miss Masters told us once everyone was in the room and those not yet seated abruptly ended whatever conversation they were involved in and scurried to find their places. “Clara Stuart graduated from this very school six years ago and immediately went to work for the San Francisco Chronicle where she stayed on for two years before being recruited by the New York Times.
Oh yes, I knew the name Clara Stuart. I had no idea I'd ever meet her. She was a legend here, and without question Miss Masters' and Miss Emerson's most successful former student.
Miss Stuart had picked up her brief case and set it on Miss Masters' desk then took her place next to Miss Masters.
“Clara is in town covering the story broke by our own Samantha Wells for the New York Times and has consented to give us some time to share some of her experience working as a journalist in one of the most respected news organizations in the world. Clara?”
“Thank you, Miss Masters. Good Morning!”
“Good Morning,” the class droned.
“As Miss Masters said, I work for the New York Times and I am here covering what has come to be called the School Butchery Case. It has, of course, gone national thanks to an upstart news wire that sprung on the scene with this story...” She went on to tell us all what we already knew. To her credit, Miss Stuart did it with enough panache to keep it from boring us.
“This story offers quite a few lessons on what to do and what not to do as a journalist...” she continued. “Half of you will get jobs as journalists. A quarter of you will probably be field reporters, and maybe two of you will break a national story. I'd say one, normally, but there's one intrepid reporter among you who already has,” the class laughed. “Breaking a national headline is a complete rush. I know, I've done it. It must NE-VER be your goal! Never! Why?” All hands went up, and Miss Stuart looked at the seating chart, then pointed. “Ruth Zimmer.”
“The goal is to write a compelling story that keeps readers interested.”
“And why do we want that?... uhm... Cate Fernandez.”
“To sell papers.”
“Your glory is secondary and primary at the same time. We call this 'enlightened self interest.' That means, that when your name is equated with interesting reading, the paper you work for benefits. If the paper you work for is equated with interesting reading, you benefit. What happens if you go to work for some no-name paper that nobody ever heard of outside whatever small town you live in? Anyone? Lee Anne Vickers?”
“You have be extra good,” Lee Anne said.
“But if you're extra good, why don't you work for a reputable paper?” Miss Stuart asked. “Don't bother, there is no correct answer to that question. And sometimes you need to ask questions that have no answers of yourself, of your subjects and of your readers. Ask an unanswerable question of a subject gives you insight into their character and their intelligence. Asking it of yourself keeps you on your toes and asking it of your readers causes them to think. And you most definitely want your readers to be thinkers! Your job is to find a compelling story and present it in a factual, compelling way. Grab your readers from the very beginning and hook them so they cannot stop till they come to the end, and make sure they want more. Yes, uhm, Jenna Wells?”
“How do we do that, though? Make them want more?”
“Okay, anyone here read novels? Not very many of you. Or watch movies. You'll always see a resolution at the end of the novel or movie unless the author intends to continue the story. Real life has no ending till the human race is extinct. There's always something more, and most things are connected to most other things. You can draw a connection between the girl serving coffee at the local bistro and the butterfly flapping its wings in the Amazon Rain Forest if you try hard enough. Leaving your readers wanting more is the easy part. The hard part is hooking them in the first place. Let's take the story from our intrepid reporter and pull it apart...”
Miss Stuart handed my story from Monday and smiled at me with tight lips as she passed. She had various members of the class read four or five lines each till it was done.
“We have a rule in journalism,” Miss Stuart said. “Never become the subject of your own story. Intrepid Reporter could not help it. She was already part of the story and is also a material witness. Fortunately she was smart enough to distance herself from the action just enough without putting herself in god's shoes. However, she has yet to publish word one on this story since she broke it, and that is a problem, but I digress. Lee Anne, please read the fourth paragraph.”
“Patricia Bauer,” Lee Anne read. “Had a reputation as a stern taskmistress among Franklin High students. She had strong opinions, not the least of which was on the lack of good quality food produced in the Cafeteria, and made that loudly clear at least once, often twice a week. Bauer's words were few when it came to encouragement, her actions spoke volumes about how much she cared. Behind the scenes she lobbied for the students with the school board over issues important to the vast majority of students, the latest being an issue over wet gym uniforms students were forced to use in class.”
“Okay,” Miss Stuart said. “You all knew Patricia Bauer as your gym teacher. I knew her. Bauer had a reputation for arguing with the kitchen staff, being a harsh taskmistress, and not voicing encouragement except with a switch... that pretty much describe who you knew? Yes it does... then Intrepid Reporter goes on to reveal something no one knew, I certainly did not. How she came by it is not important. It happens to be true. What I want you to focus on, what can you tell me about Pat Bauer by this paragraph?” The answers came: She was a hard ass, she was opinionated, she gave a damn about the students... “So we can tell a whole lot about her, can't we! Four sentences. Not short, but not overlong sentences and suddenly you have a good idea of who Pat Bauer was to people who knew her, at least casually. Let's look at the paragraph about Sloan Harding...”
What came through was a run down of basic principals of journalism. She wanted to give us her take on how to write, and I thought she was being very fair to me. She spoke to us about being part of “The Mob” or the type of reporter who joins a throng of others to get a small quote or listen to a press conference. She spoke of them with disdain as if they were not real reporters.
“What's the best way to follow up a story like this one?” Lee Anne asked.
“You know,” Miss Stuart said. “Sometimes you have to back away from it. You break a story, following up is usually the best thing to do because nobody else is covering it. In this case, that gets trickier. You're suddenly competing with a whole lot of reporters and the story takes on a life of its own. What do you do? Do you follow up or do you move on? I think Intrepid Reporter has moved on, maybe. If there is a chance you're going to break new information, and as the story breaker, you have the best chance of that, then you stay on it! If there is little or no chance of adding to the story, move on. Find another story and let the mob do what they do. I'd ask Intrepid Reporter if she's still digging, but a good reporter would not tell me or anyone else...”
The lunch bell rang.
“Leave your things, but everyone take a copy of this on your way out.” Miss Masters said. “We'll pick this up when we get back. Samantha, may I see you?”
I stood and walked up to Miss Masters, smiling a little. I did not want to appear as afraid as I was.
“So this is Intrepid Reporter,” Clara Stuart said, with a half smile that resembled a smirk. She offered her hand, which I took. It was a strong grip, and she held it a moment. “Nice job on that story. But, between you and me, are you following up?”
I shook my head. “No ma'am,” I said honestly. “I really don't have anything else to offer it, I don't think.”
“That's what I told my editor,” Stuart told Miss Masters. “There's nothing here that won't come in press releases public statements. I heard the police gave you a little grief. Have they spoken with you?”
“No,” I said. “I think it's because it's all on video. They don't really need me.”
“Who's this lawyer you got?”
“Barbara Yates?”
“How is it she came to your rescue?”
Suddenly, I realized I was being interviewed.
“Andrea called her,” I said. “My brother asked her to.”
“And she spirited you away to where? Nobody knew where you'd disappeared off to for most of that day. Nobody could find you.”
I smiled. “She has a law library in San Jose she likes. That's where she worked on my statement.”
“San Jose?” Miss Masters exclaimed.
“That's a long way to go to get to a law library,” Stuart said. “Isn't there anything closer?”
“I don't know,” I said. She had a PDA identical to mine clipped to her waist band and its white record light was blinking its slow blink when the voice recorder was on. It's set up not to be noticed by those unaware of its function.
“Okay,” Miss Masters said. “Sam,” she put her hand on my arm and guided me away from Clara Stuart. “Can you stay a little bit after school? I'd really like to talk to you.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“Oh, no! No, It's... personal. If you don't mind.”
“Okay.”
“Good. Don't forget to read this,” she handed me the stapled sheets of text we were supposed to read over lunch.
I grabbed a doe shake from a newly installed dispenser and went outside. The day was abnormally hot for this time of year, at least five degrees above the norm at nearly 100 Degrees Fahrenheit. I wanted to find a quiet place to read the text, but I couldn't resist sitting next to Danielle, April and Mark.
“How are you?” April asked, looking very concerned. I had not seen either her nor Mark since Thursday. Friday at lunch I had avoided everyone, as that was the day of the incident.
“I'm okay,” I said.
“She's lying,” Danielle frowned, making her beautiful face look twenty years older than her thirteen. “You can tell by the dark circles under her eyes. Sam, you really should let me help you with your makeup in the morning.”
“I don't wear makeup.”
“Exactly! You should!”
“She doesn't need makeup,” April said. “Her skin is perfect. But it's true you look tired, Sam. I'm so sorry about all of it. I wish there was something I could do for you.”
I smiled. “I just need to read this.”
“Really?” Mark asked. “You have to work at lunch?”
“Mark can read it to you,” April said. “He's good at reading aloud.... what is it?”
I handed her the sheets.
“Albany Cracks Down On Deviants, by Clara Stuart, New York Times Correspondent...” April read. “Is this for your journalism class?”
“Yes,” I said, and I told them what I knew of Clara Stuart, and why she was here.
“She tried to interview you?” Danielle asked.
“I think that's what she was doing,” I said. “I got a little nervous about it.”
“Why?” April asked. “Did something happen that you left out?”
“April!” Danielle said. “What kind of a question is that?”
“It's a question like any other!” April said.
“It's okay, Dani,” I said. I would have to be careful around April from now on if she could read me like that. I evaded the question as best I could. You've told me repeatedly what a bad liar I am, and I knew it even back then. “I told everything that was relevant to the story, April.”
April still looked in a way that told me she knew there was more to the story. I felt that it was true. The sex was not part of the story. And I felt compelled not to reveal it.
“Anyway,” April handed the pages to Mark. “Do I have to?”
“Please?” April asked.
“It'll help Samantha,” Danielle said. That seemed to do the trick. Mark took up the sheets and began to read.
“Published Sunday, November 24, 2215. Albany, New York. Yvonne McClure, age 29 and her twelve year old daughter Karin arrived at Capitol Grocers as they might have any day of the week to shop for groceries. But today is different. At the back of the store, the two walk into the waiting room for newly converted women. This morning, Yvonne and her eldest daughter have received notice report for rendering by today. They received their notices only twenty four hours before. Karin's twin had been culled earlier this year, and Yvonne's remaining girls, three ten year olds, have become wards of State Services, very likely to be sold as veal within the week pending an assessment. Why such a draconian cull order? 'We're lesbians,' declares Karin.” Mark paused. “Woah...”
“Don't stop!” April demanded.
“Fine!” Mark said. “Uhm... 'We're lesbians,' declares Karin, her preteen face lighting up with a big smile of pride. Inside mother and daughter find a large waiting ceramic tiled waiting room that has two shower heads near the opening, and a bin for their clothing. The sign that greets them reads 'all visitors must have no body hair at all and bathe fully before taking a seat. Deposit all clothing in the bin.' Five mothers with two, three, even four daughters are already here waiting their turn to enter the kill room. Everyone in the room is naked, and, while some of the younger ones doze, most are engaged in desperate lovemaking. Mothers, daughters and sisters all shamelessly enjoy incestuous intimacy, which is not, by itself, illegal. What is forbidden is that they are engaging in same-sex intimacy. Yvonne and Karin undress quickly and bath each other with amorous intimacy that would be shocking anywhere else. 'We knew this was coming,' Brenda Peters, 38, tells me. She and her two sixteen year olds pause their sexual activities to speak with me. Brenda weeps as she says she wanted to outlive at least one of her girls. But it is not to be. She was identified as a lesbian by a neighbour to authorities, and received her notice to report for conversion with her girls only a day later. That was yesterday. 'It was all so fast,' Brenda said. In the kill room, Frank Roth who is not only the head butcher, but owner of Capitol Grocers, tells me he's seen a lot of this kind of thing over the years. 'But never this many,' he said. 'I'd maybe see two lesbian a week show up. In the past three weeks, that's all I see.' Albany was considered by lesbians to be a 'Lesbian Safe' town, if not a friendly one. The prohibition against lesbianism never was erased from New York State law. 'But it's never really been enforced here,' Said Brenda Peters. 'We thought we were all right! I don't even know what happened!' What happened was the new police commissioner, Margaret Bremmer, who took office only two months ago began cracking down on 'deviant behavior' that was patently against the law within two weeks of being sworn in. 'These laws exist for a reason,' Said Commissioner Bremmer. 'If we don't enforce them, they mean nothing. Certainly the law is enforced in the rest of the State of New York. Will we stand by while the law is broken or will we be a community that exists under the rule of law?' Activism by closeted lesbians found a haven in Albany over one hundred years ago. It has been something of a non-secret secret side of the State Capitol ever since. Most lesbian activism throughout the country has Albany, New York as its headquarters. 'We're scrambling,' the activist leader known only as Priestess. Her organization: Sexual Freedom Incorporated, or SFI, has chapters in at least two cities in every state of the union. 'We're looking to save a lot of these women, but we can't save them all. Most of them are concubines, and they belong either to the companies for which they work or the father of their children. Relocation simply isn't an option for them.' The amount of meat coming out of Albany has driven down prices in the surrounding counties and into all five neighbouring states. This week, many counties started scaling back scheduled culling quotas and plan to do so as long as Albany's commissioner continues this campaign. 'What we do not need is for these women to continue degrading our community, says Mayor Rockland who has served as Mayor of Albany for six years. His support of his commissioner seems rock solid. Margaret Bremmer and Mayor Rockland have known each other for fifteen years, and she has been his concubine for twelve. Prior to being elected to the job of Police Commissioner she served as a city councilwoman and before that she was head of human services for the Albany Sheriff's Dept. 'She's always been about law and order,' Mayor Rockland said. 'Making sure the law means something has been part of her platform for the entire time she held elected office. It's interesting to see that people forget that. Those that elected her are complaining bitterly about it.' But Yvonne and Karin do not complain as they hold hands walking into the kill room. Frank Roth shows them great kindness as he brings their lives to an end, and efficiently disassembles mother and daughter's bodies. Their skins are near perfect, and he's very careful with the pelts as he hangs them, then takes the meat off their bones. Packers put make Yvonne's meat ready for the display case, while Karin's veal is packaged for shipment to New York City. 'I'll admit,' Roth says. 'We're as solvent as ever with this influx of veal. Just wish it wasn't clearing all the neighbourhoods. Lots of empty houses where I live. Streets were filled with girls playing after school. Not anymore...'”
We sat in silence. It was a powerful story, of course, though I should have known it would be. And April had been right. Mark was very good at reading aloud. His cadence was perfect, even though his voice was still pubescent.
Nobody commented on it. The three thirteen year olds sat there in uncomfortable silence till I took my sheets from Mark.
“Reba didn't join us,” Danielle observed. “I wonder why.”
“It's not important,” I said, suddenly realizing how glad I was she hadn't, and how angry I was with her.
Mark was looking at me again. I felt his eyes on my and felt a little naked.
“Hey, Mark?” I said.
“Yes,” his hopeful tone was too obvious.
“When are you going to ask April out?”
“Huh?” He looked a little confused, and April looked a little pale... well, less dark.
“I'm not kidding,” I said. “She obviously likes you and you obviously get along very well with her... so ask her out.”
He looked as dumbfounded as anyone I've ever seen before or since. It was a precious look, and I almost laughed out loud.
“Go on! Say 'April, would you like to do something with me sometime?'...”
“Hey!” Danielle said. “Really, Sam?”
“Yes, really!”
“Uhm...” Mark said. “Uh... April... would you like to... you know...”
“YES!” April leaped at Mark, flung her arms around his neck and kissed his shocked face...
I took Danielle's hand and led her away.
“Why did you do that?” Danielle asked.
“Because I was sick of him making eyes at me.”
“He was not!”
“Danielle,” I turned and looked her square in her eyes. “You really want to go there?”
Danielle let her chin drop. “Okay, fine. Whatever.”
“He wasn't going to ask you out, and I really didn't want him to anyway. He'd only do it hoping to get to me and that would just hurt you.”
“When did you turn into Jenna?”
“Go to hell!”
“I'm already there!” Danielle sighed. I frowned. Maybe it was selfishness on my part, but she'd get hurt in the end had it been her and not April.
I had forgot how much happened this day. It's funny how that works out. Things happen in spurts. But that seemingly insignificant event proved to be something huge in April's life. She'd tell me years later it helped her become who she became, all because Mark kept looking at me...
Back in class, we went over Miss Stuart's story, picking it apart with Miss Masters leading the discussion and Miss Stuart in a supporting role.
“There's a lot here,” Jenna observed at one point. “I can't believe how much she packs into... how many words? Less than a thousand. I think.”
“Excellent observation, Jenna!” Miss Masters praised. “And having seen the original story, less than twenty five words were cut or altered. Clara, why don't you talk to us about brevity.”
Miss Stuart dove into a lengthy monolog on how to be brief.
“Jenna,” Miss Masters injected when Miss Stuart, who was not quite done, took a breath. “I have an exercise we had last semester on exactly this topic. I'll give it to you for extra credit, it should help you.”
I raised my hand.
“Yes, Intrepid Reporter,” Miss Stuart said the annoyance in her voice audible.
“Miss Stuart,” I said, trying to sound respectful. “I'm curious to know a couple of things. First, how difficult was it to get permission to be in the same room with the converted women, second, how difficult was it to get them comfortable with your presence and third, I noticed in the story a sign on the wall is mentioned making the rules for guests the same as those for the converted.”
Miss Stuart's face lost all expression for a moment as she regarded me. Then she looked away. When she turned back to face me, her brow was furled and her mouth tight.
“Getting permission was as simple as asking. That's all I did. The condition was that I be a guest of someone on their way in. Yvonne McClure provided that. Getting them comfortable was never an issue. They were very open to me. Freda Peck, right? Your question?”
“Did this story get assigned to you?”
“Most get assignments. This is a story I was working on from the time Margaret Bremmer was elected to Police Commissioner. I had come in contact with her when I was covering Mayor Rockland's last election, and I was a little shocked at her positions. They were not well publicized. When she was elected, I started following what she was doing, and it came as no surprise to me that she began cracking down on lesbianism. The moment she began rounding them up, I was writing about it. It became a big story and it was the first I was not assigned to. Ruth Zimmer?”
“Did you get assigned to this story, or did you chose it?”
“Assigned,” Miss Stuart said curtly. “Raymond Hastings?”
“Miss, when you're writing, do you try and connect to your readers?” Raymond was a good looking boy. He was also very close to Darren Maxwell, the boy with whom Jenna had her disastrous date and lost her virginity. He never spoke to anyone but Miss Masters in this class, and we barely took notice of him as a result.
“Excellent question!” Miss Stuart lit up. “Raymond, what is the one common experience that everyone, male or female, has in this country?”
“Uh... high school?”
“Exactly! If you can tap into that experience, it's the easiest way to connect your reader to the story.”
“Painting a clear picture of each person doesn't do it, then?”
“You cannot rely on that. In print, you have space issues. In broadcast you have time issues. Words take time to speak and space to print. The only place where you are unlimited is online. But since so many media are connected to print or broadcast, your story will be edited. Count on things being cut and write accordingly. I've learned to fluf my piece with stuff that my editor knows she can cut without destroying the narrative. Brenda James?”
The questions became less and less relevant: What's it like in NYC? Love it. How did you score the NY Times Gig? Recruited. Are you married? No. I have four daughters by contract with a man I barely know. What was Miss Masters like when you were her student? Fantastic, she was my primary inspiration. Thankfully, Miss Masters finally put an end to it, we gave Miss Stuart a thank you in the form of a round of applause, and Miss Masters handed out political assignments.
Mine was Reynolds vs. Dillon in the 17th Congressional District which was pretty much Monterrey County and San Benito County. It was actually a three way race between Democrats Reynolds and Dillon, but the Republican had no chance at all, polls garnering him only 2% among likely voters. I read the sheet and hoped there would be something interesting to report on. I'd have to have a story turned in by Monday, in my case, to PEG Wire.
The Three Thirty bell went off, ending our day.
“Sam,” Lee Anne said. “Who did you get for your assignment?” I told her. “I got the 15th. That's Dillon Kramer. Do you think it would be inappropriate to ask Elizabeth to help me get an interview?”
I thought about it. “No. Don't push her if she says no, though.”
“Hey, I'm a reporter! I'm supposed to be pushy!”
That made me laugh in spite of its lameness.
“Hey... uhm... would you mind if I called you this weekend? I'd really like to go over some things with you.”
“What kind of things?”
“Well, a story I've been working on. It's sort of about lesbian activism. You inspired me a little...”
“Lee Anne... I...”
“Oh, please Sam? Pretty please?”
“But I'm not an activist. I only did some interviews.”
“Powerful interviews, Sam. Ones that have people talking! I mean, the interview with Carmen Sanchez and the one with Marcus Jackson! Wow, people really took notice of those!”
I didn't tell her most of my time has been spent preparing for the Naoroji-Rao interview. Which made me think that I had not had any word from Ashima in days.
“Please Sam. I really could use your help. I'd be very grateful!”
She batted her eyes prettily at me. I almost laughed at her with that silly smile that showed off her perfect teeth. This is about PEG Wire, isn't it, Lee Anne! I didn't say that, but I knew. I knew.
“Okay. Maybe we can hang out on Saturday Afternoon,” I said. “You should plan on coming to my place because I think I'm going to be grounded.”
“Oh... what..? Not over that thing this morning?”
“My parents are not going to be happy with me,” I sighed. “I'll tell my mother about it... but if Daddy says no, it's no.”
Lee Anne bit her lower lip. “Okay.”
“Samantha?” Miss Masters said with impatience in her voice. She had been speaking with Jenna, who shot me a hate filled glare.
“I'll call you,” I said to Lee Anne, and I turned to follow Miss Masters.
Miss Stuart was nowhere in sight. Miss Master's long purposeful stride took me through the crowded hallway that was quickly emptying itself as girls as between twelve and sixteen slammed their lockers and hurried out of the building. At the end of the hallway we came to room 200, which had, at one time, been a classroom. The door had glass on it like any other, but beyond that was a small foyer with another door. Miss Masters produced a card key and swiped it over the lock, and the door opened. A blind prevented any curious eyes from seeing beyond that door.
The first thing that hit me was the intensity of the air conditioned coldness. It prickled my skin and made me shiver. The room was easily double the size a normal classroom would be painted a nice shade of beige with at least a dozen large indoor plants around the perimeter and more in planters behind the couches. There were six round tables, each had at least one teacher with her laptop and stacks of paper. The plush couches had teachers lounging looking terribly exhausted. There was a television, but it was not on. Instead, soft music played, just audible. There was a small kitchen with coffee and hot tea recently brewed on the counter. In the back corner there was a railing that turned out to be the landing for a spiral staircase leading down to the nursery, where newborns and toddlers were cared for as their mothers taught class.
Miss Farmer was already there, I saw, laying on one of the couches, her head on her secretary's lap while Lisa played with the principal's hair.
“I'm not saying she doesn't show promise,” I heard a familiar, commanding voice. “All I'm saying is that I think she is a flash in the pan. Sure, she might have some talent, but this shows mediocre skills and less discipline. Pin your hopes on someone else, because she's not the one who's going to bring fame to this school in anything but a negative way.”
Miss Emerson had her most horrified expression on as she listened to Clara Stuart, but stared straight at me. Clara Stuart had paused, followed Miss Emerson's gaze and saw me. For an instant, her face flashed a similar horror, then her brow furled.
“Yes,” Miss Stuart said. “I was talking about you. Want a piece of advice? Never mind, you're getting it anyway. You've been very lucky. You have neither the skill nor the patience nor the necessary character to be a good journalist. Get married, have kids and get out of journalism before you screw it up for yourself and anyone around you who thinks you're all that.”
I was stunned. I probably stood there looking stupid for at least a minute after she picked up her satchel and stalked by me and left the room.
“What the hell?” Miss Masters said. “I'm so sorry, Samantha, I didn't know she was going to do that.”
“I... it's alright.”
“No, it's not. April, what did she say to you?”
“She was trying to convince me that we needed to get Samantha into a different program,” Miss Emerson was shaking her head as she spoke. “She couldn't understand why we thought Sam shows so much promise. She said you were too blind to see, and that you had not been in the media long enough to know what it was really like.”
“I worked for five years in the media!” Miss Farmer said.
“I know!” Miss Emerson said. “I had no idea she was such a bitch. I don't understand what her problem is.”
I was thinking about what Clara said, and there was some validity to it. I had been lucky. Things had fallen into my lap and all I did was take advantage of them. I said as much to them.
“Sam,” Miss Emerson said. “When you brought back that interview with Carmen Sanchez I was stunned by it. It was an amazing interview and that one absolutely did not fall into your lap, unless she called you and asked you for an interview.”
“No,” I said.
“So you did it. You got that one. Everything else that came after followed. You built on that success and Clara never put that kind of effort in when she was here. Unless Franny has something to add.”
“I don't,” Miss Master's said. “She was an average student. She made it on the Chronicle getting assignments, not pursuing her own stuff. That's not to say she isn't good, she absolutely is. But this... I'm a little embarrassed about inviting her to speak!”
“What's going on?” Miss Farmer arrived, as did half the other teachers in the room. Miss Emerson and Miss Masters launched into tag team mode, telling the tale of woe...
“Jealous,” Lisa said. “She's jealous because she's not the golden child, and she thinks she should be.”
“I really thought I made things clear to her,” Miss Masters said.
“I told you,” Miss Emerson said. “I knew it from the start. The woman has this ego and she's out to prove she's better than everyone else. And she's jealous in a huge way over you know why...”
“April!” Miss Masters said. “Stop.”
“Fine. I'm just saying...”
“I get it. Stop.”
“It doesn't matter,” Miss Farmer said. “Lisa, remind me to remind you to write a thank you letter in the morning to Clara, and a memo to everyone not to speak with her at all.”
“Gladly,” said Lisa, pulling out her PDA and making a notation.
“Are the new coaches manning phones?” Miss Masters asked.
“Yes. Made sure of it. They'll be busy for a while,” Lisa said.
“And the others are out on the field, good,” Miss Farmer said. She put her arm over my shoulders. “Come, we need to talk to you.”
“Okay,” I said. “Is it serious?”
“Oh,” Miss Farmer said, stroking my arm. “Don't worry, Samantha, you're not in trouble. Not yet, anyway. And if you get in trouble, it'll be because we plotted and planned it that way.” The four educators laughed like girls at a slumber party. The cacophony of clashing sound made me cringe as the women seemed to close in ominously.
The principal guided me to one of the couches and sat me down, arm still over my shoulder, her other hand on my forearm. She continued to embrace me as we sat with Miss Masters taking her place on my other side, equally close. Lisa and Miss Emerson sat on the coffee table. To say I was surrounded is something of an understatement.
“So,” Miss Farmer said. “Would you mind telling us how you got involved with Playpen Magazine?”
I hesitated. I didn't remember. Not off the top of my head, anyway. Trying to recall the sequence of events was like remembering how I learned to walk or even to talk. It's not something you simply remember. People who saw it happen might, but remembering how these things happen to you?
“Let's start at the beginning,” Miss Emerson broke the silence. “You turned in that piece on Carmen Sanchez. Then you did that amazing Marcus Jackson interview. The next thing we know you've profiled an Indian subversive for Playpen, and everything changed. What happened in between those two events?”
Miss Emerson's ability to pose probing questions was something I was not yet aware of. Perhaps it's what made her such a great teacher. She had only worked as a reporter for three years, and I wonder why she left the profession. Within minutes she had the whole story about how I met Bernie Foss and Ashima Khan. She extracted the whole story of our family dinner with the Carringtons, the Jacksons and Bernie Foss. I even told spilled the bit about the interview with Jakim Golguli and the planned interview with President Naoroji-Rao. At the end of a bit of a monolog about that, my voice trailed off because I was taking in their deer in the headlamps looks.
“You've been a busy girl,” Lisa finally said after a long silence. Her arms were folded in front of her as if she were cold. It was a bit cold, I finally noticed. At least it was cold where Miss Farmer and Miss Master's bodies were not in contact with mine. The AC was obviously on full blast, and since the classrooms relied on natural air conditioning, I was just cold.
“I did some research,” said Lisa. “I looked up the employment requirements for the girls working at Playpen or any of their sub groups. They require that you be photographed for their E-Girl program within four days of being hired.”
“Really?” Miss Farmer said. There was genuine surprise in her voice as far as I could tell. “Four days? How long have you been working for them, Sam?”
“Uhm... a little over a week, I think.”
“So when did you pose nude?” Lisa asked, her dark eyes flashing.
“On Monday,” I said instantly. I couldn't believe it came out of my mouth.
“You're Kidding!” was a chorus from the three teachers as the secretary's Eurasian face smirked triumphantly.
They wanted to know everything. It was as if we were having a gossip session about a date with a boy after the fact. The questions came fast and furious with me giving short responses: Yes. No. It was okay. I was comfortable. Shariah was very professional.
“Wow,” Miss Masters said. “I can't believe we have a real playmate at our school!”
“I'm not a playmate,” I said.
Yeah, right! Uhuh! Whatever you say, Sam! They told me.
“You forget,” Miss Emerson said. “We've all seen you naked.”
“You have?” I was a little shocked. Of course they had. I'd showered in front of them so many times I couldn't count. I'd seen every single teacher come through the showers when I was freezing under the cold water over the last month and all through last year. Maybe it was that they noticed me naked.
“No,” Lisa said. “We shut our eyes and risk breaking our necks in the shower room just so you can have your privacy. Don't be stupid.” She took my ankle and raised it till my foot rested in her lap. Then she drew off my shoe, and rolled my ankle sock off. “You don't paint your toenails,” Lisa noted.
I never painted my nails. I hadn't done that since I was twelve. I had no patience for it. That's probably why I neglected my hair for so long. All these things occurred to me as Lisa began massaging my bare foot, and Miss Emerson took charge of the other, pulling that shoe off. I was pinned between Miss Farmer and Miss Masters, with my legs out and parted. I'm sure Lisa and Miss Emerson could see up my skirt, and I smoothed it so it dipped between my legs.
“I hope I get to see you become a playmate,” Miss Farmer said.
“I wouldn't get my hopes up,” I said. “I seriously doubt they'll pick me.”
“Oh,” Miss Master's said. “They'll pick you! Do yo have any idea how beautiful your body is? How desired you are?”
“Me?” I was incredulous. In my heart of hearts I knew there was no way she could be doing anything but trying to build my confidence. My feeling was that it was a very sweet gesture.
My blouse was almost completely open before I noticed Miss Masters working the buttons. My arms instinctively came up, but Miss Farmer urged them back down, and slipped her hand inside my blouse, undoing my bra as Miss Masters finished with the buttons. Lisa and Miss Emerson had begun caressing my calves, and my head was swimming, not at all understanding what was happening. Both Miss Farmer and Miss Masters were fingering my breasts. They were now fully exposed. Lisa and Miss Emerson's hands were caressing the insides of my thighs and moving up. When I felt fingers at my nethers I almost leaped out of my chair. I certainly squealed.
“Shh,” Miss Farmer said. “It's all right.”
“It's okay, Samantha,” Miss Masters said. “We just want to thank you for what you did for Pat. Miss Bauer.”
“Miss Bauer?”
“Yes,” Miss Masters said, even as Miss Emerson and Lisa were reaching up to open my skirt. “You let Miss Bauer make love to you. It was so beautiful. You were so beautiful.”
I was weeping now.
“You saw?” I asked, afraid of the answer. That came in the form of a nod by all four women and my skirt was open. Looking down, I saw that my panties were wet. I hadn't noticed that wetness till I saw it. Now I felt it. I was horrified with embarrassment.
My lower lip began to quiver and I gasped a sob even as tears streamed down my cheeks. The women seemed to take no notice of my distress. Miss Masters and Principal Farmer leaned me forward and drew the blouse and bra off my shoulders, pealing it off my arms, and they were tossed aside. I sat on my open skirt, and my panties were the only thing I had left on.
Miss Emerson lifted my leg and leaned down to kiss my inner thigh. Her hand moved up and caressed my belly just above my panty waistband.
I was very stiff at their touch, and so completely at their mercy. I wanted to run away, but there was nowhere for me to go, and what would I do? Run out naked all the way home from school? I'd never make it home! I'd be someone's dinner by sundown.
My hips were off the couch, and my panties were being slipped off. As they pulled them down my legs I happened to look over my shoulder and noticed we had an audience. Most if not all of the other teachers in the room were standing behind me, watching me being undressed and fondled.
Four pairs of hands were on me. I was too paralyzed to touch back, and I didn't even know if I could or should or wanted to. And I still wept and my lip still quivered with each breath I took. I was naked and felt intensely naked. I felt terribly naked, exposed, humiliated. My nipples were erect, my nethers were wet. My belly tingled and my clitoris... that was a little nub popping out from the top of my cleft which normally looks like a little girl's. They were exploring me like I was... I don't know what. I was just a thing to them. My swollen clitoris was touched, and again, I jumped and gasped. Miss Farmer put her mouth over my gaping mouth and introduced her tongue to me, smothering me.
The sensations were a living thing. I was all tingled with abject terror. My fear welled up in me like I was on a roller coaster ride that would not end. That queasy sensation you get just after the cars crest over the first hill. It only lasted an instant on a roller coaster, but it was persistent and overpowering and terrible. Fingers were inside me, making that sensation even more intense, and my body shuddered. At that point I lost all track of time. Women taste differently, and I knew the flavour of all four of them by their kiss. I felt their mouths on my nipples and nethers. My orgasm was one long sequence that started somewhere at some point I'm not sure when, but it was coming in full force, focusing my senses between my legs and inside me.
The sensations stopped. I was languid and senseless, with the vague awareness of an annoying sound.
“Someone is calling you from home,” someone said.
I opened my eyes to find Lisa holding my phone in front of me. It was ringing still. Caller ID said “HOME” on it.
Miss Farmer took the phone.
“This is Principal Farmer,” she said. “Oh, hello Mrs. Wells... Yes, I have Samantha with me... She's just fine... No, not at all, she's just fine, and everything is alright... because we just wanted to thank her for what she did for us... you have no idea how much... Yes, I'm aware that it's late, I'm so sorry about that. I'll have Miss Masters drive her home right away... yes, we're done here... you should be very proud of her. She's an amazing young lady... I'm very glad... yes, I would very much like it if we could meet... absolutely... goodbye.”
I lay there naked in their arms aware of the conversation but exhausted, and still paralyzed by fear.
“So I'm driving Sam home?” Miss Masters asked.
“Yes,” Miss Farmer said. “Why don't you get her cleaned up. A warm shower might help.”
My eyes were closed. I didn't want to look at anyone so I didn't read their expressions as they spoke. But Miss Master's tone sounded a bit annoyed.
“Fran,” Miss Emerson said. “I'll drive her home if you like.”
“It's alright,” Miss Masters said, as suddenly I was on the couch alone. “Come on, pretty girl. Let's rinse off some of that perspiration.”
Miss Masters almost picked me up bodily. Of all the women present, she had what appeared to be the most frail build. Her body and limbs were thin. But she was quite strong. Stronger than I, certainly, though I've never pretended to be anything but weak. I would not have guessed she had enough power to handle my like that. She might even have been able to carry me bodily.
All she did, however, was pull me up by my arms, and walk me back to the bathroom. It had private shower stalls. What was interesting was that the toilets were only divided by half-walls. If you sat on one, your head was sticking up over the wall and you could converse with whomever was next to you. I'd never sen that before.
But the shower stall had two heads and a bench built into the wall. It was on that bench Miss Masters placed me. Behind her, Miss Emerson was hanging my school uniform on a hook with a fresh towel.
“I'll get some fresh panties,” Miss Emerson declared to Miss Masters, who nodded and began to undress.
If I thought Miss Masters looked frail when she was dressed, she looked waifish naked. I could see her ribs outlined by her skin. Her breasts were no larger than Celine's. Her large, puffy nipples seemed to overwhelm them.
Miss Masters turned on the water. It came out as a luxuriously warm mist that she directed so that my hair would remain dry.
She had long, slender hands. Her spindly fingers had a tender touch. She put up my hair and crouched down to wash my face. Her efforts were efficient but tender. The tips of her fingers before gently scrubbed around my eyes, forehead and cheeks. With a wash cloth, she removed the soap.
“I hope you're not angry,” Miss Masters said. She seemed sullen, as if she'd done something terrible. “We didn't mean to rape you. We really didn't.”
Was that what happened? I only communicated with my eyes. I started to weep again.
“Awe, honey,” she touched my face again. “Please don't be upset. I think the world of you, and so does April Emerson and Lisa and Gwen Farmer... in fact, Principal Farmer was the first to recognize your talent. It's true! She was the one who recommended you to me two years ago.” Her hands were on my shoulders. She was looking me up and down. She cupped my breasts, which had become very, very sensitive. The caress sent a thrill through me.
“Can you stand up?” Miss Masters asked.
I put my hands on her shoulders and stood with some effort and left them there to balance myself. That my hands were on her seemed to encourage her. Her soapy palms met my skin and glided over me. Her touch was comforting. It wasn't unlike Mom's touch. That thought suddenly occurred to me, how I wish it was Mom with me now. It was probably my first realization of how I truly felt about her.
But Miss Masters was here now. She grabbed what I thought was a chromed handle just above the water valves and pulled out a hose. It spat a gentle spray of water. She crouched down and put the thing inside me. I'd never experienced a douche like that before. It was quite pleasurable.
“Do you use oil?” She asked. “It keeps your skin soft.”
I nodded that I did. She selected one of several bottles from a shelf above the shower heads. I had not noticed them before, but the shelf ran around all three walls and was filled with very decorative bottles each with a different coloured oil and fancy label. She generously smeared lemon scented oil onto my body, once again, seemingly exploring me. She did not neglect my face. She used the tips of her fingers to spread a light coating over my face, smiling as she did. I felt like such a little girl getting a bath. Again, I was wishing it was Mom.
She dried me as carefully as she had bathed me, lifting my arms and taking away excess oil as well as water. I thought I reeked of lemon, but it was fine. She found the panties Miss Emerson had promised hand held them as I stepped into them. She basically dressed me.
“I miss this,” Miss Masters said. “My youngest daughter is still alive. She Graduated three years ago and is now married. I haven't seen her in ages.”
“You miss her?”
“Sometimes,” Miss Masters said. “Mostly I miss the little girl she was. Of course, I miss all my girls. Except for Jennifer, they were all culled before they got to their senior year. Jennifer is the only one that made it. She has six children of her own now.”
“Where is she?”
“She lives in San Luis Obisbo with her husband. He's a professor. Older man. His second marriage.”
“Do you get to see your grandchildren ever?”
“Yes,” she said. “I spent a month with them over the summer. It's nice down there. Warm but not too warm. I didn't have to wear any cloths the whole time, and her husband is my age.”
The connotation had my imagination going. I wondered about that. Running around naked? I couldn't imagine Miss Masters doing that.
“I burn, so I had to use a lot of sun block. But it was nice. If I make it to next summer, I hope I'll get to do that again.”
“You think you might be culled?” I asked as she buttoned my blouse.
“The teaching staff has been around a while. The suspicion is that the board wants to bring a new crop of teachers. I'm not sure what will happen. Miss Farmer has been principal for two years, now, and they usually get culled after three,” she sighed. “One of us will advance to take over her position if she gets culled, I'm sure. It'll probably be April Emerson. She's the most qualified.”
“I have a question, if you don't mind,” I said.
“Anything.”
“You said you saw... me and Miss Bauer... but there was nobody there.”
Miss Masters smiled. “There are cameras in every room, Sam. Everything gets recorded. Don't worry, none of the recordings last more than 48 hours. That's why there's no record of it that the police can get hold of.”
“But you knew in advance,” I said. “Didn't you.”
“Yes.”
“Miss Bauer planned that?”
“She did. She wanted to for a long time. Since she first had you in her swim class. Did you know that you were the reason she supported naked swimming so strongly? She knew you did. We think that the argument she gave the board might have put her on their radar for culling. They're absolutely opposed to it.”
“Why?”
“You'll have to ask them. Come. Your mother must be getting anxious.”
Miss Emerson, Miss Farmer and Lisa all stood up from the table at which they sat when we passed through the teacher's lounge. Each of them hugged me without saying a word. I wanted to cry again. Their embraces were reminders of how afraid I had been and still was. That fear would never leave me fully, justified or not.
Miss Master's tiny car was a two seater. She let me into it and drove me home without a word. I didn't have to give her directions, she knew exactly where I lived even though she had never, to my knowledge, visited us. She kissed my cheek, and I got out.
Looking at my front door it suddenly dawned on me that I was afraid to go in there. More fear.
For the first time ever, I plowed through my fear, accepting it. I trudged forward toward the door accepting that Mom would be disappointed, Daddy would be furious, Gracie would be sad and Jenna would simply hate me for at least a few days. Then it dawned on me that the Garage door was closed. Mom always opened it at four on Fridays. But it was closed. Daddy was home.
I walked up to the front door, and opened the latch, trying to be as quiet as possible.
Inside, I found my entire family sitting in the living room area off to the left of the front door with three guests.
“Sammie!!” two voices that I hadn't heard in a while cried, and I was embraced by their owners.
Sean and Lucy were twins. If they were not brother and sister they might be identical twins. In some pictures, you could not tell them apart they looked so much alike. I'm lightly freckled and they would be considered the same except that they had darker freckles than me or any of my siblings. Other than that thy had the same basic complexion as my siblings (with the exception of Patti and Miki, who are not so fair skinned as the rest of us) and their hair matched that of their mother and mine, dark, dark auburn. Their faces were genuinely identical. Their builds were the same, straight hipped and slender with bubble bottoms. Lucy could probably wear my bras or Jenna's. If they cut their hair the same and dressed the same, it would be impossible to distinguish them. Aunt Julia sometimes joked that Sean might get carted off in Lucy's place if she ever got culled.
“Hi, Sammie!” said Aunt Julia. She was mom's twin from my grandmother's second litter, which had been four girls. Mom rarely spoke of her family from Modoc, and I'd only seen her half brother, Uncle Bill, once. Daddy didn't like him at all, and his visit four years ago was uninvited. I know there was some ugliness there and that it had to do with Julia and Mom being here, rather than there, but beyond that I knew nothing. My parents never spoke of it.
I embraced Aunt Julia. Like her children, her freckles were darker. She was definitely my mother's sister. Sean and Lucy could have been our own siblings. I'd heard last June that the last of Julia's second litter had been culled at age fourteen. Mom had spent a week with Julia consoling her sister, and in Early July, the three, Julia, Sean and Lucy had week long visit here followed by a week in Sonoma.
I took my seat in the sitting area where Daddy was holding court. Mom was in the kitchen. On the coffee table was the bag from Coulter's. In it was the dress and jewelery that Michael had purchased for me. As the family chatted and asked me questions about why I was with the school Principal, Daddy kept his gaze squarely on me.
At one point he got up as Julia was asking me about my work, leaned down and whispered in my ear.
“You and I are going to have a chat about that dress. Not today, maybe not this weekend. But we will be having a chat,” Daddy's tone was even, mostly. There was that ever so slight break in his voice that told me he was furious.
That whole weekend I felt as if I'd been condemned. But that evening and the two that followed were pleasant... except for the part about me being condemned...