Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Dee Does High School 18 12 8 12 By peregrinf

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

   "Noooo," I drawled out sourly.

   "Why not?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   "What century are you living in?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

   "Shit!"

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

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

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

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

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

   "Gimme."

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

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

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

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

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

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

   "Sure."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   "I dunno.  You?"

   "I dunno."

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

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

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

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

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

   "Heather MacKenzie?"

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

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


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

   "Do, too," Missy panted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   I'd have to shampoo later.

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

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

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

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

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


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

   "Now, that isn't so bad, is it?" I asked, even as he tried to cover his
formerly private parts.  He may have been blushing, it was hard to tell. 
"Ignore the morons, and be proud of what you've got."

   Jeez, what dumb send-off that was!  But he took it, while I found Inez
and got her aside for a few words, the rest of the bunch gathering around.

   "You'd ask someone to do that for that toxic waste site?" she asked me
when she heard my suggestion.  "Even after what he and his buddy have done
to you?"

   "It's not for him.  It's for the general welfare of the community.  Look
on it as a public health service project," I suggested, wiping my hands on
moist towelettes bummed off Peggy.

   Peggy gave me a sort of sideways smile.  "You are something else again,
you know that?  Why would we think you need an escort again today?  You're
on your own!"

   Inez had been thinking.  "Okay, I know just who to talk to.  We'll take
care of it.  I wonder if they have any hazmat suits around here."

   "Thanks.  If this works out we'll both owe you."

   "I can't think that anything he has would be enough," she retorted
wryly. "But, as you said, maybe it'll avert a public health crisis."

   "I'll get this stuff washed during Ecology class," Fran offered, having
somehow found a bag for Lacey's clothes.  "We're studying detergents this
week.  This'll be the acid test, I guess.  We'll have 'em back in his box
before he misses them."

   Ah my lunch bunch!  I gotta love 'em!  The crowd dissolved as the
opening bell sent us off in all directions to once again deal with the
forces of pedagogy.

   I next saw them all in the lunch room after what passed for a reasonably
normal morning.  Inez was absolutely stoked.  It turned out Dumber -- I
mean, Bud Lacey -- had gym just before lunch, and Inez had already gotten a
full report from her medically inclined cohorts.  In the girls' locker room
he'd tried to object to them touching him, as he had every right to do. 
His resistance crumbled when they asked every-so-sweetly if he wanted the
whole school to know he'd refused to let a bunch of naked girls touch him
in the shower.  What would that say about his sexuality?

   By her second-hand account, given to the whole lunch table, who
responded with "ooos" and "aaahhhs" and yucks and giggles and snorts, once
the future MDs and RNs got their talons into him they'd disinfected him
like he was a hospital floor!  He'd screamed like a baby when they'd gone
over him from head to toe with brushes and germicidal soap, not just
washcloths or nice, soft, soapy hands.  Being future medical pros, they
were anything but shy as they got up close and personal with his every nook
and cranny, from ears to anus to toes.  They'd found dirt in places they
didn't even know he had places that got dirty.  By the time he emerged he
was three shades lighter, and blushing scarlet, having been thoroughly
exfoliated and sterilized -- on the surface, that is.  A test run at the
end proved his reproductive equipment was functional, unless his sperm
count had shut down for some other reason.

   While she told us this every eye in the lunch room was tracking him as
he bashfully made his way through the lunch line.  He was pink, from top to
toe, and his hair was actually soft, shiny and combed!  Taking one look at
his still polluted and erstwhile buddy's sneer, Lacey scuttled off to a
secluded table to eat alone, rather than join the other program
participants as was traditional.

   Meanwhile, my plan had firmed up.  Operation Cleanup had only been Phase
One.  Phase Two was some positive reinforcement.  I tried thinking of it as
a carrot and stick scenario, but that was kinda screwed up, since I'm The
Stick, and Lacey was the one with the carrot jutting out from his groin.

   His shower, according to Inez, had concluded with an extravagant
ejaculation thanks to some skilled manipulation by three of his bathers. 
But a second, even more public relief session might help reinforce the
lesson and even encourage further participation by classmates.  He was
young and virile and probably easily aroused for a repeat performance.  He
was already carrying a rod any male would be proud of.

   I pounced as he was leaving the lunchroom, and after some oo-ing and
ah-ing over his now pristine physique, complete with some delicately
sensuous tactile explorations, I asked if he was in need of relief.

   "Uh, yeah," he admitted, blushing, "but who's gonna give me relief? 
They didn't even want to look at me yesterday.  I hadda do myself!"

   Who indeed?  Thanks to the vagaries of scheduling it looked like I was
elected.  God!  The things I do for The Program, but it was an opportunity
not to be missed!  If I could bring one poor soul to the flock of the
bodily enlightened it would be worth it, I told myself.

   And I had to admit to my true nature.  I might enjoy it, too.

   "C'mon," I urged, "I'll walk you to your next class."

   As we walked we chatted a bit, and I explained the advantages of his
newly sanitary status.  Turned out where he lived, hot water was in short
supply and the only working container was a wash basin, which went a long
way toward explaining his hygienic challenges.  I suggested that in the
future he arrive at school early enough to take advantage of the school's
facilities.  I even suggested he might be able to enlist the assistance of
some willing young lady to scrub his back, which seemed to encourage him.

   Once at his next class, taking some liberties with my schedule,
classroom protocol, and with the consent of his French teacher, I was
quickly down on my knees, his slender but long dick between my lips.  One
of the nice things about a boy's penis is that it is pretty much a one-way
street out-bound and I assumed he'd already flushed it of any of any
possible contamination, so I didn't need to worry about that.

   I gave him full service, starting with my lips, then taking that hot rod
along my tongue to the back of my throat.  He smelled of soap, of course,
which certainly encouraged my efforts.  His bush was soft and curly and I
wondered fleetingly if they'd even given it a shampoo and conditioner
treatment.  Then I just concentrated on bringing him off, as time was
flying, of course.

   He began to moan and sigh, and his fingers toyed with my hair as I took
him deeper, and deeper.  I was opening my throat to him before I let my
fingers stray to his testicles, figuring he might be pretty sensitive even
after his previous coming.  Sure enough, when I fingered his balls his hips
surged, and he groaned as his groin tightened up.  I let his jizz flow
straight down my throat, adding just enough tongue pressure on his pulsing
prick to enhance his pleasure.

   When he was down to seepings I sucked him dry, and sat back in
satisfaction, having managed to diddle myself to a nice quiet coming during
the whole process.

   He even thanked me!  I didn't know his vocabulary extended to that.

   Mission accomplished, wiping my chin, I dashed off to another gym period
in the swimming pool under Greg's watchful eye.  This time he shed his
clothes and matched me stroke for stroke, encouraging me to exert myself
more this time.  When I tried to pause he pushed me even harder.  By the
time we were done, while he'd barely broken a sweat -- if you can say that
of a swimmer -- I was drained.  He dragged me off to a warm shower and
slathered me with soap and love, while I hung on to him to keep from
falling.

   Finished, he was behind me, his cock nuzzling my buns, holding me up,
his right hand cupping my left breast while his left was curled into the
oozing folds of my easily aroused pussy.

   "You wouldn't like to -- uh -- go to the -- uh -- dance with me?  Would
you?" he murmured in my ear, his fingers doing wicked things to my happy
twat.

   With a little squeak of joy, suddenly revived, I revolved in his embrace
and pressed my whole self against his whole self and did my best to suck
his tongue out.  Dragging him down with me I proceeded to encourage his
advances, guiding him in, feeling him filling me, and filling me, and
filling me, until we melted together right there on the hard tiles, the
spray of the shower washing the overflow from our lust down the drain.

   Like I said, we fuck like bunnies.

   "Can I -- take that -- as a -- yes?" he asked among afterglow smooches.

   "Yes, oh yes, oh yes, yes, yes," I assured him, kissing him after every
sibilant.  "Yes!"

   After another round of kisses, I had to ask.  "What did you think I'd
say?"

   He looked abashed.  "I dunno.  But I heard about you and Mongo
yesterday...."

   "What?  He jogged me home after the committee meeting.  That's all."

   "But he's -- well, he's Mongo!" he answered as if that explained it.

   "But he's not you," I whispered to him, snuggling against him.  Boys can
be such jerks sometimes!

   Hearing the nearby locker room beginning to fill with the next gym
class, swimming lessons by the sound of it, we picked ourselves up off the
floor before being caught in flagrante delicto, or whatever it is, and
sluiced off the slimy evidence of our activities.  We got knowing smirks in
the locker room, of course.

   We parted, him dressed, me still naked, and I suddenly realized I had
just traded one worry for another.  I not only didn't have a thing to wear
to the dance, I had no idea how to go about acquiring the necessary finery
on such short notice.  I needed some help.  While Mom and I have a great
relationship, I just had the feeling she might not be up on the latest prom
fashions and where to acquire them cheaply, and she probably didn't have
the time anyway.

   "Heather!" I called as I encountered her in the hallway, the steel-trap
of my mind snapping at the opportunity.  "Got a second?"

   She quickly pried herself loose from her entourage, who gave me their
usual sneers, and steered me into a quiet corner.  "What's up?  Something
with the committee?"

   "Well, yeah, there's that, but this is personal," I admitted, throwing
myself on her mercy, explaining my problem, praying she'd take pity on a
mere frosh who was emerging from her tomboy stage.  I played the "you're a
fashion maven" card for all it was worth, sucking up to her ego.

   "What kind of a budget do we have to work with?" she asked shrewdly.

   "Uh -- limited," I confessed.  "Very limited.  I've got about five bucks
in my backpack, and no credit card, but my Mom'll be good for more, once I
warn her what's coming.  I'll give you a figure after I talk to her.  I'm
hoping, maybe, if she's feeling kind, a hundred, maybe?"

   And there went the curse jar, I thought.  No movies for a while, unless
my mouth ran away with itself.  But then I reminded myself that the money
in that jar had to come from somewhere, and my pockets were empty.  Maybe I
could fit some baby sitting or something into my schedule.  Maybe the kid
delivering newspapers needed someone to carry his bag.

   Heather drew her breath in through pursed lips, nodding slowly.  "I've
got the plastic.  I'll extend you credit.  You I trust, but don't tell
anyone else what I'm doing.  Okay, that narrows the choices, but I like the
challenge.  What's your schedule?"

   "Swimming practice this afternoon, posing for Kathy Powers tomorrow
afternoon, swimming practice Thursday...."

   "Okay, I've got cheerleading this afternoon and Thursday," she mused. 
"French Club tomorrow....  How about after swimming today?  I'm thinking a
total makeover, so it'll take more than one afternoon.  Keep Friday open if
you can.  We'll work something out."

   "You'd do that for me?"

   "Like I said, I like the challenge." That was her shell talking.  But
then, more softly, she added, "You do know I owe you big time, don't you?"

   "I don't know about that," I admitted.  "I'm glad we got rid of that
problem, for a bunch of reasons, but that doesn't mean you owe me anything.
I suspected -- well -- with what I knew about you-know-who, last year your
week in The Program musta been kinda hard on you."

   Her face hardened, her blue eyes clouding over.  Her tone when she said
"My week in The Program," was cold enough to give me chills.  I could
almost taste the bitterness.

   "This stays just between you and me," she hissed anxiously.  "Nobody
knows!  Nobody!"

   I nodded solemnly.  "I promise!"

   She eyed me.  "You, I trust.  I guess I don't have any choice anyway,
since you've already guessed."

   That was the second time she'd said something like that about trust.  My
eyes flicked over to her entourage.  What did that say about them?  I
looked back at her and nodded again.  "I promise," I repeated.

   "Let's just say I owe you more than I can ever possibly repay.  My week
in The Program my ass!  Try the whole fucking year."

   I winced.  She seemed almost relieved to be able to talk about it.

   "...and he was making noises about us 'getting together' again this
year."

   "Oh God, I am so sorry." I started to reach for her, but she fended me
off with a hand between my naked boobs.

   "I hope that motherfucker rots in hell."

   That was language I'd never heard her use before.  Coming from Miss
Perfect, it was shockingly ugly.  I drew a breath to steady myself.  "So do
I, but really, don't feel you owe me.  I did it for all of us.  If you
don't want to...."

   She looked me right in the eye, very, very serious.  "I do want to.  I
really do.  I don't know what it is about you, but I really do want to help
you.  We're so different, but God do I wish I were more like you."

   I suppressed a wry laugh.  "And I wish I were more like you."

   She smiled through her personal pain.  "Maybe some of you can rub off on
me."

   "And vice versa," I responded.

   "I'll see you after practice today.  Tell your mom this may take all
afternoon, and maybe tomorrow, and Friday afternoon, and maybe even some
time on Saturday before the dance."

   God I wanted to hug her and comfort her, and thank her, but didn't dare,
not with her entourage watching us suspiciously.  "I'm at your mercy.  And
thank you."

   "Meet me under the globe and we'll go from there.  Uh -- do you have
anything to wear?  Wouldn't you, maybe, rather not be making the rounds
nude?"

   "I've got the basics I can slip into."

   "Good girl.  See you then."

   "See you." I watched her rejoin her clique, saw her slip on that
superficial facade she wore as easily as slipping on a light jacket.  It
was like she was two totally different people.

   Her buddies glanced over at me, snickering at something she'd said,
probably something about what a poor, helpless frosh I was.  It could have
hurt but I understood.  Heather was playing to their prejudices, defending
her position as leader of the pack.  If she didn't they'd turn on her and
she'd be picked clean by the buzzards.  She was walking a very fine line,
and I didn't envy her.

   Then I remembered The Stick, and gave that little interior voice of mine
a heartfelt danke schön, knowing just how much of my self-respect I owed to
it.

   Bitte sehr my little voice responded courteously, and I wondered if
maybe I was now just a little bi bi-lingually crazy.  Well, if I was I
wouldn't have it any other way, I thought, as I headed off for the rest of
my afternoon classes and then swimming.

   Swim practice was wind sprints with me desperately trying to keep up
with Greg in the neighboring lane.  I was left puking in pool gutter, then
rewarded with yet another shower with Greg.  After kissing him good bye I
tossed on the emergency wardrobe from my backpack, loose shorts and
sleeveless blouse, ignoring the "shit, it's my period" panties.  Totally
commando I hurried to the front entrance, where a globe hung over the main
intersection.

   "Meet me under the globe" was such a popular phrase that at the end of
the day the intersection resembled a flash mob, but at this hour it was
only Heather, looking as fashionably fastidious as ever, her hair still
damp from her shower.

   "Sorry I'm late," I apologized.

   "Just got here myself," she assured me, jingling her car keys.  "Let's
boogie."

   I'd called Mom to tell her what was going on, and to get some budget
numbers.  I was beginning to really appreciate having my own phone.  After
cheering the news about my date and grumbling about the short notice, she
went off for a minute, then came up with a figure which was much more
generous than I expected.  Even so it made Heather wince when I told her.

   "You are a challenge!" she remarked.  "And you're tall...."

   "Five nine, about," I admitted ruefully.

   "I like that.  Narrows the choices.  Except for shoulders like Paul
Bunyan you're built like a fashion model.  This is gonna be fun!" she
exulted as we pulled out of the parking lot in her sporty little car.

   I really think she meant it.  But fun?  I had my doubts, not being the
shop-til-you-drop type.  I had visions of wandering the aisles of every
low-budget mega-super-store in search of the impossible.  But as she talked
and drove I soon learned otherwise.  As she planned our route I got the
impression she knew every thrift shop and consignment store in town, and
was on a first name basis with every proprietor.

   "Costumes," she explained succinctly when I asked.  I'd forgotten about
her work with the drama club.  She was president of it, of course, but
nobody's perfect.

   "Is there anything you can't do?" I asked, intimidated.

   "I can't swim like you do, dive like you do," she responded.  "And other
stuff, too.  You're daring.  I'm a coward."

   "No, you're not."

   "Well, we could argue that point, but let's not ruin what might become a
beautiful friendship," she countered with a smile.

   I liked that thought.