by Brandy Dewinter

     Wiry.

     I hated that word.  Why couldn't it have been 'sinewy' instead?  Sinewy is 
cool.  Sinews are supple and tough.  And at least they're part of something alive, 
not cold and hard and never-living like wires.  

     Oh, and sinews don't have any fat either.  So there, just as applicable to me as 
'wiry'.  Besides, I'm more of a 'snake'.  That would be way cool.  And appropriate 
too, since snakes are all offense.  I mean, think about it.  A snake can't throw up 
an arm to block an attack, or 'run' away, or anything.  It survives by attacking 
first.  That's me.  I'm too damn small to duke it out with some knuckle-dragging 
gorilla anyway, and too damn smart, too.  Like I should just wait for some doofus 
to rearrange my nose before I retaliate?  Again?  I tried that.  Once.  Stupid 
doctor actually had to shorten the damn thing to 'fix' it and now I have this dorky 
little nose that turns up on the end.  You can imagine what that looks like, and it 
did NOT make my life any easier.

     So now, if some lumbering mouth-breather is coming after me - or even 
thinking about it - I make sure he pays the price.  And the only sure way to do 
that is make him pay it before he gets in his first shot.  Like I said, I'm not stupid 
and I know that those big assholes can park me in the middle of next week if they 
get even one shot.  They've done that, too.  So I have to make sure they pay the 
price first.  And I do.  After a few demonstrations, the hulks started leaving me 
alone.  That's when I started hearing the, "Stay away from Jesse.  He's got a hair 
trigger, and he's wiry."  

     I learned the hard way that my damn hand is too fragile to use as a hammer on 
the rockheads who would come after me, so I pick softer targets and a harder 
club.  Specifically, joints.  Two in particular:  the knee, and the crotch.  Even the 
hardest rockhead will go down if you get either one of those places.  And they're 
both conveniently located within the reach of my foot.  Two problems solved at 
once.  

     Unfortunately, that involves some risk, too.  Hence my situation.  I was in jail 
for defending myself against an asshole who hit me first.  Well, actually I was in 
court, not the lockup, but it's the same thing.  This old lady judge with an 
unpronounceable name - hell, I couldn't even read it on the little name plaque, 
Ruth Whatsomethinski - was acting all pompous and pretending to be objective.  
She had her mind made up before we even entered the room, though, you could 
tell.  

     "Mr. Shepherd," - that would be me - "would you care to explain yourself?"  

     "Dorkbrain hit me.  I hit him back.  He should'n'a started it."  

     "There seems to be some dispute about that," the Judge said.  "According to 
the other witnesses, you hit Mr. Wilson without provocation."  

     "Yeah, well, I'm not surprised they stick up for Mr. Geekhead.  He's such a 
doofus they probably all feel sorry for him.  But he DID hit me first."  

     "On what basis do you claim that he struck you?" she asked.  Like I said, all 
calm and rational-sounding, like she was fair.  Yeah, right.  

     "On the basis of the bruise on my shoulder," I snapped. 

     "And how did Mr. Wilson strike you on your shoulder?"

     "Hard," I said, smirking.  "That's why there was a bruise."  

     My guardian, the court-appointed one, looked like he felt guilty.  Well, he was 
an asshole, but he hadn't ever hit me so I didn't know what he had to feel guilty 
about.  My lawyer, the court-appointed one (notice the trend?), looked like he 
was about to say something but the Judge raised her hand and just kept grinding 
on.  

     "With what part of his body did Mr. Wilson strike you?"  

     Oh well, I knew that was what she was getting at, of course.  Too bad she was 
such a frigid bitch.  No fun baiting someone who just sits there like a lump.  
"With his shoulder," I said.  "With all the weight of his pudgy body behind it.  It 
slammed me back into the lockers."

     "What did you do then?"  

     "Defended myself, like I said," I answered.  Then before the so-called adults 
could go through another round of looking at each other, I answered the question 
I knew she wanted.  But I'd made the point - again - that it was self-defense.  
Besides, it had been a good move.  "I whacked his knee and he went down.  End 
of fight."  

     Judge Bitchy wasn't satisfied with that explanation, though.  "What reason do 
you think Mr. Wilson might have had for striking you?"  

     "Because he's a clumsy doofus who doesn't watch where he's going," I blurted 
out.  Then I wished I could have had those words back because I realized I'd just 
put my foot in it, big time. 

     "Oh," she said quietly, "you think it was accidental on his part?"  

     I looked at the lawyer, who didn't seem like he cared what happened to me - 
like THAT was any surprise.  I shrugged and offered an excuse I knew was lame 
even as I said it.  "He shoulda watched where he was going."  

     The Judge sat back in her chair, paused for a moment, then looked at the juvie 
prosecutor.  "Mr. Handel, any further arguments?"  

     "No, your Honor.  As has already been established in testimony, Mr. Wilson 
was jostled against the defendant in the normal interaction of an over-crowded 
school.  The defendant's reaction was completely disproportionate."  

     "Mr. Gordon?" she said, looking at 'my' lawyer.  As if.  

     "Your Honor, as has been established, my client has suffered physical injury 
in prior encounters which were demonstrably not of his instigation.  If he has 
over-reacted this time, it is understandable.  He had cause to feel threatened."  

     Hey, that was a pretty good argument.  Maybe she'd let me off after all.  

     That happy thought - like most happy thoughts in my life - ended before it had 
a chance to take root.  The look in the Judge's eyes said she was not buying it, 
though there was a sort of 'more in sadness than in anger' thing that I thought I 
might be able to take advantage of, even if she found me guilty of something.  

     She paused for another long moment, staring at me.  I met her gaze head on.  
Regardless of what she decided to do to me, I was not going out like a crybaby.  
I'd made my choice, and I'd face the consequences.  

     "The defendant will rise," she intoned pompously.  My lawyer and my 
guardian stood with me, like that helped or something.  I wondered if they'd 
serve part of my time at juvie hall for me.  Yeah, right, and tomorrow I'd wake up 
6'2" tall, with a stacked blonde in bed beside me.  
   
     "Mr. Shepherd, the court finds you guilty of assault on Mr. Wilson.  In light of 
the medical report that he is expected to recover fully from the damage to his 
knee, we will drop the 'with intent to commit great bodily harm' part of that.  
However, I am reluctant to send you back into a public school situation where 
your tendency toward violence can place others at risk."  

     She paused again, with a troubled look in her eyes that worried me more than 
honest disdain.  She was about to do something she thought would be good for 
me.  God save me from well-meaning adults.  

     "However," she continued, "I am equally reluctant to place you in a 
conventional juvenile facility.  Your small stature and, ah, delicate features have 
no doubt made you the target of predators before.  Sending you where such 
people are concentrated, and for perhaps the three years until you reach statutory 
adulthood at eighteen years of age, serves neither your interests nor those of 
society."  

     She looked directly at me again, staring like she was looking inside me to see 
if there were things hidden there that I did not want revealed.  Well, no surprise, 
there were some.  For the first time, I felt uncomfortable enough to look down.  It 
was only for a moment and I looked her right in the eye again after that, but she 
knew and I knew that she had won that one.  

     At least she was still talking to me.  I mean, directly to me as though whatever 
she was dreaming up would be my decision to accept or reject, not my so-called 
guardian's, nor the lawyer's.

     "Mr. Shepherd, I have an alternative for you."  

     Uh, oh, here it comes.  

     "I know of a private school that might accept you as a student.  I have 
discussed the matter with the woman who runs the school."  

     I *knew* she had her mind made up before this farce of a trial.  

     "She is willing, but *only* if you give me, and her, your solemn promise to 
abide by the rules of her school.  She is a very disciplined woman, and can 
perhaps instill in you some of the discipline you will need if you are to learn to 
function in society."

     "What, like some sort of boot camp, but the instructor is a woman?" I asked 
incredulously.  

     "Close enough," the Judge said.  "In fact, it would be closer to a traditional 
English boarding school than boot camp."  

     "Uh, oh, nothing doing," I said, shaking my head.  "I read about those places.  
Some bitch comes after me with a whipping cane and I'm not responsible for 
what happens next."    

     "There would not be any corporal punishment," the Judge assured me.  "Her 
methods are indeed strict, but no one will strike you except in their own defense.  
If you can make the same claim, then you should have nothing to fear.  You will, 
however, be expected to dress, act, and speak politely.  To achieve your 
cooperation - beyond whatever commitment is embedded in giving your word, 
the breaking of which will return you for more conventional sentencing - she will 
have the normal authority in loco parentis to discipline you with such non-
physical punishments as she deems appropriate."  

     "Send me to bed without supper?" I snorted.  "Feed me on gruel?  Hell, the 
food at the home is bad enough I duke it out with the cat three days a week for 
*her* slop - and I have to stand in line for the privilege."  

     The 'home' was the 'Elizabeth James Home'; the county orphanage, housed in 
an old mansion donated instead of paying taxes by the descendants of the original 
money in the area.  It wasn't as bad as 'Oliver Twist', really.  We never starved or 
anything, but the suffocating condescension was, well, suffocating.  Like it was 
our fault we were orphans, and broke, and didn't have any other relatives 'good' 
enough (meaning rich enough) to take us off the county's hands.  What did they 
want me to do, push for the return of Prohibition so drunks wouldn't kill only 
parts of families?  Sober drivers could do the job properly, right?  And save the 
state from the task of taking care of the leftovers?  

     I interrupted my internal tirade and said, "Not that it matters.  I don't have the 
money for some fancy boarding school, and it's clear the home ain't gonna shell 
out for it."  

     My guardian flinched at that comment, but he shrugged and looked at the 
Judge without real apology.  

     The Judge's eyes seemed to share something with my guardian, sympathy or 
understanding of some sort - adults against us again, as usual, then she looked 
back at me.  

     "Financial arrangements will be made.  Well, Mr. Shepherd, I am waiting.  
Will you give me your word of honor to attend Ms. Thompson's school and obey 
her as your court-appointed guardian, or would you prefer the State School in 
Jonesboro?"

     "Uh, gee, let me see," I said.  "Go to reform school and be some badass 
brother's bitch, or go to this bitch's school and be her little boytoy.  Some 
choice."  

     "Nonetheless, it is the choice you are offered," she said unbendingly.  

     "Yeah, well, I won't be anybody's bitch, and that means either I'll end up in 
the hospital, or someone else will if I go to the reform school.  I'll take what's 
behind door number 2."

     "Very well, so ordered," she said, slamming her gavel.  "Mr. Gordon, make 
arrangements for transportation and for the necessary documentation.  My clerk 
will give you the particulars."  

     As we turned to go, the Judge called after me one last time.  "Oh, Mr. 
Shepherd, a word to the wise.  I'd suggest you think carefully about your 
language once you reach Ms. Thompson's.  She does not consider washing a 
student's mouth out with soap to be physical punishment, and neither do I."

***************

     So that's how I ended up on a train, for God's sake, traveling to some middle-
of-nowhere place in Vermont or Maine or something.  Iceland, near enough.  A 
place so far from the center of the universe that they still had to travel on 
*trains*!  Next thing you know I'll be, like, touching Republicans or something.  
It was a damn long train ride, too.  I think we stopped every ten minutes - for 
twenty minutes at a time.   

    Time to come clean with a secret, I guess.  Even though I truly do believe in an 
active defense - nobody messes with me for free - I don't particularly *like* to be 
a hardass all the time.  I mean, it's necessary, but if I had my druthers, I'd be 
reading Shakespeare or Marcus Aurelius, not fighting.  If I *really* had my 
druthers, I'd have been able to let the grups know how much I enjoyed the field 
trips to the museums we sometimes visited.  But it is NOT a good idea to be 
gushing over how intense 'Guernica' makes you feel when people already think 
you've got violent tendencies, even if you felt the same sort of wonder about 
Monet.  'Tough' guys don't get all excited by blurry fields of flowers, and teens 
do not go anywhere *near* 'Guernica' by choice.  I had enough problems without 
showing an appreciation for fine art, for chrissake.  

     One day I found out the library had art reprint books.  Then I was as happy as 
. . . well, as close to happy as I got any more.  I could study the books on my 
own, without needing to go to the museums.  So I kept that as my own little 
secret, and used what little privacy I had to look at art, or read philosophy, or 
honest-to-God classic literature.  I even found the Bible interesting, despite the 
best efforts of the teachers at the home to turn reading it into work.  Maybe that's 
because my mother had really loved that old book.  

     Anyway, there I was on a train with a one-way ticket to someplace else, just 
like putting a bum on a bus - except the bus would probably have been quicker.  
Old Judge Ruth had made it seem like a special favor to let me travel by myself.  
I suppose the alternative was a Federal marshal or something since I was being 
transported across state lines.  I was, of course, giddy with anticipation at the 
chance to meet this Thompson woman who was now gonna own my skinny butt 
until I either learned to crook my little finger in the proper way, or I survived to 
reach age 18.  

     As I was a lot more organized than my grades indicated (another hard-won 
lesson learned - don't stand out academically or the jealous jocks would take it 
out on you), I had my downloaded-for-free-off-the-Internet copy of Mac's 'The 
Prince' packed away before the train screeched to a stop at my station; Kingston, 
Rhode Island, if it matters.  When I stepped down from the car I saw my new 
owner, obvious despite the lack of any prior description.

    When I grow up, I wanna be rich.  Really, really rich; old money that comes 
from a pile taller than Everest, and in big bills.  Like the woman I saw standing 
on the station platform.  Even a no-taste grunge like me could see that her dark 
power-suit was not off the rack - and she still had the curves to do the tailoring 
justice.  Think Joan Crawford, but with less of a smile.  Auburn hair with just a 
few gray accents instead of witch-black, but you get the picture.  I had this 
feeling that her shoes cost more than the sum total of all the clothes I'd ever had 
in my entire post-parents life.  

     And apparently it was catching.  Standing next to the rich bitch was this really 
tall girl, nearly six feet even aside from her modish heels.  And she was wearing - 
I kid you not - little white gloves and a hat with a veil, and a pink suit tailored a 
little less carefully than the older broad's, but then I'm sure she was still a 
growing girl so I made allowances.  Made me mad all over again that the home 
hadn't let me wear my combat boots.  I figured with these two, I needed that as an 
initial condition so that I could work a compromise and end up in the Doc's I was 
actually wearing (well, fake ones, but they looked like Doc Marten's).  As it was, 
I had given up half my negotiating position before I even started.

     "Jesse Shepherd?" the woman asked.  Like, who'd have dared be anyone else?  

     "Yeah," I said, nodding.  Are you supposed to offer to shake hands with 
someone wearing gloves?  I decided it was safer just to pick up my bags.  It was 
obvious who was gonna be the coolie labor in this group.

     Then she drew her dark glove off with a sharp, snapping notion and held out 
her hand.  "I am Ms. Jane Thompson."  

     I dropped my bag and shook her hand, almost like real people do.  Then she 
looked at her companion and said, "And this is Miss Penny McQueen."     

     Penny did not take of her own little white glove, afraid I'd get cooties on her 
hand or something.  I took a better look at her and decided she musta been old 
money, too.  A young Joan Crawford-to-be, complete with rich, dark hair.  She 
had that lean, elegant look that you pictured riding in the back of the carriage 
while the peasants touched their caps.  She'd obviously marry someone just as 
rich in an arranged business merger.  Romance not required.  

     Oh, hell, maybe I was just jealous of all that obvious class.  I mean, she wasn't 
any competition for Britney Spears, but she was good-looking in a sterile sort of 
way, and I'm sure there was some nice rich preppy for her somewhere.  They'd 
probably have a dozen kids and live happily - and richly - ever after.

     But it was clear that I was one of those peasants who were expected to tip 
their caps to her.  She offered just the ends of her white-gloved fingers to my 
hand, and I resisted the urge to slap it away.  An insult is not the same as a 
physical attack, at least not if there isn't anyone around to take it as a sign of 
weakness.  I touched her fingers briefly with my own and picked my bag up 
again.  

     It came to me that there might be a chance to gain a little momentum in this 
new arrangement.  I had the feeling the Thompson bitch was going to be on my 
case 24/7, and that meant I was going to have to modify my dumb-on-the-
outside-smart-on-the-inside role.  With no real privacy, I was either going to have 
to let them know I was brighter than my grades suggested, or else give up my 
real books until, well, forever.  So okay, I'd see if I could surprise her a little.

     "Lay on, MacDuff, and curst be he - or in this case she - who first cries, 'Hold, 
enough!'"

     The first stage of that didn't get much of a rise out of her.  She went into an 
immediate lecture mode.  "That quote does not refer to MacDuff leading 
MacBeth somewhere.  It is in fact a battle cry, and the 'Lay on' refers to the blows 
they are about to exchange."  

     Then I *did* score a point, when I simply said, "I know."  

     But I had to admit, she scored a point or two of her own when she merely 
lifted a carefully shaped brow at my comment - I swear she could have given 
lessons to the real Joan Crawford.  But what really got my attention was the way 
the corners of her eyes showed a smile of genuine amusement.  There was so 
freaking much confidence in that little smile that I almost went into full defense 
mode.  

     She didn't say anything, though.  Turning on her own stylish heel, she led the 
way through the small station to a waiting car.  That got her another cool point, 
because it was a great car.  Audi A8, Quattro, with all the bells and whistles, 
$65K, plus or minus not enough to matter.  It was the most beautiful car I'd ever 
seen in real life. 

     "It is just a vehicle, Mr. Shepherd," she said mockingly.  I was to learn that 
she saw EVERYthing, including my momentary amazement.  

     "Yeah," I replied, trying to get back some rapidly vanishing cool by seeming 
nonchalant about it.  Not that it helped, but it's all I had to work with.  

     Then I just quit trying for a while, to be cool that is.  First off, she drove that 
fine car like it was meant to be driven.  She didn't really speed, staying as close to 
the limits as the rest of the gentry who shared the road, but she powered through 
the curves and used all the muscle of that big V-8 on the hills.  Definitely not 
what I expected from the old lady, and I was impressed.  

     Then we reached her house.  At that moment, I decided there were more 
differences between rich people and poor people than just that the rich had more 
money.  There was a sense of . . . eternity about that place, as though it had 
always been there, and always would be there.  Mountains may wear down and 
the stars burn out, but that mansion would endure.  I was WAY out of my league 
here. 

     The coolie (guess who) got the bags out of the trunk and Penny led me up the 
stairs.  There was one similarity to the room I had been staying in.  This place 
was as big as the dorm that had held 30 of us male orphans.  Oops, two 
similarities, there was an attached bathroom - and what I could see of it through 
the open door looked about as big as the one back in the dorm, too.  Right then, 
I'd have taken the dorm.  

     "I can't stay here," I announced.  

     Penny frowned, but it was obviously artificial.  Laughter was lurking on her 
lips in a smirk I'd have liked an excuse to wipe away.  She didn't give me one 
though, not enough of a one anyway.  

     "What is the problem?" she asked in a polite tone - not bothering to hide the 
smirk.  

     "I'd go into diabetic shock if I had to stay here," I claimed.  "It's so sickeningly 
sweet I'm feeling nauseous just standing in the doorway."

     I was not exaggerating.  The basic color of the room was bad enough, a pale 
violet that just missed being pink, but the accents were all white, including little 
lace curtain things around the bed both at the bottom and the frilly canopy, 
around the windows, hell, even the little chair in front of the mirrored chest had a 
frilly little fringe.  It raised my blood sugar twenty points just to look at it.  

     "Besides," I continued, trying to find something that might work with the tall 
bitchette, "this furniture is all so spindly that I'll probably break it if I walk by too 
close, let alone sit in it."

     "See that you don't," the Thompson woman said from the doorway.  "This 
room will be yours for the duration of your stay here.  You may leave your bags 
by the bed.  Luncheon is ready."

     'Luncheon?'  Have you ever heard anybody really say that?  Well, why should 
I be surprised?  Dali would have loved this surreal room.  Also any girl under the 
age of 12.  I wondered where the stuffed teddy bears - spotlessly white and very 
plush, of course - had been hidden.  

     Still, I was hungry and even table scraps from 'luncheon' would be better than 
I'd had on that interminable train ride.  So I dropped my bags by the bed, then 
sidled toward the inner door.  "Um, if you don't mind, I'll be just a minute."  

     "I DO mind," she said sharply.  "However, if you have enough skills in the 
English language to frame that as a request, I may consider granting it."  

     "What is this, Jeopardy?  I'll take 'Piss break for 5,' Alex," I replied, snorting.  

     Penny jerked like she'd been slapped, and the smirk disappeared from her 
face.  Unfortunately, it was replaced by a look of horror that I didn't find any 
more appealing, especially since it was obvious she was afraid for *me*.  Hell, I 
didn't even like the bitchette, and I didn't think she liked me any better.  What 
could be so bad that she wouldn't want it inflicted on someone she hated?  

     I found out.  For an old lady, that Thompson woman was *fast*.  One moment 
I was sliding toward the bathroom, my eyes - as I said - foolishly watching the 
younger woman, and the next my ear was being yanked down the hallway.  Since 
I was rather fond of that ear - you could say I was attached to it in fact - I was on 
MY way down the hallway as well.  I felt like the cartoon character whose head 
bounces on each step as he's drug down them, because while my chin wasn't 
hitting the steps, each time she stepped down one she yanked my ear lower, then 
when I stepped down it got yanked back up, each time accompanied by a startled, 
"OW!"  

     Then my poor ear got yanked backwards as she abruptly stopped while my 
momentum tried to keep me moving forward.  Still pinching it with a strength I 
had to respect, she pulled me around until I was standing by a hard wooden chair 
tucked under a huge, heavy, table.  Spread on the snowy tablecloth were about 20 
plates and goblets and things - at each of three places.  

     The pressure on my ear was released as quickly as it had appeared, but before 
I could take advantage of my new-found freedom to do something appropriate, 
the woman was out of reach.  I had this feeling that old Judge Bitchy wouldn't 
accept self-defense as a plea if I hit this woman in the back, so I just stood there 
and dreamed of what I would do when I could manufacture a chance. 

     "Sit, please," she said, her voice so calm and detached it was as if my recent 
ear-yanking had happened to someone in a different time zone.  

     Our 'luncheon' arrived when another older woman came from the kitchen 
through a swinging door as cliche as the rest of the old asylum I had been 
incarcerated into.  She spread a bunch of food around and we began to work our 
way through all that crockery.  "Mr. Shepherd," Ms. Thompson informed me, 
"this is Marie.  She is my assistant, and my friend."

     Marie said, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Shepherd."

     "Yeah, sure, me too." I replied.  For some reason that triggered another look 
of distress on Penny's too-regular features.  Even though I hadn't done anything 
wrong, I ducked almost by reflex.  Then, of course, it turned out I HAD done 
something wrong even though I didn't know it - a situation that would become 
very, very common. 

     "*MR.* Shepherd," Ms. Thompson said tightly.  "Marie is an adult, and you 
will treat her with respect.  Do you want to try that again?"

     "What?" I asked.  I really didn't know.  I mean, what more did she want?  I 
didn't even know this other woman, yet I had politely given her the benefit of the 
doubt - which I thought was a pretty big concession considering what had 
happened to me so far - and said I was glad to meet her, too.       

     Ms. Thompson's gleaming nails - somehow I just knew they were the perfect 
length and color for a professional woman - drummed on the table for a long 
moment.  Well, tough titty.  I wasn't going to apologize for something I didn't 
even know I'd done.  Instead, I just sat there warily, watching her in case she 
started to reach for me again.  

     The moment was broken by Penny, of all people.  "Ms. Jane, perhaps, um, 
Mr. Shepherd just doesn't know any better."  

     "I find that hard to believe," Ms. Thompson sniffed, "even in this benighted 
time."  

     Penny spoke directly to me, after a brief glance at Ms. Thompson to get 
permission.  "Mr. Shepherd, as Miss Marie is an adult, you should address her as 
'Miss Marie,' and it would be proper to return her greeting more completely than 
just saying, 'sure, me too.'"

     "You gotta be sh. . . ," I started, then remembered about the soap mouthwash 
that I just *knew* old lady Thompson would love to use on me.  "Ah, that is, that 
would seem to be, um, sorta wasteful.  I mean, *Miss* Marie certainly knows her 
name, and, um, doesn't what I said make it clear I'm, um, happy to meet her, 
too?"  

     Drumming fingers again.  Finally, Ms. Thompson sighed and looked at Penny.  
"I fear you are right, Penny.  While it was clear from the first moment we saw 
him that he is uncouth, obnoxious, and . . "  Here she looked at me like I was 
something the cat left on the carpet.  " . . . sloppy, it would appear that his lack of 
manners and rudeness are likely the result of poor - make that non-existent - 
training.  I suppose one must make allowances."  

     She sighed again and finally looked directly at me.  "Well, Mr. Shepherd, it 
seems that you have ruined this meal.  Perhaps we should adjourn to my study 
and discuss your situation in private."  

     I looked down at all the food I hadn't managed to eat yet, but at least the raw 
edge was off my hunger, so I stood and followed her away from the table.   

     When we got to her office, I got all rude again.  This time it wasn't my fault.  
Or, well I suppose it was my fault, but it wasn't deliberate.  Her office was a 
palace!  It was big enough to play handball in there - hell, it was big enough to 
play a pretty good game of football in there, but what really made it awesome 
were all the books lining the walls.  As soon as I stepped into the room, those 
books drew my attention like a magnet and I found myself with my nose pressed 
to the titles frantically trying to figure out her filing system so I could search for 
my favorites.  

     "*MR.* Shepherd, if you are *quite* ready, I will thank you to sit over here."  

     "Oh, sorry," I said sadly as I turned away.  For some damn reason that started 
her fingers drumming again.  I sat down in the indicated chair - one of the most 
uncomfortable chairs I have ever seen, by the way - and waited for her to start 
hammering on me.  I figured it was coming, and the fact I didn't have a clue why 
didn't change a damn thing.  I've been in that particular situation way too often to 
count.  

     "Mr. Shepherd," she began, "are you actually *trying* to be sent back to the 
State School?  If so, and your trip up here was just a ploy to delay your just 
sentence, I can assure you it will not have turned out to be a good idea."  

     "Uh, no, of course not," I said.  "Look, um, Ms. Thompson, I'm not gonna 
claim to be some high-society type like Penny, but I'm not really trying to cause 
trouble.  I don't know what's got your, um, what's caused you to be so upset, but 
it's not, I mean, I'm not, like, trying to make you mad."  

     "It may very well be that you do cause me to become mad," she replied, "in 
addition to your demonstrated ability to make me become angry."

     She paused for a moment, then looked at me so directly that I almost turned 
around because I was sure she was seeing something through my head.  "Mr. 
Shepherd," she asked, "why are you here?"  

     "Huh?"  Dumb question.  Hell, she'd just answered it herself.  Apparently she 
expected something more from me, though, because all my own question earned 
was more nail drumming.  

     Sighing, I tried again.  "Well, um, I thought you knew.  I mean, didn't you just 
say that you knew it's this or reform school?"  

     "Is avoiding that institution the only reason you're here?"

     "Um, well, I mean, you got a great place here, and now that I've seen it I 
wouldn't mind staying if we can do something about that sugar-coated room, but, 
well, yeah.  I guess so.  I thought it would be better than being some bast .  . um, 
somebody's, ah, cellmate."

     "So there was no other possible way to avoid that institution, other than 
coming here?"  

     "Not that I know of."  Geez, what was her problem?  This was, like, the fourth 
time we'd been over that point.  

     She stood up and walked over to a window that looked out on about a 
thousand acres of lawns and gardens and stuff.  She didn't look back at me, but 
somehow I got the impression she was comparing what she saw out the window 
with her memory of what she would see if she turned around - that would be me - 
and much preferred what was outside.  Nonetheless, after a while she did turn 
around and speak directly to me.  

     "Mr. Shepherd, you are here because of your own bad behavior.  The easiest 
way to stay out of that State School would have been to stay out of trouble in the 
first place.  You are here because you attacked an innocent boy. You are here 
because you are rude, ill-mannered, selfish, and violent.  You are here, in short, 
because you are a living example of all that is *worst* in a man."  

     "Hey, he was askin' for it," I said, getting my own dander up a bit.  "Look, if 
you don't want me here, then just say the word.  I can handle reform school.  I 
don't need you."  

     "Oh, no, Mr. Shepherd, you most certainly DO need me.  The question is, can 
you convince me it's worth my time and trouble to demonstrate that to you?"  

     I was about to answer, but she held up her hand and continued.  "There is one 
thing in what you said that is critical.  I can indeed 'say the word' and send you 
back.  That decision will be based on one thing, and one thing only."  

     She sat down again and crossed her hands on the top of the desk.  Looking at 
me with those crystal-etching eyes, she asked, "Mr. Shepherd, just what is 
*your* word worth?"

     That pissed me off.  Nobody, but NOBODY questioned my word.  Ms. Rich 
Bitch might have more money than God, but nobody owned my word but me.  
That was one of the few things my dad had been able to teach me before . . . well, 
before.  I started to tell her off for being so damn smug and superior, but . . . but 
those eyes didn't leave me any room to maneuver, no place to touch her own 
pride.  This was not about her ability to keep a promise, and she wouldn't let that 
become the topic.  It was about me.  

     Okay, then, Ms. Bitch, let's let this BE about me.  "I have NEVER given 
ANYone just cause to doubt my word," I ground out through teeth that didn't 
quite chip edges.  "That judge, hell all you grups, might think you know what's 
my life is like, but you're wrong.  Everything I have said is true.  Everything I 
have done was necessary for my own protection, and even then I was straight up 
and open about it.  I fight hard and effectively, and I make it clear that's what 
people can expect."  

    "I'm not talking about your combat prowess, Mr. Shepherd, but about your 
word of honor.  Is that topic so difficult for you to grasp?"

     That shot me up out of my chair, and it's a good thing her desk was so wide, 
or, I'd'a got into a lot more trouble.  Before I could get started around it, I saw 
that same damn freaking confidence look in her eyes and it stopped me.  I didn't 
know why she felt so confident, and not knowing was a good reason to be 
careful.  

     She didn't say anything while I stood there, fists clenched, breathing hard.  
She just smiled that arrogant, confident smile.  After a very long moment, her 
eyes pointed to the chair, and I sat down again.  

     "Well, Mr. Shepherd," she said after another long moment, "you demonstrate 
at least a rudimentary intelligence.  However, you have still not given me reason 
to believe that you are worth my time."  

     "Fine," I snapped.  "Send me back."  

     "I may," she said calmly, more threat in those quiet words than any amount of 
shouting, "but we have not yet determined if we have a basis for going forward.  
I ask you again, how good is your word of honor?"  

     "It's good," I said.  

     "From whose perspective?" she asked.  

     "What d'you mean?" 

     "You implied that you remain true to your own view of right and wrong, but 
that adults may not share that same view.  That must be very convenient.  If there 
is no external standard to judge the value of your promise, then how can one tell 
if it has meaning?"  

     "Look, my word is good.  If you don't believe me, then why ask me?"  

     Ms. Thompson actually smiled at that.  "A good point, Mr. Shepherd, and one 
that in fact inclines me to believe you.  Now, let me ask you this:  Do you believe 
you gave your word to Judge Ruth that you would obey me while you are at my 
school?"  

     "Yeah, I guess so." 

     "Do you intend to keep your word?"

     "Yes, dammit, I already said so."  

     That took any trace of smile out of her eyes, but all she did was lean back in 
her chair.  We stared at each other for another long time, then she spoke.  "Mr. 
Shepherd, you will not be profane in my house again.  On your honor."  

     Shit.  I couldn't accept that.  I mean, even if I tried, something was bound to 
slip out.  "I'm sorry, Ms. Thompson, but I can't promise that.  I can try, but some 
habits don't break just because you want them to."     

    "Quite," she said, surprising me by agreeing.  "Indeed, that is the core of your 
problem.  You have learned bad habits.  I have two responsibilities here.  One is 
to help you unlearn those bad habits and learn positive behaviors instead.  The 
second is to help you learn conventional academic skills so that you are prepared 
for later schooling.  The second is by far the easier."  

     I just shrugged.  She'd already made it clear she thought I crawled out from 
under a rock somewhere, but I suppose she was saying that she thought I was 
smart enough to learn the regular school stuff.  On that, we could agree.  

     "If I offer to help you with your behavior problems, will you give me your 
best effort?  Your best, honest effort?"  

     "Yeah, I guess so."

     "Not good enough, Mr. Shepherd.  I want an unambiguous commitment."  

     "Okay, sure.  As long as I'm here, I'll do whatever you say as best I can," I 
said.  I was about to add in some weasel words anyway, about if it's legal, and 
not dangerous, and all that sort of stuff, just to show I wasn't stupid enough to 
write a totally blank check, but the 'as best I can' covered that well enough 
anyway.  

     "On your word of honor?" she pushed, again, all the time pushing.  

     "Yes, on my word of honor," I said.  

     Ms. Thompson nodded and leaned forward in her chair.  She pushed a button 
on her desk, then actually smiled again.  "In honor of our agreement, I think we 
should have a small toast."

     Just then Marie came into the room with two mismatched goblets.  I was a 
little surprised at that, since everything in the house was so perfect, but one 
definitely had a reddish tint to the rim, and the other was bluish.  

     "What is this?" I asked cautiously.  

     "Just some sherry.  It's very mild," Marie assured me as she handed me one of 
the glasses.  

     "I'm sorry, but I don't drink," I said, putting it back on the tray.

     "It is only a small glass of wine," Ms. Thompson confirmed.  "Consider it the 
first of your lessons in manners.  Confirming an important agreement with a toast 
is the polite way to bring a negotiation to a close, making it clear that both parties 
agree to the decision."  

     "I'm sorry," I repeated, raising my voice a little.  "But I don't drink.  If you 
must know, my parents were killed by a drunken driver, and I vowed on their 
graves that I would *never* drink.  If this is a deal-breaker, then so be it."  

     Ms. Thompson twirled her own goblet in her hands for a moment, then 
nodded.  She looked at Marie and said, "Very well.  Marie, would you find some 
juice or something for our new student?"  

     The other woman stepped through the doorway again, returning a few minutes 
later with another goblet, this time filled with what looked like apple juice.   

     "Mr. Shepherd, to your promise to do your best to comply with my program 
for you," she said, raising her glass.  
   
     I raised mine as well, not sure if I should clink them or just lift it.  When she 
took a sip of her wine, I figured the gesture was enough, and took a sip of my 
juice.  It had a funny taste, but maybe they'd had it for a while.  I didn't know if 
apple juice was a common thing for New England or not.  In any event, I drank it 
down and placed my goblet on the tray next to Ms. Thompson's.

     "Mr. Shepherd," she said, then interrupted herself, "or I suppose now that you 
are officially one of my students, it would not be too informal to call you Jesse.  
Jesse, I have given you a great deal of latitude in this our first day together.  Let 
me make one thing clear.  If there are any other 'deal breaker' points lurking in 
your sense of honor, you had better lay them on the table right now.  After this, I 
will consider any such claim to be nothing more than breaking your word."  

     "Um, okay," I said, stifling a yawn.  "Oh, sorry.  Well, the judge said there 
wasn't gonna be any, like, spanking or anything, right?"

     "I do not believe in corporal punishment, at least not for young adults," she 
declared.  

     "Okay, then," I said, yawning again.  "I can't think of anything else."  

     "Very well, Jesse, we shall consider that topic closed.  As it appears you are 
fatigued from your train trip, perhaps you would like to take a nap until dinner."  

     "Thanks," I said.  "I must be more tired than I thought.  Maybe I can even fall 
asleep in that cotton candy museum you call my room."  

     "Quite," she said, glancing at the door.  Recognizing my cue, I left.  By the 
time I got to the top of the stairs, I was holding one eye at a time open, because 
both together were too heavy.  I made it to the bed, but just barely.     
     
****************************

     When I woke up I went through the standard groggy confusion.  New bed, 
new room, where am I?  Been there, done that, survived.  Part of my confusion 
was that I was still sleepy.  However, I had to address a problem that could not be 
put off any longer.  Heading for 'the little room' I had to snicker when I 
remembered how huge the place was, then laugh again when I saw that the 
necessary was in fact semi-concealed in a little alcove within the room behind 
swinging saloon doors.

     I had no sooner started taking care of business when the outer door to the 
bathroom opened and someone came bustling in.  

     "Hey, lady, a little privacy in here!" 

     "Oh, don't mind me," she said.  Yeah, right.  Maybe it wouldn't bother her if I 
slapped her silly, if I just told her not to mind it.  Under the swinging doors I 
could see her feet move over to the bathtub and start the water.  

     "When you're done, just slip into the bath here.  It'll make you feel much 
better.  And put your clothes outside the door so I can take care of them."  

     "Look, lady," I said from within my semi-hidden alcove, "I don't appreciate 
women coming in while I'm, uh, well, while I'm in here.  And I don't take baths, I 
take showers, and my clothes are fine.  Just leave me alone."  

     "Jesse - you don't mind if I call you Jesse, do you? - I think it would be better 
if you called me 'Marie.'  Oh, if Miss Jane is around, that should be 'Miss Marie' 
of course, but just between us I don't really mind if you just call me Marie," she 
chattered.  Geez, this lady was, like, *old*.  I mean, she had to be at least 50, 
worse than the Thompson woman herself, and she was chattering like some teen-
age airhead.  

     "The bath will make you feel better after your trip.  I put some medicinal salts 
in there for you.  And I'll find you some, ah, more appropriate clothes, so don't 
worry about that.  Now, get a move on.  Don't let the tub overfill."  

     With that she bustled out as briskly as she had entered, leaving me to 'get a 
move on.'  When I stepped out of the alcove my eyes confirmed what my nose 
had warned me about: the 'medicinal salts' had caused the tub to foam up in a 
bubble bath, thick with perfumey scent.  

     "Screw this shit," I said, turning off the water.  I did need to get cleaned up, 
but I wasn't getting in that mess.  I'd smell of the perfume for a week.  

     Just then I heard a knock on the door, followed so quickly by Ms. Thompson 
herself that the knock provided no useful warning.  Her frown made it clear that I 
had done something wrong yet again.  

     "Why are you still dawdling?  Did Marie not make it clear you were expected 
to bathe?"  

     "In this?" I snorted.  "Get real.  I'll take a shower, but no baths.  Most 
especially no freakin' bubble baths!"  

     "You WILL take a bath, right this minute, in the tub that has been prepared 
for you," she ordered implacably.  "If you insist on behaving like a child, I will 
treat you as a child, and I have bathed reluctant children before."

     Showtime.  I set myself for the fight, remembering she was faster than I might 
expect.  So far, she hadn't really threatened me - well, not with anything worse 
than a bath - so I figured I'd have to break my self-imposed rule and let her have 
the first shot.  We were about the same size. She had me by a couple of inches, 
though not much in weight, so I should be able to handle her even if she did get 
the first hit.

     Then Marie stepped into the room, and despite her earlier airhead manner, she 
looked very serious.  It was clear that she was gonna back up the Thompson 
woman.  That didn't really worry me, because I figured I could take a couple of 
old women.  But I realized I'd have to get serious to do it.  And the inevitable 
result of that would be deep, smelly shit for me, regardless of what happened to 
them.  

     The Thompson woman had that absolute confidence look in her eyes again, 
plus a mocking smile.  "Over a bath, Jesse?" 

     Shit.  She was right.  It wasn't worth it.  I had a feeling we'd have this out yet, 
but I wasn't going to explain to the dudes in reform school that I'd been sent there 
because I refused to take a freakin' bath.  

     "Okay, fine.  Get out.  I'll take the damn bath."

     She nodded, turning to go.  On her way out, she said, "Put your clothes 
outside the door as you were told."

     "My clothes are fine," I snarled.  

     "Put your clothes outside the door as you were told," she repeated with a tone 
so perfect it sounded like a recording.  "If you don't, Marie will retrieve them for 
you.  If you want to bathe in private, your clothes - all of them, shoes and 
underwear included - will be outside that door within 60 seconds."

     She didn't even turn back to see whether I intended to comply.  She sailed out 
of the room as grandly as she had entered, serenely confident.  Right then, I set 
myself the goal of breaking that confidence somehow, sometime, some way.  It 
made giving in a little easier to see my current situation as only a temporary 
retreat.  

     I didn't really care about the damn clothes that much anyway.  They were all 
orphanage hand-me-downs.  Hell, if she took them off and burned them it would 
mean I'd get better since they couldn't get any worse.  Not in this household 
anyway.  I figured I'd seen the last of blue jeans and a t-shirt for a good while, but 
I could manage fancier clothes if I had to.  In a moment of horror I had this 
vision of being required to wear a freakin' necktie, and that moment didn't go 
away because I knew it was inevitable.  Shit, damn, spit.  

     The bath itself wasn't that bad, except for the stupid smell.  There might even 
have been something medicinal in the stuff, because I did feel some aches and 
pains let up after I'd soaked for a while.  I'd had to help with enough babies at the 
home to recognize the scent of baby powder, and something flowery that wasn't 
roses though, and it wasn't a smell I wanted to linger around me.  At least my hair 
was short enough I didn't really need shampoo and I hoped that would mean the 
fragrance wouldn't hang on, like, forever.  

     "Time to get moving," Marie's voice called from outside the door.  "I've set a 
robe out for you, and Ms. Jane wants to see you in her study immediately."  

     Yeah, right, like I cared what Miss High-and-Mighty wanted.  But the damn 
bath was getting cold - another reason to prefer showers - so I got out and dried 
myself off on the thickest, softest towel I'd ever seen.  If that bitch would only be 
reasonable, staying there could be okay.  Not that there was any chance of that.  

     Wrapping the towel around my waist, I poked my head out the door to see if 
Marie were still hanging around.  She wasn't, so I stepped out.  There was indeed 
a robe draped on the bed.  

    "No.  Freakin'.  Way," I declared to the world at large.  For a lady that seemed 
to have her shit together pretty well, apparently Ms. Thompson wasn't prepared 
for a male student.  The robe that flowed so elegantly across the frilly bedspread 
was pink spun sugar.  I half expected it to be sticky like real cotton candy if I 
touched it.  Not that I was gonna do that.  

     After my surprise passed, I decided that was actually good news.  It meant 
that they hadn't gotten into my stuff.  I didn't have a robe - not even a men's robe 
- but I had a pair of sweat pants that wouuld do and apparently they hadn't found 
them.  If the robe was acceptable, then taking the time to get out my other pair of 
jeans and get dressed for real wasn't necessary, so I could just grab my sweat 
pants.  

     However, when I stepped around the bed to where I had left my bags, they 
were gone.  A quick check of the furniture and closet showed lots of things left 
over from what was presumably the previous occupant - all frills and foo-foo, of 
course - but none of my things.

     None of my things.  Not even my books.  

     I grabbed the bedspread off the bed, then decided it was too frilly for my taste, 
and stripped the blanket instead.  Wrapped in the blanket and the towel, I headed 
for the study.  Apparently the door to my room was as solid and enduring as the 
rest of that mausoleum, because it didn't come off the hinges when I opened it.  

     Neither did the door to the study.  It did, however, make a nicely-loud 
introduction to my words when it banged off the wall.

     "Goddamn it, give 'em BACK!"  

     Ms. Thompson rose from her seat and raised her voice for the first time since 
I'd met her.  "How DARE you come in here shouting at me!  Losing your quite-
inadequate clothes is NO excuse for such boorish . .  "

     "I don't give a rat's ass about the fuckin' CLOTHES!" I shouted, getting right 
in her face.  "You give me back my books!  You had no right to take my books!"  

     "Your books?" she said, actually giving a little ground.  For some reason, her 
retreat didn't make me want to advance.  Maybe it was the honest surprise I heard 
in her voice, the first time I'd seen her confidence waver.  Instead, I ended up 
explaining.  

     "The clothes belong to the county, but the books are mine.  You have to give 
them back."

     To my horror, I heard my voice change to a pleading, begging tone.  Then the 
unthinkable occurred.  I felt my eyes start to burn with tears.  "The Bible was my 
mother's," I choked out through a throat too tight for volume.  "And the notebook 
is . . . you just had no right . . . no right."  

     "Sit down," she commanded, and I did it.  I don't know why.  Her tone of 
voice was close enough to the standard adult 'because I say so' bullshit that 
always made me want to do the opposite, but . . . I just couldn't stop my damn 
eyes from leaking, and I could feel my nose filling up, and I . . . just did what she 
said.  

     I suppose Ms. Thompson pushed her little buzzer or something, because 
Marie came into the room.  "Please bring Jesse's things.  Not the clothes, just the 
books," Ms. Thompson ordered.  

     It was obvious I wasn't going to get my bags themselves back, so I had to let 
out something I'd wanted to stay hidden.  "And my scout knife," I asked, hearing 
that begging tone again but unable to stop it.  "My dad gave it to me."  

     I sensed more than saw Ms. Thompson nod.  After that, nothing was said for 
several minutes.  I spent the time trying to get my eyes under control.  Of course, 
before I could manage that my nose was overflowing and I had to wipe it on the 
blanket.  The second time I got to that point, Ms. Thompson just handed me a 
kleenex.  Then Marie was back, piling my books on the desk in front of Ms. 
Thompson instead of in front of me, but at least they were close, and so was my 
scout knife.

     It really was Mom's Bible, I could tell from the burned place on the cover.  If I 
ever decided to actually believe what was in that book, a part of the reason would 
be that the Bible made it through the fire when the car was wrecked.  Like a 
mini-miracle or something.  That, and the knife I'd had in my pocket were the 
only things that remained through six years and three orphan homes.  The other 
things looked right, too; printed out pages that looked like my copy of 'The 
Prince', and a spiral notebook bound with a rubber band.

     Ms. Thompson started to take off the rubber band.

     "That's private," I said, the strength I should have put into those words ruined 
by a damn sniffle.  

     "A diary, like a teen-age girl would keep?" she asked.

     "No." It wasn't, not really.  But it was private.  

     She looked at me like she expected more explanation, but I guess I'd run down 
on my blubbering and I was able to keep my mouth shut.  

     "I'm surprised they let you keep a knife," she said, picking it up next.  

     "They didn't know," I admitted.  "I never took it to school, and the rest of the 
time I kept it hidden."  

     She looked at it thoughtfully.  "I'm not sure I can permit you to have a 
dangerous weapon."  

     God I hated to beg.  But it was mine, dammit!  And I knew I wouldn't get it 
back by demanding it.  "My dad said things like knives are just tools; inanimate 
objects.  They're not good or bad, safe or dangerous, except as people make them 
so.  I've never, ever threatened anyone with it.  I promise."  

     "Yes, well, we have discussed your word of honor, haven't we?" she asked 
quietly.  I'm not sure what she wanted me to say to that - maybe nothing - so I 
just stayed quiet.  

     "A somewhat eclectic collection, I must say," she observed.  "Machiavelli 
complete with some rather interesting notations in the margins, the Word of God, 
plus a mysterious notebook that is 'private' but not a diary."  She set the knife 
down next to the rest of the pile and shoved it all over the desk toward me.

     "Jesse, I apologize for taking these things.  You are correct, I had no right to 
do that.  But I must insist you return to your room, put on the robe that was laid 
out for you, and come back so that we can discuss what will be expected of you."  

     "That was a girl's robe.  I'll just put on my sweats and be right back," I 
promised, rising and gathering my things.   

     "That is not what I said," she reminded me.  

     "You mean you really want me to put on that thing?" I asked in shock.  

     "I mean I really want you to do as you're told," she said.  "And what I told you 
to do was put on that robe.  It is a perfectly good robe and certainly preferable to 
dirty 'sweats' which are in any event not available to you now."  

     "Hell, in that case I'll just use the blanket.  It's just as good," I said, moving to 
sit back down.  

     "It is NOT 'just as good,'" she said, raising her voice just enough to add real 
tone to it for the first time in several minutes.   I could see her stifle something 
else she wanted to say.  That was actually a surprise.  I mean, she was clearly a 
control freak and I didn't see her as being indecisive on anything.  I did get the 
nailtip drumroll again, though.  

     The worst thing was, she probably thought she was doing me a freakin' favor.  
The things she wanted me to do would be considered luxuries - for a girl.  A 
scented bubble bath, a fancy and no doubt expensive robe; hell, a girl would 
think she'd died and gone to heaven.  It was clear Ms. Thompson had no clue 
how to handle boys, for all that the flashes of steel she'd shown made it likely she 
was hell on wheels with girls.  

     Well, life's a bitch and then you die.  I shrugged my shoulders and stood up 
again.  "It's stupid, unnecessary, and probably illegal in the Bible belt, but the 
freakin' clothes I wear don't freakin' matter."  

    With that as an exit line, I went back to my room and got the damn robe.  I put 
my books in one of the nightstands, hoping the witch wouldn't use them as some 
sort of ring through my nose - stealing them again every time she got her own 
nose bent outta shape.  Then I thought I was gonna have to use the blanket again 
anyway, since I almost couldn't figure out how to put the stupid robe on.  It 
wasn't a simple lap-over robe with a belt tie.  There were buttons that closed the 
front all the way to the floor - which wasn't too bad once I figured out which side 
went in front - but when it got up to the waist it went into this tricky little double 
layer thing leaving this really freaky heart-shaped lace section covering the upper 
buttons.  White lace heart over flowing pink shine.  Gag.  Insulin, I need insulin.   

     No underwear, either.  Like I said, she obviously wasn't ready to deal with 
boys.  Good thing that Penny bitch was such a bitch.  I had to admit I'd have been 
really uncomfortable if a girl I thought was hot saw me in that thing.  Come to 
think of it, I hadn't seen Penny since lunch.  Thank God for small favors.  

     When I got back down to the study, the door was closed.  Not being totally 
clueless, I figured this was a test, so I knocked on it instead of just barging in.  

     "Enter."  

     "Doofus Third Class Shepherd, reporting as ordered, ma'am!" I barked out as I 
hit a brace in front of the desk.  

     "Sit down," she ordered, ignoring my little display.  I'm not even sure she saw 
it, for a shame, because she was looking out the window at her gardens again, 
now dim in the fading dusk.  

     "What do you want out of life?" she asked suddenly, not even turning from 
the outside view.

     "Huh?" 

     "In polite company," she lectured to the window, "one does not converse in 
grunts."  

     "What?  Oh, um, sorry."  
   
     After that nothing happened for, oh, a while.  Minutes are a long time in that 
sort of situation, so it might not have been that long, but I felt like we were there 
forever, doing nothing.  Then it hit me.  She'd asked a damn question and I hadn't 
answered.  

     "Oh, um, sh.., um, shoot, I'm just tryin' to make it through one day at a time.  I 
guess I never thought that far ahead."  

     "Just so," she said, turning to face me at last.  Then she started in on me.  
"You're a mess, Jesse Shepherd.  You're rude in ways that go beyond simple 
ignorance of good manners.  You're selfish.  You don't listen.  Most of all, you 
don't keep your promises."  

     "Hey, I do, too.  I'm here, ain't I, wearing this freakin' robe?"  

     "Only after yet another confrontation.  Is that truly the 'best' you can comply 
with my direction?  What about your promise to avoid profanity?  There have not 
been two complete sentences you've spoken since I've known you without at least 
some inappropriate language.  If you are truly 'sorry' as you so blithely claim, 
then why do you persist in such abominable behavior?"  

     Before I could reply she answered her own question, leaning on the desk to 
loom over me.  "Because you have been brought up in a situation that glorifies all 
that is worst in man, while suppressing all that is virtuous.  Even your so-noble 
claim to be a man of your word is proved false over and over again.  I am 
becoming convinced that you are unrecoverable, and that I might as well let you 
become the plaything of some animal in what passes for juvenile confinement."  

     Yeah, well, maybe she was right.  Sure, I'd forgotten to watch my language a 
couple of times, and I'd resisted some of her stupid rules.  But I didn't figure that 
was the real reason she was shipping me off.  She'd gotten her jollies by making 
me dress up in the stupid robe, and now she was tired of playing with me.  Story 
of my life - condensed version.  Well, I'd been thrown out of better places than 
this.  Not more expensive, mind you, but definitely better.   I shrugged my 
shoulders and started to stand up.  

     "Sit down, Mr. Shepherd!" she snapped.  Damn, just like there was a string on 
my butt, it got planted right back in that chair just from the force of her voice.  

     "There is a way to find out," she said.  "I am familiar with a training method 
more commonly used in England than in the United States, but of proven 
effectiveness.  It will require you to exercise careful control over every 
mannerism you portray - leading to self-control even as you learn proper manners 
and deportment.  It is particularly focused on control of loud, boorish, childishly-
male behavior.  Is your given word enough to lead you to attempt such a 
program, or are you more interested in a life of reform school followed by jail, 
followed by God knows what?  I ask you again, what do you want out of life?"  

     What's behind door number 3?  I mean, if those were my only two choices . . . 
shit or more shit.  "Yeah, like there's really any alternative anyway.  I'll get to be 
18, my butt will hit the streets, and you'll be hammerin' the next fool to come 
your way.  I mean, I haven't even lived in the same state for long enough to 
establish residency for in-state tuition yet, let alone get enough money to pay for 
college."  

     She waved her hand over the money issue like someone who had never really 
been hungry in her life - which was no doubt true, but it showed she just didn't 
understand *real* life at all.  Then she whacked me right between the eyes with a 
promise I had NOT seen coming.  "Jesse, if you complete my program, to the 
best of your ability and to my standards, I will pay for four years at the college of 
your choice - more than that if you have a valid need for an advanced degree in 
your chosen career field.  This is not about your excuses.  It is about YOU.  It is 
about your behavior, and whether you are truly willing to become a civilized 
human being."  

     "College?" I repeated in a daze.  "Geez, for a chance at a good college, I'll 
stand on my head for three years."  

     "It won't be that easy," she said, fighting a smile I could see lurking in her 
eyes.  Then I remembered I was wearing a girl's robe, and no underwear.  
Standing on my head would NOT be a good idea right then.  I started to snicker, 
too, but a suddenly hard look in her eyes cut my mirth off sharp.  

     "Seriously, the program I have in mind will be very difficult.  Especially so 
for you.  I make no promises that you CAN succeed, only that if you do, you will 
be a fine young man who will have no trouble fitting into to the polite society 
your formal education will allow you to enter."  

     "Just what IS this program you're talking about?  I'm a lot smarter than my 
grades indicate, I promise you."   

     "I have never doubted that," she assured me.  Sitting down and crossing her 
hands on her desk, she said, "It is called 'petticoat discipline,' and it will require 
that you look, dress, and act like a respectable young lady for the duration of 
your stay with me."

     I laughed at her.  "You gotta be sh. . . , I mean, you can't be serious."  

     "I assure you, I am quite serious."  

     "Yeah, well, you're quite crazy, too.  I'm outta here," I declared, standing up.  

     "As you wish," she said quietly.  "I told you before that the single most 
important factor in whether you stayed or left was whether your word of honor 
meant anything.  As it apparently does not, it would perhaps be best if you left."

     "Hey, that's not fair!"  

     "Isn't it?  I believe I asked you if there were any restrictions in your promise to 
abide by my rules beyond the no-alcohol and no corporal punishment provisions.  
You assured me that there were not.  Yet at every challenge, you refuse to obey.  
I submit to you that you are a liar and a man without honor, and hardly one to 
judge what is and is not fair.  Good night, Mr. Shepherd.  We will arrange 
transportation in the morning."  

     "God damn it, that is NOT fair!" I repeated.  "You've been running these off-
the-wall things at me from the time I arrived.  I'll do anything reasonable, and 
you know it."  

     "No, I do NOT know it," she said adamantly.  "Speaking without obscene 
language is hardly unreasonable, yet even your specific promise on that is 
apparently unimportant to you.  On what basis do you claim that what I require is 
less fair, less reasonable, or less honorable than you deserve?"  

     "It's . . ."  Shit.  I'd be damned if I was gonna let this bitch make ME seem like 
the one who was wrong, but I could just hear her talking to her buddy the Judge, 
and it was clear she could make me sound like the prime asshole from hell.  

     Then it came to me.  Nobody was as perfect as she claimed to be.  I could put 
up with anything for a couple of days, and then when I caught her in some real 
fuck-up of her own, I'd have her.  I figured the old lady Judge would at least have 
to talk to me again, and I could use that as a way to prove I'd really tried.  On that 
basis, I could swing some other alternative.  Door number 3, here I come.  

     "Okay, fine," I said.  "I'll play your silly game."

     "It is not a game," she replied.  

     "Yeah, whatever.  Just tell me what you want me to do."  

     She looked at me for a long moment, using that laser-beam trick to bore right 
through my skull again.  This time I was ready for her though, and just blandly 
returned her stare.  

     "Very well," she said at last.  "If you return to your room, Miss Marie will 
help you get dressed."  

     I nodded and stood to leave.  As I got to the door, she said, "I warn you, 
*Miss* Shepherd, that you are on probation.  I will be watching your every 
move, and if you do not give me your best effort, you will find yourself on the 
way out of town, dressed however you happen to be dressed at the time, so fast 
you will not know what hit you."  

     Yeah, bitch, well, you're on probation, too.  We'll see who catches who at this 
little game of yours.

     I didn't say it out loud, of course.  I was learning.        

     An hour later I was back outside her office.  I had knocked, and received a 
preemptory 'wait out there' call from inside.  That was fine with me.  In my head, 
I recognized the inevitability of someone else seeing me, but in my gut I hoped I 
could somehow put it off until, oh, Ragnarok or something.  That would 
definitely have been more desirable.  

     That distinction between head and gut was more than trivial.  Above the neck 
I was still me, light brown hair cut so short you'd have to take my word for the 
color, ordinary sort of guy's face except for the freakin' too-cute nose.  Just me.  
But below the neck . . . my good 'friend' Marie had decked me out in clothes even 
girls would have hated.   And that was just the sickly-sweet icing on an already-
ruined cake.  It had started out with an order to shave all the hair from my body.  
'Miss' Marie informed me it was a good thing 'Miss' Jane wasn't there to hear 
what I said at that, or I'd have been dining on soap sandwiches for a week.  Then 
she offered to help me if I found it so challenging.  

     She had found some underwear for me.  With all the frills on the clothes I had 
seen in my room, I expected something out of Victoria's Secret.  No such luck - 
and the irony of what I had come to consider luck did NOT escape me.  Instead, I 
was offered industrial-strength briefs that left no room for, um, discordant 
contours.  The bra to complete the set wasn't a surprise, unfortunately.  Then it 
got even worse when she strapped this honest-to-God, medieval torture 
instrument around my waist, all the time telling me I was 'lucky' because I was so 
slim that all I really needed it for was posture control.  

     Which brings me back to the hyperglycemic confection that showed on the 
outside.  I was privileged to be modeling the very latest in fashions - if you were 
10 years old and it was 1954.  I guess the old bitch took the 'petticoat' part of 
petticoat discipline literally.  I was, of course, lectured in the names of each of 
the 'gifts' I was granted, and so learned what a petticoat was, and how it was used 
to lift the skirt - yeah, I had one of those, too.  Pink, like THAT was any surprise, 
with little white polka dots and puffy little sleeves and . . . .  I better stop before I 
hurl again.  

     Then my life got worse - incredible as that may seem.

     "Jesse, is that you?" I heard.  Guess who.  Right first time.  Penny, the one 
person who was anywhere near my age, and of course a girl.  I found out it didn't 
matter that I thought she was a bitch-in-training who I wouldn't have pissed on if 
she was on fire.  She was a girl, and she saw me wearing girl clothes.  Shit. Why 
couldn't you find a good apocalypse when you needed one?

     "I was afraid of this," she said, sighing.  *She* was afraid?  

     When I forced myself to look at her, I realized she was wearing the same type 
of clothes that I was, right down to the silly little-girl patent leather shoes.  

     "Goodness," she continued, "you must have really made her angry.  I only got 
the crinkly pettis when I was really bad."  

     Maybe if I ignored her, she'd go away.  Worth a try, anyway.  

     "Ah, Jesse, if you'd like some advice . . . "

     Dum de dum.  Nobody here but us shit-swimmers.  Interesting painting on 
that wall over there, the one I can see without looking at her.  

     Penny slid gracefully onto the bench I was sitting on, doing something tricky 
with her own outfit that ended up with it looking much neater than mine.  Like I 
cared.  I only noticed because I had to slide down a bit to give her room.  

     "Look, Jesse," she persisted, "it's clear that they want me to help you, since 
Marie made me dress the same way.  I figured it was something I'd done, but 
now that I see you it's not likely to be me they're after.  I can help you make it 
easier, if you'll let me."

     "Easier?  Yeah, right," I said, finally deciding she wasn't going to take any 
hints.  "Look, *Miss* Head-bitch in there is not interested in making my life 
easy, so why should you be?"  

     "Well, for one thing:  Been there, done that," she replied.  

     "Huh?"

     "Why do you think *I* am one of her students?" she asked.  

     "Why do you think *I* would give a shit?" I replied.  

     She sighed and said, "You really do have a filthy mouth, you know?  Didn't 
she give you her lecture on that yet?"

     "Like I care," I said.  "But yes, three or four times at last count."  

     "I don't understand," she said, frowning.  "When I got that one, I had to 
promise to clean up my language."  

     "Yeah, so?"

     "You mean you promised not to talk dirty, and you're still doing it?"  

     "Look, I said I'd go along with that bitch's bullshit, because the alternative is 
even worse, " I said, thinking 'at least for now.'  "But that doesn't mean I have to 
like it, nor that she can control every freakin' second of my life.  I'll do what she 
says when she's around, but the rest of the time, I'm bein' myself."  

     Somehow, she managed to sit further away from me without really moving.  
Putting that Joan Crawford Junior sneer on her so-elegant face, she said, "So, 
your promises only apply while someone has their eye on you.  I'll have to 
remember that about you."  

     "Get off my freakin' case, bitch," I snarled.  "I don't need this from you, too!"  

     "Like hell you don't," she snapped back.  "You're even worse than I was, and a 
liar to boot.  At least when *I* came here, my word meant something."  

     "Last warning," I said, standing up.  "You shut your freakin' mouth, or I'll shut 
it for you."  

     "Liar, liar, *panties* on fire," she sniffed, the childish words *way* out of 
place coming from that high-society, rich-bitch face.  

     "Girls," we heard from within the study.  "I will thank you to be quiet while I 
am on the phone."  

     "I'm very sorry, Aunt Jane," Penny called back, just loudly enough to be heard 
inside.  She nudged me, too, but I decided Ms. Thompson was smart enough to 
recognize my response in my silence.  

     "Look, um, Jesse, let me try this again," Penny said quietly.  "Aunt Jane 
selects clothes for us based on how we behave.  If she thinks we're acting like 
civilized adults, she lets us wear fashionable clothes . . . "

     "Oh, my.  How will I stand the joy?" I interrupted.  

     Penny just plowed on, "and, well, other privileges that I probably ought not to 
tell you about yet.  But if we behave childishly, she makes us dress like, well, 
like this."  

     "So why are you stuck in this sh . . . in these clothes?"  

     "I expect it's so I can help you, like I said," she replied.  "Look, let me show 
you something," she continued, standing up.  "If you just plop down on the seat, 
your pettis get wrinkled.  But if you sit like a lady, gently sweeping them under 
you and staying to the front of the seat, with your back straight, they lay nicely.  
See?"  

     "Like I care," I snorted.  

     "Well, suit yourself, " she replied, "but if you ever want to get OUT of those 
clothes, you . . . well, do what you think is best."  

     "Yeah, right, like there's any frea . . . any way that she's gonna be fair about 
this."  

     "Actually, I think you'll find that Aunt Jane is scrupulously fair, if you give 
her a chance," Penny insisted.  "But part of that is that she makes the rules.  It's 
just that they apply to her as much as to you, so she really is fair.  See?"  

    "No, I don't see.  Specifically, I don't see ol' 'High-Society' in there wearing 
men's clothes, so it's not fair to require me to wear girl's clothes."  

     "Actually, Aunt Jane *does* wear jeans sometimes, and pants are really men's 
clothes.  It's just that she wears them at the proper time, and in the proper place, 
and for the proper purpose.  Right now, your purpose is to learn civilized, polite 
behavior.  Since she's already acting maturely, and in a civilized way, she's 
wearing the clothes that go with that.  You can too, if you just act right."  

     "Oh, yeah, like *that* is a big incentive.  Graduate from little-girl clothes to 
big-girl clothes.  I can hardly wait."  

     "You'd be surprised," Penny said softly.  "I, ah, would you mind telling me 
why you're here?"  

     "Because I didn't run fast enough, and they caught me."  

     "No, really.  Everyone who comes to Aunt Jane's has a reason.  It might help 
if you just, um, accepted it."  

     "Oh, I've accepted it all right.  The world really *is* out to get me.  But I'm 
going to get them first - every last freakin' one of them if I need to."  

     Penny's eyes got this funny soft look in them, and she looked away.  After a 
moment, she looked back.  "Oh, Jesse, I was *so* much like you when I came 
here."  

     For some reason, a laugh lit up her eyes for just a heartbeat, but she moved on.  
"Sit down here with me again, and I'll tell you a story."  

     I started to sit normally, but at her warning glance I decided I might as well 
give her silly little slide thing a try.  I had a feeling Ms. Thompson would require 
it anyway, so the practice wouldn't hurt.  Penny smiled in appreciation, but then 
she looked so sad even *I* wanted to help her somehow.  

     "When I came here, I was just like you," she repeated. "I was rude, selfish, 
and ill-mannered.  I was proud of it.  Nobody told *me* what to do.  I also had a 
dirty mouth, just like you."  

     "Will you get off the language thing?" I snapped.  "It's just words.  'Sticks and 
stones and all that shit.  Maybe I should keep it clean even when she's not 
around, but it's just not that big a deal."  

     "Oh yes it is," Penny whispered.  Now her eyes were filling with tears, and 
despite my best attempts to overcome it, somewhere I had picked up the notion 
that it was a bad thing to make a girl cry.  I didn't know what to do about it, 
though.  

     "There was this girl, you see?" she continued, voice just barely audible.  "I 
used to pick on her.  I don't think I ever touched her physically.  If so, it was only 
casually like getting bumped in a hallway or something.  But I used to rip pieces 
off of her with my words, every time we met.  'There's little Janey, wearing her 
mother's shoes.  Or did they belong to her grandmother?'  'Don't worry Janey, you 
won't have to die a virgin.  Get some guy drunk enough, and maybe put a bag 
over your head, and you could still get lucky.'  I knew her family didn't have any 
money, and, well, she wasn't very attractive, but . . . Anyway, after I started in on 
her, other kids did, too."
    
     She looked up at me, pain in her eyes that went a lot deeper than mere tears.  I 
had to lean closer to hear the rest.  "She killed herself."  

     "Oh, wow," I whispered back.  I put my arm around her shoulders, feeling the 
faint quivers of sobs she was trying to stifle.  Somehow, her head found its way 
onto my shoulder, and her words drifted up from the folds of my dress.  

     "I tried to kill myself, too, after that," she said.  "And, um, other things.  I 
screwed up, like I screwed up just about everything back then.  That's how I 
ended up here."  

     I felt her take a deep breath.  Then she sat up and wiped at her eyes.  "Oh, da . 
. um, goodness.  My face is a mess.  I'll have to go clean up."  

     "Wait," I pleaded.  "What happened after that?  I mean, what did Ms. 
Thompson do?"  

     "She showed me that I could be a good person, even if I had done bad things 
before.  It wasn't easy.  Not for her and certainly not for me, but I think I can live 
with who I am, now."  

     "So, you're, um, ready to leave?"  

     "Maybe," she replied.  "But I think part of what she wants to see is whether I 
can truly help someone who needs it, even if it's not going to benefit me directly.  
I think that's why I'm wearing the same clothes you are."         

     She shrugged and said, "It's risky to assume you know what's going on in 
Aunt Jane's mind, but I expect part of what she expects is that we will start to see 
what needs to be done without being told."  

     "Yeah," I said, thinking a bit myself.  

     Standing, Penny said, "Well, I better go clean up.  After you meet with Aunt 
Jane, we'll have supper."  

     "Is she really your aunt?" I asked, standing myself.  For some reason I was 
reluctant to have her leave just then.
  
     "No," she said.  "I just, I don't know, started calling her that.  She never told 
me not to."  

     That sort of ran that topic down, and we stood there looking at each other for a 
while.  Penny looked up the stairs and turned once again to leave.  
   
     "Um, Penny?  I, uh, beat up a kid who didn't really deserve it.  He wasn't the 
first one."

     "Oh," she said quietly.  No judgment, just acknowledgment of my words.  
Then she asked, "How bad?"

     "He'll recover, I guess.  I coulda wrecked his knee, but it'll be okay."  

     "Then I guess you're not as bad as I was," she said.  She dredged up a weak 
little smile and said, "So there's hope for you yet."

     "Yeah, sure," I replied.  I wasn't going to argue with her right then.  That was 
the first time I'd ever had a girl cry on my shoulder, and even though I still 
thought Penny was way too high-society to be a real friend . . . it was nice to 
have felt needed, even for just a minute.

     "Miss Shepherd, please come in now," I heard Ms. Thompson's voice call.  
Penny gave me a little grimace of sympathy, and then waved as she moved off.  I 
went back into the lion's den for another lecture.  

      "My word, look at the state of your petticoats," she started in on me as soon 
as I was in the room.  "You really *are* sloppy, aren't you?"  Then she brought 
out the real teeth and claws.  Frankly, my mind was more on what Penny had said 
than on Ms. Thompson's lecture.  About all I picked up out of it was that 
slovenliness would not be tolerated, that proper posture was the foundation for a 
proper appearance.  (That part stuck because at one point I started a running 
count of how many times she said 'posture' in one minute.  Unfortunately she 
caught me watching the clock and that caused a tirade that corrupted the data.)  

     "So, the deportment of a civilized person is boring to you, is it?" she asked - 
rhetorically, of course.  She didn't even pause long enough to take a breath before 
starting in again.  "Well, we'll just have to see if we can keep your interest up, 
won't we?" 

      Oh, freakin' joy.  

***********************

     I had graduated.  Words do not exist to express my happiness at that 
accomplishment.  At least, not words that were usable in Ms. Thompson's 
chamber of horrors.  After sleeping, such as it was, in a flannel nightgown that 
first night, I had been offered another flounces-and-ruffles outfit to wear to 
breakfast.  I was still trying to decide if I owed Penny a debt of gratitude or a 
swift pop in the chops, because Ms. Thompson had been impressed enough with 
the way I managed to sit without wrinkling my petticoat that she decided I had 
earned a chance at some other styles.  

     Each of which required starting over from the skin out, of course.  Each of 
which added some carefully explained bit of sophistication.  Or at least of 
apparent age.  I was no longer dressed as a ten-year old.  Which was a good 
thing, because I no longer had the body of a ten-year old, either.  Each new corset 
(not all of which were truly 'corsets', I found out - some were 'merry widows', or 
'basques', or yadda, yadda)  was tighter than the last when *Miss* Marie finished 
with it.  That was actually the least of my 'improvements', though.  Along about 
the third outfit, padding had started to appear.  I guess I had expected the bras to 
get some filler, but padded panties?  What's up with that?  

     In any event, by lunchtime I had a body that was apparently 'all growed up' in 
all the right - that is, *wrong* places.   Progress had not been as rapid as that 
timeline might suggest.  True, it had only taken from breakfast until lunch, but 
that can be a very long time.  

     The thump of the book hitting the floor - the one I had been trying to carry on 
my cue-ball head - triggered THE voice yet again.  "*Miss* Shepherd, I refuse to 
believe you are so clumsy as your lack of grace suggests.   Do you have some 
aversion to eating the midday meal while the sun is still up?"  

     My stomach answered for me, audible across the room.  That earned me an 
eye roll, a sigh, and not one damn bit of sympathy.  According to the clock I was 
carefully not watching, it was already after 2:00.  Ms. Thompson had made it 
clear I was to demonstrate competence in dressing and moving in the clothes 
typical of 'proper young ladies' before we ate.   I was, among my other faults, 
very slow however, and we were way behind schedule.  

     "Perhaps we should, ahem, 'tailor' your program a little, to aid you in your 
specific, ah, problem areas," she mused, quite proud of her own little joke.  "Go 
back to your room and tell Miss Marie that I think we might dispense with your 
petticoats this time."  (Note:  I did not say that I *agreed* with her definition of 
clothes for 'proper young ladies,' at least not for the last two or three generations.)  
"A tailored skirt might teach you to walk with a more lady-like glide.  A bit of 
heel would assist in that as well.  You have twenty minutes."       

     "Yes, Ms. Thompson," I said softly as I turned and 'glided' toward the door.  
Not a good glide, apparently, but the best I could do.  Part of the reason we were 
behind schedule was that I had tried to argue with her earlier.  Didn't do a damn 
bit of good, unless you consider that the lectures which followed had been good 
for me.  I didn't.  But it was obvious we weren't going to eat until I had met 
whatever standard the old witch required, and my many faults did not include 
being stupid.  

     As soon as the door to the study was closed, I sprinted for the stairs as fast as 
my slick dress shoes would allow.  "No petticoats," I gasped out when I got to 
Marie.  At least that was one good thing about progress.  Not that progress was 
the word I would use, even within my newly restricted vocabulary.  "Tailored 
skirt.  Heels. Twenty, um, now eighteen minutes."  

     "Very well," Marie said, nodding.  "You strip down and I'll get you something 
suitable."  

     By this time, the thought of being nearly naked in front of a woman had 
become a minor irritation, so I was straining to reach awkward buttons almost 
before she gave the order.  

    "Don't tell Miss Jane," Marie's voice called from the huge closet, "but you can 
leave the same panties on this time.  Take off your bra and pantyhose, though."  

     'Panties.'  'My' bra and pantyhose.  Big piles of smelly freakin' shit.  Right 
then, I'd'a kissed that horseturd Wilson instead of whackin' the bastard, if I coulda 
done it over again.  

     Marie brought out a slim wool skirt and a lacy white blouse, plus for the first 
time a jacket.  I reached for the blouse, but Marie stopped me.  "Not yet, dear.  
You still need the appropriate lingerie."

     'Lingerie.'  Slimy, stinkin', knee-deep shitballs.  Not the least of which was 
that I should have known it was coming.  

     Marie wrapped me in a merry widow and laced it until I had spots before my 
eyes.  While I was trying to remember how to breathe without using my 
nowhere-to-move diaphragm, she slipped some slithery plastic shapes in the cups 
of the thing, and that distracted me enough I didn't realize I had graduated to yet 
another level of joy - or circle of Hell.  

     "Here, dear, slip these on while I get the shoes," she said.  

     'These' were stockings, not the pantyhose I'd been wearing so far.  There were 
some straps that were obviously intended to hook to the corset (yeah, I know, 
'merry widow' - not that there was a freakin' damn thing 'merry' about it, and I 
knew the straps were called 'garters', too).  By the time I had things sorted out, 
Marie was tapping her toe.  

     "Here, let me help," she said finally.  It is a sign of how far I had fallen that I 
was actually glad for her assistance.  Later, when I had the time, I was gonna 
remember that moment and find something large to blow up.       

     The blouse buttoned up the back, of course.  The skirt was a dark blue and 
knee-length.  The jacket matched, and I realized it was part of a women's power 
suit.  Forgive me, Penny, for all the things I thought about you.  The heels were 
nothing special, actually.  Not too tall, not too pointed.  If I'd'a seen a women 
wearing them, they wouldn't have caught my eye at all.  Which made my 
inability to walk in the damn things all the more frustrating.  

     "Point your toes, dear," Marie advised, "and keep your steps in a line, as 
though you were walking a tightrope."  

     "And hurry," she reminded me.  

     Oh, God, 17 minutes down already, and I sure as Hell couldn't run in that 
outfit.  I couldn't even take a real goddamn step in that tight goddamn skirt.  And 
I was NOT gonna think about the funny way the garter straps holding the 
stockings felt when I moved.    

     Even so, I had to stop when I saw my image in the mirror at the head of the 
stairs.  If I'd'a seen that image as a picture, I'd'a taken any bet you wanna make 
that it was faked.  The body was that of a young woman - trimly professional, 
making her place in the world.  The head was me, and no more belonged on that 
body than a moosehead on a cat.  What was really, really scary was that it was 
the head that seemed out of place.  Not the clothes, not the curves, not . . . any of 
the things Ms. Thompson had required.  Dear God, and I had been worried about 
wearing a necktie!

     By the time I got to the study I was way late, but for the first time Ms. 
Thompson seemed not to notice.  Instead, she just touched the button on her 
desk.  In moments, we were sitting down to 'lunch', somehow less formal than 
before.  Or maybe I was just zoned out so far that it didn't feel the same.  

     "Miss Shepherd, Penny just paid you a compliment," I heard.  

     "Hmm, oh, sorry, I wasn't paying attention."  

     "Obviously," Ms. Thompson snapped.  "Nonetheless, proper manners require 
that you acknowledge compliments, and return them graciously.  Penny, try 
again."  

     "I said, 'You look nice, Jesse,'" Penny repeated.

     "I look stupid," I blurted out, but surprised myself when my hand went to my 
buzz-cut hair instead of to my outfit.  

     "*Miss* Shepherd, that is *not* an appropriate response," barked Ms. 
Thompson.  

     I took a deep breath, and looked straight at her.  "I am sorry, Ms. Thompson, 
but I believe it is.  I do not look nice.  I *do* look stupid."  

     Then I got angry and went on.  "How many times today, Ms. Thompson, have 
you corrected me when I made a mistake?  You did not permit an error to go 
unchallenged, and so I assumed it was inappropriate for me, also.  Is that not 
correct?"  

     "So, Miss Shepherd," she began, and why was there a gleam of triumph in her 
eyes?   "You think it is a fact beyond dispute that your current appearance is, as 
you said, 'stupid?'  I think we can accommodate your judgment."   

     To quote a cultural icon, 'D'oh!'  I had played right into her hands.  I shoulda 
known I wasn't gonna get ahead of her.  I wondered just how bad I was gonna get 
hammered, but like Wile E. Coyote over the canyon, I knew it was just a matter 
of time.  

     I found out soon enough.  She stood and said, "Marie, today I will help Penny 
clean up this wonderful meal that she has prepared.  If Jesse thinks she looks . . . 
incongruous, perhaps you can help her with that."  

     "Yes, Miss Jane," Marie replied, then started to move toward the door.  
"Come along, Jesse, we have a lot of work to do."  

     Me and my big, fat, freakin' mouth.  

     Six hours later we sat down for a much-delayed evening meal.  I no longer 
looked 'stupid'.  This was bad news.  Very, very bad news.  

     I wore the same power suit I had worn at 'luncheon'.  That was Ms. 
Thompson's not-at-all-subtle way of rubbing my nose in the rest of the changes.   
That is not to say I had worn that suit all through the afternoon and evening.  
Quite the contrary, but we had come full circle in clothes even as we had made 
irrevocable changes in other areas.  

     Specifically, my face and hair.  Or perhaps I should say my face and 'the' hair, 
since hardly any of it was really mine.  As soon as Marie and I had gotten back to 
my room after lunch, she sat me down at the little ruffled chair in front of the 
dresser with the mirror - a vanity, I had been informed - and pulled out a thick 
mop that even I recognized as a medium-brown, medium-long wig.

     "Don't even bother," Marie had told me curtly before I could even frame a 
comment.  "You are not so stupid that you didn't see this coming, and by now 
you know that arguing just wastes time.  You have at least as many changes to 
get through before supper, and I for one do not want to be eating it at midnight."  

     The wig was, of course, just the start.  After no-shit *gluing* the freakin' thing 
on my head, she immediately pinned it up out of the way and started in on my 
face.   The eyebrows I had once had disappeared hair by plucked-out-and-
screaming-in-agony-as-they-died hair until all that was left were thin arches that 
made me look as surprised as I felt.  

     And I was surprised, because for the first pass, that's essentially all that was 
done.  I was back in the cotton candy pink dress, only this time I had pigtails that 
looked exactly as stupid as that word implies.  I went back to visit Ms. 
Thompson, curtsied oh-so-cutely, and was allowed the great privilege of getting 
out of that freakin' outfit.  

     Then Marie surprised me again, by undoing the pigtails and pulling my new 
hair back into a high, bouncy ponytail.  Once again, that was the extent of 'new' 
changes.  I was offered a pair of white tights and a multi-colored leotard, with the 
no-doubt-very-stylish headband, wristband, and leg-warmer accessories, and then 
once again reported to Ms. Thompson, who approved the new outfit with barely a 
glance.

     I was reflecting on the total uselessness of these exercises - which was true, of 
course, but it was made manifest when even the Head Warden didn't seem to care 
- when another reflection presented itselff to me.  That mirror in the hallway 
caught my eye, and I - oh shit, it's hard even to remember this - I literally peed 
my pants, um, panties at the image.     

     It was a freakin', no-question, terminally cute teen-age girl.  Really cute.  The 
ponytail that seemed like a strange animal crawling on my shoulders bounced in 
the mirror with cheerful energy.  The curves revealed by the stretchy exercise 
clothes hinted at developing womanhood, just right for the clean, fresh-scrubbed 
face and wide, alert eyes. If I'd'a seen that girl on the street, shit, I was about to 
say I wouldn't have given her a second glance but that's not true.  I'd'a turned 
around and followed that babe-ette.  

     And it was *me*.  I never doubted it for a heartbeat.  I wasn't some mirror 
trick, or window looking at someone else, it was *me*!  What was suddenly 
called into doubt was a buncha things I'd taken for granted.    Things that were 
very important to me.  So much so that I unconsciously reached to feel for what 
had been hidden so carefully by my 'lingerie'.  That's when I felt the wet spot and 
realized what I'd done.  

     "Oh, shit!  Goddam it!  This is too fuckin' much!"  

     Then I felt the tears start.  Goddam, little kid tears.  Little crybaby tears that 
burned my eyes and started to fill my nose and - shit, made me feel like I really 
*should* be wearing a freakin' diaper.  I ran into my room and past Marie so fast 
she couldn't stop me.  In the bathroom, I knew I couldn't lock the door, but I 
could at least hide in the little alcove and pretend to be, ah, taking care of 
business.  Which was true, actually.  My bowels felt loose enough that they 
might just add to the damage.  Thank God that didn't happen, but I still needed to 
strip out of that stinkin' outfit and had started to rinse it out in the sink when 
Marie knocked on the door. 

     "Jesse, are you okay?" 
  
     "NO!  Don't come in.  Please!"  

     "Jesse, I can help."  

     "No!  Please, Miss Marie, don't come in.  Not right now."  

     Begging so abjectly nearly cost me another round of distress, this time pukin' 
up whatever was left of my lunch, but it did have the saving grace of working.  I 
heard Marie pick up the phone in the other room and report my humiliation to 
Ms. Thompson, but it didn't matter.  I just scrubbed and scrubbed at the stained 
spots on my clothes, too blinded by tears to tell if it was doing any good, but 
unable to stop.  

     I didn't have a watch and there wasn't a clock in the bathroom, so I wasn't sure 
how long Marie left me in there.  After a while she knocked quietly on the door, 
and opened it.  I whirled around to demand - hell, to beg for - some privacy, but 
aall I saw was the door closing again.  On a countertop near the door were some 
new clothes, a whole outfit, as near as I could tell, including a skirt and blouse.   I 
realized I couldn't hide in there, naked, forever so I took advantage of the 
unwanted but necessary gift.  By now, I could handle the things she'd left since 
she took it easy on my waistline and only included a stretchy waist nipper I could 
fasten myself.  In a few minutes I was stepping back into my bedroom.  I tried to 
avoid Marie's eyes, but it didn't really work.  

     "Come over here, child," she said gently.  "You're late for your next review by 
Miss Jane."  

     Can't have that, can we?  Like I cared.  

     Of course, I did care.  The monster waiting downstairs could make my life 
Hell - by absolutely irrefutable demonstration.  It's just that the difference 
between one Hell and another was becoming rather academic.  I was fucked, big 
time, and it wouldn't matter if I were given a get out of jail free card that very 
instant.  What I had seen in the mirror would haunt me.  

     What had already happened to me took any real risk out of the anything Marie 
could do, so I passively let her lead me over to the vanity again.  She stared in on 
another lecture, but I tuned her out and just let her do her thing.  My hair was 
brushed out of the ponytail to be caught up in little clip things - I guess I did 
listen at least a little, or else I heard it somewhere else, because I knew they were 
called 'barrettes' -  and then she started in on my face.  The bouncy babe-ette of 
tights and headband became a prim young lady ready for her English Lit class, 
complete with a copy of Chaucer to hold protectively in front of her bosom.  If I 
hadn't been there the whole time, I would have said my face was still fresh-
scrubbed clean based on the way it looked, but it was better than before - or 
worse.  This vision was out of my league, and I'd have been so tongue-tied if I 
saw her that I'd have run away instead of following her around.  

     "Go on, dear, and show Jane," Marie ordered softly.  I let her urge me to my 
feet and I walked slowly down the hallway.  A priest and warden should have 
accompanied me, because I was clearly on my last walk in this mortal life.  The 
fox in the mirror was someone else.  Jesse was dead.  Long live his(?) successor.  

     My knock on the study door triggered an immediate invitation to enter.  Then 
things got even worse, impossible as that may seem, when the first thing Ms. 
Thompson did was compliment me.  

     "The shy, demure look is very good, Jesse," she said, "and I'm pleased to see 
that you are still standing upright except for your head.  You need not bow it 
quite so dramatically, but I am inclined to give you credit for the attempt."  

     My eyes started burning again, and a sniffle I just couldn't contain slipped out.  
Thankfully, Ms. Thompson took that moment to look out the window again.  At 
least, I think she did.  I heard her move over that way.  I wasn't about to look up 
and let her see me crying.  

     Her lecture mode voice was as pedantic as ever, but it was more distant than 
before, and not just because she was standing further from me.  It didn't seem as 
though she were taunting me with her knowledge like I wasn't smart enough to 
absorb it unless she drilled it into me.  Instead, she was just laying out 
information for me to receive, and it was up to me to accept it.  

     God help me I did.  For some reason I was listening.  

     "Jesse, part of fitting in to the more refined layers of society is just that - to fit 
in.  Those who feel they have the ability - and therefore the right and the duty - to 
exercise significant control in the world justify that self-assignment by 
demonstrating first the ability to control themselves.  This is shown by manners, 
by neat grooming, and by appropriate style selections."  

     Now she turned from the window and walked around the desk to stand in 
front of me.  She lifted my chin and made me look directly at her.  "And by 
control of their emotions," she continued.  She dropped my chin and stepped 
back.  "Yet appearance cannot become an end in itself, or there is no room left 
for controlling greater things.  So, one who fits within the true centers of power 
has the knowledge to select appropriate styles, the ability to wear them, and the 
skill to sustain them even during times of stress when there is little time for 
'primping'.  For a woman, that includes makeup and hair care as well as the 
clothes themselves."  

     Now she stepped back around her desk and sat down.  "You will learn these 
things, Jesse.  You will practice them until you can pick an outfit appropriate for 
the activity to be undertaken, and add appropriate accessories, makeup, and 
hairstyle.  You will learn to do so quickly and efficiently, so that you can sustain 
that appearance even without as much time as you might want to work on your 
presentation.  Now, go and change into the next outfit."  

     I had never spoken a word in that visit.  Which was a good thing, as the vista 
she had laid out before me was so horrifying that I could not have spoken if I 
wanted to.  At least I managed to get out of the room before I sniffled again.  

     The rest of that afternoon was a gradually building nightmare, a juggernaut of 
inevitability as whatever I had once been was buried beneath more and more 
strident femininity.  My school girl outfit was replaced by a brightly colored 
dress appropriate for a spring parade at church, complete with the little white 
gloves and hat that had looked so old-fashioned on Penny when I first saw her at 
the train station.  That outfit was followed by an honest-to-God slinky 
nightclubbing dress that I was sure none of Ms. Thompson's students would ever 
actually be allowed to wear in public.   As in the morning changes, each style 
required entirely new clothes from the skin out, now including makeup and 
hairstyle changes as well.  By the time I got to the nosebleed heels and dramatic 
eyes of the clubbing outfit, I was doing a lot of the work myself - and hating that 
I could do it so well.  The woman - no longer a girl - who I saw in the mirror that 
time did not make me pee my panties.  The reaction I felt was very different, and 
even more uncomfortable.

     The return to the power suit outfit was almost a relief.   Hell, it was definitely 
a relief, and the irony of that still gnawed at me.  For the second time that day I 
saw Penny, once again at the much-delayed meal.  A simple soup and salad was 
all that my churning stomach could have handled anyway, so I was glad her 
culinary talents were more limited than those Marie had previously 
demonstrated.  I ate in silence.  I'm not sure I had spoken more than two or three 
words since, well, since I had realized what had happened to me.  But this time I 
was listening enough to hear Penny's comment.  Shocked as I was, I had 
nonetheless been expecting it.

     "You look very nice, Jesse," Penny said casually.  

     "Thank you, Penny," I said quietly.  "I have gained a new appreciation for 
how nice you look as well."  

     "So, you no longer feel you look stupid?" Ms. Thompson asked, completing 
the humiliation.  

     "No, ma'am," I whispered.  It was much, much worse than merely 'stupid'.  

************************************

     To say that I was dreading the next day would only be appropriate because 
more . . . colorful language was forbidden to me.   It actually didn't start out too 
badly, though.  I was back in the schoolgirl outfit, wearing the modest heels more 
as a reminder to move carefully than as any further challenge.  After breakfast, 
Ms. Thompson stood and nodded to Penny and Marie, who began to clear the 
table.  

     "Come with me, Jesse," she ordered, and led me from the room.  In the day 
and a half that I'd been incarcerated in this dungeon, I hadn't had more than a 
moment to myself except in my bedroom in the dark of night - behind a door that 
I had discovered locked from the outside.  If I had the emotional energy left to 
worry about that, I'd have wondered what would happen in the event of a fire.  
However, in my case merely being burned to death would have been a blessing, 
so I hadn't complained.  

     In any event, this was the closest thing to a tour of the big old manor that I'd 
been given.  Ms. Thompson pointed out a glass-walled conservatory (did anyone 
really *use* that word anymore?) and a stiffly formal parlor.  There was a 
contrastingly modern computer room with a panoply of scanners and printers and 
wall of software manuals.  And there was an art studio, complete with splattered 
paint on the floors and a potter's wheel, next door to a dance studio with a mirror 
wall and one of those bar things.  

     None of that mattered though, once we reached our destination.  Ms. 
Thompson had an honest-to-God *library*, with five times as many books as 
were in her study.  They were organized; too, with little labels on the shelves for 
History, Philosophy, and an area I would once have killed to have access to, Fine 
Art.  I almost forgot my situation for a moment, and started toward the shelves.  

     "Now, Jesse," Ms. Thompson began, turning to look at me and halting me in 
my tracks.  "We need to evaluate your academic standing.  You will not be 
permitted the silliness of working below your abilities, but I will not challenge 
you beyond your abilities."  

     Yeah, right.  That's why I had been so stressed out I peed my pants.  No 
challenge there.  

     "We will begin by discussing Machiavelli, since you seem to have an interest 
in his work.  In twenty-five words or less, summarize his philosophy."  

     I looked around for some paper to write on, but Ms. Thompson noticed and 
immediately interrupted my visual search.  

     "You don't need to write it out.  You will be expected to speak cogently and 
extemporaneously, on a wide range of topics.  This topic will do well for 
evaluating that."  

     "Yes, ma'am," I said, thinking furiously.  Frankly, I thought ol' Mac had been 
given a bad rap by history.  His philosophy was pragmatic, but sound.  Those 
who characterized it simply as, 'the end justifies the means' left out some vital 
aspects.  

     "Um, well, he, um . . ," I began.

     "Do not stammer," she interrupted me.  "And do not grunt.  You have already 
wasted four words with no semantic comment at all.  In addition, *Miss* 
Shepherd, you will lift your voice, speaking lightly and with enthusiasm.  Try 
again.  Twenty-one words."  

     Yeah, well, up yours bitch!  Not that I said it, of course.  All the fire I knew 
was in my eyes did was to cause that smirk of absolute self-confidence to show 
in hers.  I knew that this was yet another battle, yet another test where will was 
more important than the surface topic.  Only this time we were moving into 
*my* arena.  I knew this, unlike the freakin' rules of manners and shit.  

     "Machiavelli believed that critical outcomes justified whatever means were 
essential to achieve them . . . . *but* an essential end for a Prince was that his 
people respected him.  They would not respect an arbitrary, capricious, or 
undependable Prince.  Thus, those qualities were unacceptable in a Prince."  And 
yes, I did bear down on 'arbitrary' and 'capricious', looking directly at my 
tormentor when I did so.      

     "Can you not count, Miss Shepherd?" she sneered.  "Missing a simple math 
problem by a factor of almost two is hardly an acceptable standard.  Try again, 
and as I said, I expect your voice to be light, airy, and cheerful."

     "Machiavelli believed," I snarled, "that the ends justified the means, but that 
not all ends were justified."  

     "One presumes you feel you had a very large breakfast," she said quietly, 
almost whispering in my ear with silky menace, "because if that's the best you 
can do with your voice, it will be a *very* long time until lunch."  

     Ms. Thompson stepped back and pulled a book at random from the shelves.  
Placing it on my head, she walked to the other side of the room.  "Walk here, 
gracefully and with good posture, and continue by telling me which Amendment 
in the Bill of Rights is most important, and why."  

     And so it went.  It took me a while to recognize that she did not challenge my 
answers, only the manner in which I delivered them.  Yet her questions forced 
me to reach for insight, not just facts, and as she came back with later challenges 
derived from my *own* answers, it was clear she was virtually recording every 
response in her unbelievable memory.  I completely lost track of time until we 
were interrupted.  

     "Miss Jane," Penny said, moving to stand in the opened doorway, "I'm 
finished with my morning's assignment.  I wondered if I might take a walk in the 
garden before lunch."  

     Ms. Thompson glanced at the clock and then nodded.  "Take Miss Shepherd 
with you.  Quiz her on the Botany of the plants there and report to me on her 
standard of knowledge."  

     "Yes, ma'am," Penny replied, sighing.  

     Well, tough shit.  If it got me out of the dragon lady's clutches for a while then 
I'd take advantage of the opportunity without a shred of guilt.  I nodded with 
careful politeness to my so-called benefactor. . . factrix . . .   whatever, and 
walked from the room with the flowing glide I had been practicing.  No sense 
getting called back at that point.  Once we were out of sight, though, I slumped 
down and leaned against the wall.  

     "Holy shit," I sighed.  "The only things that hurt worse than my freakin' feet 
are my freakin' head and freakin' back."  

     "Jesse," Penny snapped, the first time I'd seen her really angry.  The bitch-ette 
had apparently learned more than haughty manners from the Iron Mistress.  The 
fire in her eyes - along with that really dark hair - made her a shoo-in for the Joan 
Crawford witch-of-the-month contest.  "I'm telling you right now, " she 
continued, "if you don't clean up your filthy mouth, *I* will see that you wash it 
out with soap."  

     "Yeah, you and what army?" I snarled.  

     "Listen, shrimp," she hissed, "I can do the job as well as it needs to be done, 
all by myself.  I don't *like* nasty language.  If your promise means nothing, 
then be assured that *my* promise does, and I won't permit that in my presence."

     "Fine, bi . . . Penny.  Head out for the garden on your own.  I'll find something 
else to do." 

     "Not an option, Jesse," she sighed.  "And believe me, I'd do that if I could.  
The physics test I had this morning fried my mind for the next week.  But Miss 
Jane said I had to quiz you on the plants in the garden."

     "I'll make it easy on you," I replied, still looking up at her.  "I don't know 
anything about Botany.  Zero.  Nada.  End of report."  

     "I'm sorry, Jesse," she said tiredly, and that part I believed, "but that's not 
good enough either.  If that's the case, then it's obviously time you started to learn 
something.  Let's go."  

     I was getting tired of being nagged at by stubborn women.  Really, really tired 
of it.  Why in hell would any guy ever in the history of the whole damn world 
*ever* get married twice?  These shrews had made getting stuck with a woman a 
definite non-starter before I even tried it once!  But I was too freakin' tired to 
argue any more, even by just being stubborn.  I stood and moved to follow her 
with reluctance matched only by her own.     

     Another idea did strike me as we made our way down the hall.  "Hey, Botany 
is like a college-level course, right?  I'm just, like, ready to start high school.  I 
don't need to know that stuff."  

     "Goodness, Jesse," Penny said, laughing, "are you just now catching on that 
Miss Jane's standards are just a *bit* higher than your typical public school?  If 
you survive the next few years, you won't have any trouble at any college you 
choose to attend."

     "If I survive," I muttered, but it was loud enough for Penny to hear.  She just 
laughed.  And I carefully, very carefully, remembered why I was in this 
madhouse in the first place.  As a result, I didn't kill her for laughing at me.  

     At least it was a nice day.  Penny started out in easy stages, explaining the 
higher order classifications of plants into grasses, flowers, and things before 
wrapping her tongue around some of the fancy Latin nomenclature.  I 
remembered little of the basic stuff and made every available effort to forget the 
Latin even before I heard it.

     Then we stepped around the corner of some sort of hedge thing, and a quiet, 
raspy voice said, "Hello, Miss Penny."  

     "Oh, hello Tom," Penny replied, speaking to an old guy who was squatted 
over some flowers.  

     Then he looked at me.  Me, wearing a skirt.  With 'cute' little barrettes in my 
hair, and makeup on my face.  Shitshitshit.  Great big gobs of . . . 

     I started to turn and run, but Penny had captured my arm with a grip that made 
me decide she might just be able to make good on her threat about soap.  Smiling 
cheerfully she said, "Oh, Tom, let me introduce you to . . . . Jessica.  She's a new 
student with Miss Jane."  

     "Pleased to meet you, Miss Jessica," he said, standing and politely tipping his 
scruffy old gimme cap at me.  

     "Tom is the gardener here," Penny said.  "If you need help with plants, he's 
your man."

     Not MY man, lady.  I'm outta here.  But I still couldn't get free of her arm, 
which was pinching my elbow in a way that made that stupid nerve bundle in 
there tingle most dangerously.  Just a little more pressure and I was gonna regret 
it, a lot.  I looked at her to get her to stop and she was doing funny things with 
her eyebrows - lifting them toward the old guy like she was trying to send me a 
message.  

     Oh, shit, all the sudden I got it.  She wanted me to *say* something to the 
guy, who was still standing there looking at me expectantly.  

     "Pleased to meet you, too," I whispered, "Mister, um, . . . . ?"  

     "Just 'Tom' is fine, Miss Jessica," he said, touching the brim of his hat again.  
"Are you enjoying your stay here so far?"  

     Conversation?  He expected freaking' conversation while I was standing there 
in a freakin' dress?  Like Hell.  But a bit more pressure from Penny on my elbow 
and I knew running wasn't yet on the agenda.  

     "It's been, um, different," I said softly.  "Not what I expected."  

     He smiled, and said, "I expect you'll do fine.  All Miss Jane's girls do just fine, 
after they get a chance to settle in a little."  

     God help me if I ever 'settled' into this asylum like I belonged here or 
something.  That actually triggered a smile I didn't expect, as I realized that if I 
ever *felt* like I belonged in this asylum, it would mean I really *did* belong in 
one.  My unintended response seemed to be a signal or something, because the 
smile brought an answering smile from Tom, and he shuffled a bit and looked 
back at his work.  

     Penny apparently decided I'd suffered enough, and the pressure on my arm 
eased just enough to take away the tingle.  She still held me captive as we moved 
off, letting go only after we had turned another corner and were out of sight.  

     "Geez, girl, don't you know anything?" she sneered.  "If you have a secret to 
hide, the first rule is don't *look* like you have a secret to hide.  If you'd have 
just turned and run from Old Tom, he'd have *known* something was wrong."

     "Something *is* wrong," I said.  "This is wrong.  I don't belong here.  I don't 
belong in these clothes."  

     "You look like you do," she sighed.  "You've been here two days, and you 
already look prettier than I ever will."

     "That is NOT good news," I snapped. 

     "It ought to be," she replied.  "Look, I don't know what Miss Jane has in mind 
for you, but if she intends that you dress like a girl, then it's a lot better being a 
pretty one."  

     She paused, then giggled, "A lot safer, too.  Wait till you get out in public.  If 
you don't pass, oh, goodness that will be a problem."  

     "In public?!" I squeaked.  

     "I'd count on it, if I were you," she warned.  "Miss Jane's graduates are 
refined, and move comfortably among the upper crusts of society.  I'll bet you get 
plenty of opportunities to try out your social skills - or at least the ones you're 
going to learn.  I know I did."  

     "Oh my god," I gasped.  I started shaking, and I had this really, really bad 
feeling I better find the powder room really quickly.  

     Penny had led us back to the house by then, and I made a mad dash for the 
closest bathroom.  I made it, barely, but by the time I'd finished throwing up my 
toenails, my face, hair, and clothes were a mess anyway.  At least no one was 
around when I finally got to the point where I could chance leaving the 
downstairs powder room.  I snuck out of there and back up to my room to wash 
out my blouse and brush my teeth.  Before I had found something else to wear, I 
heard a knock.  

     "Jessica?"  It was Marie's voice.  Apparently my good 'friend' Penny had told 
them of the morning's disaster.    "Jessica, dear, is it okay if I come in?"  

     Like I had any real choice.  I already found out the door locked from the 
outside so she could come in any time she wanted.  Still, I tried.  "No, please, 
Miss Marie.  Leave me alone."  

     "Jessica," she said again.  What was it, points for every time she could say that 
freakin' name?  "I really can help," she promised.  

     God help me, another stubborn woman.  I was too trashed to argue with her 
either, so I just grabbed a towel to hide the fact I wasn't wearing a top - like that 
mattered when Marie had seen me in a whole lot less the day before - and pulled 
the door open.  

     She had a tray with a sandwich and some soup on it.  For a wonder, it didn't 
make me heave again.  Not that there was anything in my stomach if I *had* 
tossed it.  I just stepped back and tried not to look at the food.  

     "Believe it or not," Marie said, setting the food on the edge of the vanity, "a 
little food will help settle your stomach.   I'll just leave this here for now."  

     She smiled a cheery smile and walked into my closet.  "Let me just find 
something else for you to wear while I clean up that other blouse."  

     Gee, thanks.  I can't wait to get dressed in *more* girly clothes.  

     What she found for me was actually not too bad, like it mattered when I was 
still wearing a skirt, and low heels, and whatever was left of makeup on my face.  
That was apparently the next order of business, because after helping me into a 
knit shirt not too different from what a guy might wear, except for buttoning on 
the wrong side, she pulled me to the vanity and started to work her magic on 
repairs.  As always, new makeup beyond a quick touchup - and I was definitely 
beyond that - required that all the old was stripped completely away before 
starting over.  By the time she had my face and hair back in order, I realized I had 
been nibbling on the fruit she brought, and was really considering the sandwich.  

     Marie finished with her fussing and moved to the door.  "Miss Jane expects 
you back in her study to review your math skills this afternoon," she advised me.  
"When you're finished with lunch, you'll need to get a move on.  I don't expect 
we'll be eating an early supper in any event, and time marches on."  
    
      And so it did.  The afternoon session was another nightmare of questions and 
criticism, always forcing me to move, talk, and act like a girl even as she picked 
my brain on a host of topics of which math was only the most prominent.  I was 
so tired when she finally let us break for supper that I didn't even complain when 
everyone called me Jessica all evening.  It was apparently my turn to help clean 
up, assisted by Marie, and by the time I was finished I was weaving on my feet.  
Only newly learned habits got me ready for bed - face scrubbed, hair brushed, 
and wearing a nightgown that was too comfortable for words.  Don't ask me how 
I made it to the bed itself.  I'm sure I was asleep while I was still six feet away.  

***********************************

     "I'm quite disappointed, Jessica."  

     Neither the words nor the tone of voice were particularly unusual, but in this 
particular case, I truly had no idea what I'd done.  Or not done, as was the case at 
least as often.  

     "Excuse me, Miss Jane?" I said, standing from the computer.  I'd started 
calling her that as a sort of reflex since everyone else in the household did - that 
or Aunt Jane, and I for sure wasn't ready to claim any kinship with the cast-iron 
bi . . . 

     At least I knew it wasn't unauthorized browsing.  I'd gotten caught at that 
exactly once.  Once out of exactly once I'd tried it, supporting my earlier 
expectation that I'd be under constant observation in Frau Oberfuhrer's 
household.  I'd been avidly exploring a computer free of all the nanny blocks - 
only to find out that a hovering parental figure was more effective than any 
electronic watchdog ever invented.  Damn that woman could move quietly when 
it suited her purpose.  Of course, I had been fairly, um, involved in what I was 
looking at.  

     "If you enjoy wallowing in filth," she'd said, "I can provide you that 
opportunity."  For the next two days I'd had to clean the stables.  Before that, I 
didn't even know the place *had* stables, and for just a second I wondered how 
she'd managed to get them set up so fast, just to mess with me.  Then I stepped 
inside the place and realized these were *not* newly built.  Not surprisingly, 
Miss Jane had decided I should get into the spirit of the activity by wearing the 
proper clothes, too.  Long, wool, prairie woman dress, petticoats (again), corset 
(of course), and bonnet.   Geez, I had figured Rhode Island would be cold, or at 
least cool, even in August.  I flat *baked* in that freakin' heavy dress, to the point 
I figured I smelled as bad as the shit I was shoveling.    After two days of that, I 
was convinced it wasn't worth the risk to use the computer 'inappropriately'.  

     But that didn't mean she couldn't find something else to pick at me about, as 
she had demonstrated any number of times over the week and a half I'd been her 
prisoner.  Usually she found something that wasn't really my fault.  I mean, how 
was I supposed to know that baking powder and baking soda were different?  At 
least she hadn't made me eat the stupid biscuits myself.  Like I cared about 
baking anything anyway. Still, it was not surprising that every time I heard that 
unctuous more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger voice, I cringed.  

     "Your hair is simply inadequate," she said.  "We've got an old rag mop with 
more life than that.  And the way it hangs in your face makes you look . . . 
unkempt."

     Boy, now *there* was a major slam!  'Unkempt.'  Oh, how would I ever live it 
down?  

     Not by mouthing off.  That much I had certainly learned.  So I let part of my 
mind wander off into pleasant fantasies involving optimal methods for beating 
the livin' shit out of pretentious old biddies and put a plastic expression of 
remorse on my 'unkempt' face.  

     "I'm sorry, Miss Jane," I said.  "I've been so busy working on this essay you 
required of me that I haven't had time to use that curling wand thingy on my hair 
since breakfast."  

     Oops, shit.  That blew it.  'Thingy.'  I was gonna catch it for using such an 
uncivilized and inexact term.  Bet she was gonna use those very words.  Being 
'uncivilized' or 'inexact' was right up there with being 'unkempt.'  

     "I *do* hope, Jessica, that you are not using such inexact (Bingo!) words in 
your essay.  I'm sure that Sir Isaac Newton was more precise in his formulations 
than that."  

     "Yes, ma'am, I mean, no ma'am, I mean . . . "  Damn, that woman had the 
ability to tie me in knots just any freakin' time she wanted to.  And every freakin' 
time she did, that look of smug confidence danced in her eyes.  God, I'd like to 
find a way to wipe that look off her face - preferably with something heavy.  

       "Regardless," she continued, "we have already discussed the requirement to 
keep your appearance smart and attractive, even when time is limited."

      Now *that* was something I couldn't argue with.  We'd discussed the damn 
topic, all right.  Over and over again.  I could remember when I'd change my 
freakin' clothes once a week whether I needed to or not.  In this madhouse, I 
ended up changing half a dozen damn times every damn day.  All with 'time' very 
much 'limited.'  
  
     "However," she said, "there are things that can be done to make that task 
easier, and perhaps it is only fair for those techniques to be available to you."

     Uh, oh.  The stench of something rotten was heavy in the air.  Whenever she 
made it sound like she was doing me a favor, I was headed for deep smelly shit.

     "A pretty girl like you deserves pretty hair," she observed, lifting one of the 
strands that hung by my face.  "Perhaps some lighter highlights, perhaps . . . well, 
we'll let the experts decide."

     Oh, yeah, like *that* made me feel better.  'Pretty' was NOT on my list of 
desirable attributes.  Of course, the old witch knew that.  And she knew that I 
knew that she knew, which is why she said it.  Never a wound that wasn't worth 
pouring a little salt in, right?  

     "I, um, if you say so, ma'am," I said.  "But I can't get the wig off by myself."  
Lord knows I'd *tried*.  "Do you, or, um, does Miss Marie have some sort of 
solvent I could use?"  

     "Whatever are you talking about?" she asked with artificial wonder.  I could 
see the truth lurking in her eyes even as she spoke, though.  

     "You can't, I mean, I can't go out looking like this," I said.  "If you want to do 
something to this wig, then fine, take it and get something done.  But I'm not 
going anywhere."  

     "Of course you are," she said grandly.  "It's not good for a young woman to be 
cooped up all the time inside.  It's a pretty day outside, and I'm sure you'll enjoy 
some time off from your studies."

     My throat had totally stopped up, and it took me a long moment to get it loose 
enough to choke out an ultimately useless denial.  "I can't.  I . . . nobody can see 
me like this."  

     "Why, Jessica, you know that's not true.  I've seen you.  Miss Marie has seen 
you.  Penny has seen you.  I understand even old Tom has seen you.  Whatever is 
your problem?"  

     "But, I mean, you know about me already.  You *made* me do this.  People 
on the outside wouldn't, I mean, they might think I, like, wanted this or 
something.  That is *so* not fair!"  

     "What is unfair about a young woman wanting to look nice?" she asked.  "It's 
rather charming, actually.  So few girls pay proper attention to grooming 
nowadays."  

     "Because I'm NOT a frea . . . . not a 'young woman'," I said, struggling hard to 
keep my voice from dropping back into my normal tones - or rising into a 
screech.  

     "But they won't know that, will they?" she asked, silky menace in her tones.  
"Unless you let them know by behaving like the nasty, undisciplined boy you 
were when you came here.  It will be up to you to keep yourself from becoming a 
spectacle."  

     There was a challenge in her eyes that dared me to refuse to go along.  I knew 
she already had some 'punishment' in mind.  She always did.  And, after the 
stable incident, I couldn't begin to imagine what it might be, except that it would 
undoubtedly be worse than doing what she wanted.  This was all *so* unfair.  
Shit, even if I had, um, over-reacted a little a few times, I'd had provocation.  The 
lawyer had pointed that out.  Nothing I'd done gave her the right to . . . to hold 
me up for public ridicule like some damn Puritan or something.  

     But I had no freakin' clue what to do to get out of it.  I was still looking for her 
to make some blatant, no-excuses, get-me-out-of-jail mistake that I could use 
even with that man-hating Judge Ruth.  But other than making me wear girl's 
clothes - which Judge Bitchy would no doubt find highly amusing - she hadn't 
done anything these dinosaurs would consider improper.  I wore clean clothes, 
ate good, wholesome food, helped with chores, studied my schoolwork.  

    Hey, maybe that was the answer!  If I got out in public, I mean, not like on TV 
or anything, but sort of public, maybe she'd make some sort of mistake.  Things 
in the real world couldn't possibly be as controlled as they were in the old 
mansion.  If I did it right, I could avoid getting exposed as a boy in girl's clothes.  
Then, with public evidence of her mistreating me, I could, well, escape or 
something.  I could cut off my hair even if the base of the stupid wig stayed glued 
on, and I could, like, steal some clothes, and once I was back to looking like a 
boy, I could go to the cops.   Local cops, who could talk to witnesses who weren't 
in the old bitch's pocket and maybe I'd never even end up back in Judge Ruth's 
court at all.  On the other hand, if I just ran away - after I changed back to 
looking like a guy, of course - then it would be my word against hers, and no 
doubt Marie and Penny would back her up.  Okay, so I'd go along with her, but 
just as soon as she made one freakin' mistake of the sort that witnesses would say 
was unjustified, then I'd be on my way outta the asylum.   

     All that thought took only a heartbeat.  I still wasn't looking forward to going 
out dressed in girl's clothes, but it might be a price that would pay dividends 
later.  After all, it wouldn't be the first time I'd been laughed at, and I didn't figure 
even Miss Jane would let someone pound on me for it.  Of course, in the 
meantime I'd have to look like I was playing her stupid game or she'd figure out 
what was going on.  The old bitch was sharp, that much I'd give her.  But 
nobody's perfect.  Once we got a few more players in the game, her control 
would slip and that would be my opportunity.   

     "What do you want me to do?" I asked softly, trying to portray total surrender.

     "Go tell Miss Marie to provide you with a suitable purse, and I think Penny 
will enjoy the day out, too, so tell her to come along.  I'll make the other 
arrangements."  She didn't gloat - quite - but there was a lot of satisfaction in her 
tone when she replied.  

     Well, eat me, bitch!  We'll see who laughs last.  All I said though, was, "Yes, 
ma'am."   I was worried about those 'other arrangements', but there wasn't much I 
could do besides go along, at least for a while.

     About an hour later, we were walking into the 'Marisha Chalet'.  Why they felt 
justified in calling an old dump that never saw a mountain in its life a 'chalet', I'll 
never know, but I don't suppose they felt obligated to abide by my opinion.  The 
dump was clean, of course.  I couldn't imagine Miss Jane going anywhere, ah, 
'unkempt', but it smelled nasty with all sorts of chemicals that made my eyes 
water.  Like I said, a dump.

     I was sporting a newly assigned purse over my shoulder, which was not the 
highlight of my life.  I hadn't exactly been afraid to look inside.  I mean, I knew 
there wouldn't be any snakes or whatever in there, but what I might find would 
undoubtedly be just as bad.  My familiarity with what girls carried in their purses 
was extremely limited, but one time a girl at school had dumped hers, and some 
of what I saw in there was, well, I mean girls have, um, special needs, y'know, 
and I didn't even want to know if 'my' purse had some of those sorts of things in 
there.  And I'm not talking about makeup and tissues.  

     My one attempted stall tactic had not worked at all.  I had been wearing a 
simple cotton skirt that day, and a polo shirt in a steel-blue color that Marie 
swore matched my eyes.  I couldn't see it, really, because I'd always thought they 
looked more gray than blue, but whatever.  Of course, I had on pantyhose and 
low heels.  I figured Miss Jane would require that I wear a nicer outfit, a blouse 
at least, so I had offered to go change.  But she surprised me when she refused.  It 
was obvious it had not been a spur-of-the-moment decision to go to town when I 
found Penny dressed much like I was.  Not exactly the same - that would be too 
obvious - but denim skirt and knit top, only hers was dark wine-red and had a 
fake turtleneck collar.   I had to admit, that dark red looked really good next to 
her black hair.  In any event, I didn't manage to waste any time changing clothes, 
so we were out the door and into some town called Kingston as quickly as Miss 
Jane could toss that cool Audi around the curves.  

     When we walked through the door to the salon, there were a couple of older 
women - thirties at least - hanging around the receptionist's station.  One of 
them, dark-haired and slender, smiled and held out her arms to Penny.  

     "Penny, dear, it has been entirely too long."  

     "Nice to see you, too, Caro," Penny replied.  They hugged like long-lost 
sisters or something, then the woman looked expectantly at Miss Jane.  

     "Carolyn, this is my new student Jessica.  As you can see, she needs some 
serious help with her hair, and I think she should get a makeover, too."  

     Carolyn, or Caro, nodded and looked over at the other woman, a, ahem, 
'zoftig' blonde with a sort of, I don't know, predatory gleam in her eyes.  

     "Sandy, do you mind?" she asked casually.

     "Not at all," the blonde - apparently 'Sandy' - replied.  She looked at Jane, got 
some sort of approval, and then looked at me.  I was beginning to wonder if 
anyone was going to pay attention to me at all - not that I was hoping for that, 
you understand.  But I was getting irritated at being treated like part of the 
furniture or something.  

     Some manners must have returned to Miss Jane, too, because she turned to me 
as well and said, "Jessica, this is Sandy.  She'll be taking care of you today.  
Now, you be good and do what she says."  

     Yes, mommy.  I didn't say it, but that patronizing tone did *not* reduce my 
irritation.  Just as I was turning away to follow Sandy, I caught another glance 
between the two of them, and I realized it was all another of the Iron Bitch's little 
ploys to keep me off balance.  I should have known it immediately, since her 
manners were always perfect unless it was for a purpose.  Then I really felt like a 
sucker as I realized I'd actually picked up enough on manners to realize I'd been 
treated rudely in the first place.  Some of that shit was rubbing off on me, and it 
felt just as repulsive as the real stuff - with which I was *way* too familiar after 
my time in the stables.  

     One thing that was definitely not repulsive was the tush on the woman I was 
following.  She was older and all, but not all women fall apart at 30, by 
demonstration.  Her curves were displayed very nicely in tight black jeans, 
making it clear to me why my own panties were padded.  That woman definitely 
did *not* look like a boy from behind.  Her cream-colored knit top fit, ah, 
closely, too, thank you very much.  When I first saw her, I had carefully not 
noticed that the front of that top was scooped out a long ways, revealing that 
there was plenty of woman on that side of her as well.  

     She led me back to a workstation cubicle that was high enough I couldn't see 
the people on either side.  That meant they couldn't see me, either, thank God, so 
at least I was spared that.  But the cubicle was short enough that Sandy could talk 
to the women in the next area.  She proceeded to do that, ignoring me as 
completely as if Miss Jane had indeed just sent my wig in without a live body 
under it.  The smells got worse as she surrounded strands of 'my' hair in bits of 
paper and then wrapped it on little twig things.  Then she squirted really nasty-
smelling stuff on it and wrapped it in a bag.  That was apparently only stage one, 
because I was stuffed under a hair dryer, given a magazine of absolutely zero 
interest, and ignored again.  

     Just about the time my brain was fully fried, she was back.  Yanking the little 
stick things out woulda pulled any real hair out by the roots, but no such luck 
with the thing attached to my head.  It hurt about like getting real hair pulled, but 
I didn't see any falling to the floor.  

     Part of that was because I wasn't looking at the floor.  Sandy was moving all 
around me as she worked, and I was acutely aware that her top was really soft, 
and really thin.  Confession time, I guess.  Despite being a red-blooded American 
teen-ager, I'd never actually been with a girl.  Hell, I'd never even kissed one, let 
alone felt one up.  I mean, babes do not exactly line up to throw themselves at 
scrawny orphans without a dime to their name.  So when I felt this Sandy's tits 
rubbing on my arm, I noticed.  I hope to tell you I noticed.  I noticed that they 
were not at all what I expected.  The way they felt, I mean.  Sandy's tits were 
really soft, squishy soft, but resilient, too.  They sort of . . . squirmed on my arm 
when they rubbed on it.  I was trying like hell not to be obvious, but Geez, . . . I 
could see the little bump of the freakin' nipple!  And I could feel it, too, when she 
moved just right.  And when she leaned over me from the front, she practically 
stuck my nose down the scooped out part of her top, and I could see not only lots 
of cleavage, but most of her damn bra!  

     "Okay, sweetie, before I comb that out, lets take a look at your face," she said 
suddenly.  I jerked, guilty because of what I actually *had* been taking a look at.  

     When I raised my eyes to meet hers, she was smirking with that nasty little 
predatory smile.  She looked quickly to both sides to make sure we were alone, 
then whispered, "I *do* like your nose job.  When are you gonna get your boobs 
done?"  

     "What?" I gasped, drawn by her tone into a whisper voice as well.  

    "It's obvious you've had some work done on that cute-as-a-button nose," she 
said.  "And I figured a sweet little sissy boy like you just couldn't wait to get 
boobs of his own."

     "What?" I repeated, my voice squeaking up into a range I didn't have to fake.  
"What did you say?"  

     "Oh, please," she sneered.  "It's obvious you're a boy who wants to be a girl."  

     "No, I'm . . . "

     "Don't even try," she interrupted me.  "I'm an expert.  You're not the first little 
sissy boy I've worked on, even if you are about the prettiest.  Not that Jane . . . "  

      She interrupted herself, then looked sharply at me.  "Jane doesn't know, does 
she?"

     "Know what?" I asked breathlessly.  

     "Know that you really like this stuff," she said.  "I'll bet Jane thinks she's 
punishing you by letting you dress like a girl."  

     "She is, I mean, I don't . . . "

     "I told you about trying to lie to me," she hissed.  "Don't try to tell me you 
don't get turned on by this.  I'll bet if I slipped my hand up under that snug little 
skirt, I'd find your little tool is ready to burst right out of your panties."  

     "It is not, I mean, that's not . . ."  Shit!  I *was* aroused.  But it was because 
she was rubbing her tits on my arm, and the way she looked and all, not because I 
*liked* wearing the clothes!

     "Shall we find out, sissy boy?" she said, reaching for the hem of my skirt.  

     "No!" I hissed desperately.  

     "Tell me your little thing is not hard right now," she challenged.  Then before 
I could say anything - not that I woulda known what to say anyway - she said, 
"Ha!  Don't bother.  I can see on your face that I'm right."  

     She leaned back and looked toward the front of the salon.  "Let's go tell Jane 
the truth, shall we?" she said.  "Let's tell her that you're a little sissy boy who 
really loves his pretty face and pretty hair and pretty clothes, shall we?"

     "No!" I whispered, hearing the begging in my voice but unable to stop it.  "I'm 
not . . . "

     "Listen, pretty boy," she hissed, getting right back into my face.  "You're not 
getting away with a lie.  Now, either you admit to me that you're aroused under 
all your finery, or we go find Jane right now."  

     "I . . . am."  

     "I'm going to do you a favor," she said, as though my forced confession 
deserved some sort of reward.  "I'm going to make you look absolutely fabulous."  
She laughed her vicious little laugh and said, "After all, it would be a shame to 
waste that gorgeous nose job.  And then you're going to ask Jane for permission 
to join my makeup class."

     "M. . makeup class?"  

     "You heard me.  Several of the girls in town get together with me on 
Wednesday afternoons to practice makeup techniques.  You're going to be one of 
us, one of my models, in fact.  Aren't you thrilled?"  

     "Model?  No, I couldn't . . . "  

     "Your choice, sissy, but if you don't, I'll tell Jane right now that you get all 
aroused by the thought of being in a beauty salon, becoming as pretty as you can 
be."  

     "No, you can't . . . "

     "Just watch me," she snarled, turning to go.  

     I caught her arm and said, "No.  Please don't do that."  

     She looked at my hand on her arm and glared, "You got two seconds, pretty 
boy.  Either take your hand off my arm and agree to be my model, or lose it at 
about the wrist, after which I tell Jane your little secret."  

     "I'll . . . do what you want," I said softly.  "But I'm not . . . not really . . ."  

      "Yeah, right," she snapped.  "Tell it to your little toy, not me.  I'm not the one 
all hard and eager."  

     She moved back in front of me and said, "Okay, since you'll be back for my 
class, I'll just do a simple daytime look for now.  Pay attention, because I assure 
you, there *will* be a test later when all the girls are here."  

     She wove a freakin' spell of sorcery around my face and hair, transforming 
what I had already been forced to admit was a cute appearance into something 
that was no-shit awesome.  I hated every freakin' trick, every delicate touch, but I 
couldn't deny her artistry, nor the effectiveness of her techniques.  I lost track of 
time, but eventually she stepped back and I could really see what she'd done.  

     In the mirror was a goddam fox!  I mean, I'd seen prettier girls, even in real 
life.  The face in the mirror wasn't some impossible robobabe from TV.  But I 
sure as shit hadn't seen very damn many who were prettier, and if I'd'a been told 
even a single freakin' one of them had been a boy under the magic, I'd'a kicked 
some serious butt for the insult that somebody would think I was stupid enough 
to believe it.  

     Sandy had made my eyes look freakin' huge, yet so natural I only knew it was 
artificial because I'd seen it being done.   The only place where I was obviously 
wearing makeup was on my lips, which looked so full and pouty that I wondered 
if I was having a freakin' allergic reaction to something she'd smeared on them.   
Needless to say, the damn hair that had been the reason - or excuse - for all this 
shit no longer looked lifeless and limp.  Thank God it wasn't wrapped up in tight 
little Shirley Temple curls.  In fact, like the makeup, in some ways it was hard to 
tell anything had been done to my hair, yet it seemed to have five times as much 
volume and the color was a warm honey-blonde that was freakin' spooky, since I 
swore it wasn't much different than before, but it was, like, molten gold.  

     "Okay, pretty boy, let's go," she ordered.  I didn't see much choice but to 
follow the bleached-blonde bitch, but she paused to hiss in my ear as we headed 
for the front.  "Remember, sissy, when we get up there, you ask Jane for 
permission to attend my makeup class, and you ask real sweetly.  If you don't, 
I'm going to pull your skirt up and show everyone in the place what you've got 
hiding in there.  And tell them how much it turns you on to be here, dressed like 
that."   

     I felt my damn eyes filling up again, and I wasn't sure I could even speak, but 
she noticed that, too.  "And don't you dare cry, sissy boy, or I'll guarantee the 
whole town knows about you - and your desires."  

     Somehow I choked back my tears by the time we got to where Jane was 
waiting.  She and the other women oohed and ahhed about how cute I looked, 
like *that* helped any damn thing.  Sandy let it run for a while, but at the first 
break in the chattering I felt her hand on the back hem of my skirt, slowly 
starting to lift it.  

    "Miss Jane," I blurted, startled by the touch of her hand on my leg - and 
knowing I was having another reaction as well to the teasing caress.  "Miss, um, 
Sandy said she's got a, um, makeup class, and I was wondering if I could, um, go 
to it?"  

     "Why Jessica," Miss Jane said, "I'm surprised you want to do that, but I must 
say I'm pleased.  Of course you can attend Sandy's class, if it means so much to 
you."  

     Yeah, like having a freakin' leg amputated.  It would certainly have a lot of 
meaning in my life - none of it good.  I noticed Penny was frowning, and then 
she stepped forward.  

     "Miss Jane, may I attend this class, too?"  

     "You don't need to come, Penny," Sandy said quickly.  "You're quite good at 
doing your own makeup."  

     "If you don't mind, please," Penny said politely.  "I would appreciate the 
refresher.  Since Jessica is going to be attending anyway, it won't be much bother 
for me to come too, will it?"  

     "No, of course not," Miss Jane said briskly.  "We'll see you tomorrow 
afternoon, Sandy, and thank you for generously offering to let my students attend 
your class."  

     That was apparently a signal or something, because the chatter transformed 
into good-byes.  "Come along, girls," Miss Jane said, looking at us after a no-
doubt exactly proper amount of time for politeness.  "We've just got time to get 
home for supper."  

     Which was true, I suppose.  Not that I could eat anything.  In a truly perverse 
way I guess things were improving, because I managed to get all the way to my 
own bathroom and out of my clothes before hurling into the toilet anything I'd 
even thought of eating since I'd arrived at Miss Jane's house of horrors.

*********************************

     If someone had told me that I'd rather stay 'in school' with a demanding 
teacher than spend the afternoon with a bunch of pretty high school girls, I'd'a 
laughed in his face.  If they told me I'd be gratefully wearing a pink satin blouse, 
I'd'a . . . well, I'd'a done the sort of thing that got me into that mess in the first 
place.  But I *was* grateful to be wearing a blouse, pink satin or not, because it 
was almost like a real shirt rather than the overly-frilly confections that Miss Jane 
normaally demanded.  Even fully buttoned the damn thing was still open *way* 
too low for my peace of mind though, almost to where it would show parts of me 
that weren't really me, if you get what I mean.  

     Of course, Miss Jane thought she was doing me a favor.  I had been 'allowed' 
to choose my own clothes this morning, from candidates that ranged from bad to 
really, really awful.  Miss Jane was adamant that one wore 'outfits' not just 
clothes thrown together at random.  But, like, what sort of choice is it when the 
options are a powder blue miniskirt, or a way-too-fragile white knit that wouldn't 
stay clean for as long as it took to get out the door?  I picked the mini, of course.  
I knew it wasn't really all that short by high school babe-ette standards, but that 
didn't make me any less conscious of the breeze that swirled about my, ah, legs.  
I had learned enough to realize the implications of my choices, though.  If I had 
worn the longer knit, even aside from the impossibility of keeping it clean, I'd'a 
been wearing heels and something a lot more fragile for a top as well.   'Little 
Miss Priss', for sure, and not at all compatible with what I expected the other, um, 
the girls to be wearing.  At least with the pastel miniskirt I could wear flats and a 
regular sort of blouse - even if it was pink.  

     When I saw Penny, though, I figured something was up.  She was also 
wearing a miniskirt, but hers was white leather instead of my blue gabardine, and 
she had on a white off-the-shoulder peasant's blouse that showed a lot of skin.  
Not that ones first impression was of her shoulders.  Damn that girl had a lot of 
leg.  But I didn't understand why she was wearing something so, like, noticeable.  
That white outfit made her dark hair look *way* dramatic, and with all those 
legs, well, she was bound to draw attention.  Not that I, y'know, cared, except 
that if something looked like good news, there was probably a hook in it.

     I cautiously started looking for the trap.  "You look, um, really good," I told 
her.  

     "Thank you," she replied politely, tugging at her own inadequate hem.   "You 
look really nice, too."  

     "Oh, thanks," I said.  "Um, Penny, why are you, y'know, doing this?"

     "Doing wha. . . ?" she started, the smiled a sad little smile that didn't look very 
happy at all.  "I'm sorry, that was unfair.  We both know you're smart enough to 
figure out that we're not in for an especially pleasant day."

    "No, sh . . , um, no kidding.  And you don't have to do this, so . . . why?"  

     "Because Sandy is a caustic, cruel, hateful . . ."  She interrupted herself again, 
visibly forcing herself to regain control, even to the classic deep-breath-and-let-
it-out-slowly trick.  Resuming as though she was just then answering my 
question, she said, "Because Sandy can be . . . stressful to those who are not . . . 
used to her style.  I am.  At least as much as one can be, I suppose, and I figured 
you could use the reinforcements."  

     "Yeah, right, like she could possibly be any worse than Miss Jane," I said, 
snorting.  

     "Oh, yeah," she breathed out slowly, painful memories lurking in her eyes.  
Then she squared her shoulders and said, "Besides, once Sandy gets done 
lecturing on our faults and what to do about them, she'll expect us to practice on 
each other.  If I'm your partner, then there is less chance some other girl will 
notice, um, . . . things you don't want her to know."  

     Now *that* was a compelling argument.  I didn't know what hold Miss Jane 
had on Penny, beyond the suicide-watch thing that looked to be pretty much 
over.  But if she wanted to help me keep a secret I for sure did not want out, then 
I wasn't going to argue.  

     Marie had some shopping to do, so she drove us into town.  When we entered 
the salon, the other woman - Caro, I think her name was - directed us to a room 
in the back.  There we found Sandy and half a dozen really hot teen-age girls, and 
the fact I fit in with them was *not* a happy thought.  

     "Good," Sandy announced, "now that you're here we can get started.  Let's 
see, Penny, you already know the basics, so why don't you sit over there and 
we'll start with your friend?"  

     Oh, goody for me.  Penny shrugged and touched my arm lightly as a sort of, 
like, gesture of togetherness or something, and though I felt really isolated right 
then I appreciated the thought.  Sandy directed me to a stool, way too high to sit 
on in that little skirt, but I tugged it down as best I could and resigned myself to 
the inevitable.  

     Sandy started in lecture mode, posing me like some store dummy with tugs on 
my shoulders and a lift and twist of my head until my damn neck felt stretched 
out by several inches.  "Okay, class, this is Jessica.  Now, what would we 
consider her best feature?"  

     "Her eyes," someone said, a strawberry blonde with surprisingly dark eyes 
herself.  That got a chorus of agreement.  

     "Good choice," Sandy said.  "Blue-gray eyes like . . . hers can seem to take on 
a variety of colors.  So, what color should we use for her eyeshadow?"  

     "Brown-to-gold," suggested Penny, and I was surprised because I didn't think 
she'd play along with the game.  

     Then I found out she was indeed playing the game, but on my side.  "Oh, 
pooh, Penny, you're no fun," Sandy pouted.  "You've already been through this."  

     "Why not use blue, or gray?" asked another blonde, this one with blue eyes - 
and a lot of blue eyeshadow.

     "In some cases, you could do that," Sandy said, "if you really wanted to bring 
out a particular color tone, but in general it would tend to reduce the impact of 
her own eyes."

     She stood back and looked at me critically.  "And what would we consider her 
*least* attractive feature?" she asked, then interrupted any answer with another 
comment.  "Aside from a certain . . . lack of development, of course.  She is 
indeed a *little* girl, I'm afraid."  

     Afraid, hell.  She enjoyed it.  The bitch was laughing at me, and for a fault 
that wasn't any damn fault at all.  I was about to call her on it, not that I had any 
damn idea on how to get her to back off without revealing something I still 
wanted to hide.  But my response was itself interrupted by another suggestion 
from Penny.
  
     "It's probably her lips," Penny said.  

     Sandy sighed, and frowned at the tall girl.  "You're right," she admitted.  
"Well, let's get started."  

     The first step was to clean off everything that was on my face, of course.  
Even I knew that.  In face, there was a little scramble around the sinks as the 
whole class stripped off what had no doubt been collective hours of work.  I 
heard a bunch of shouted names in rapid-fire introductions, and immediately 
forgot them all.  The class divided up after that, using each other as easels to try 
out what Sandy was demonstrating on me.  Penny was the odd girl out, and 
believe me, I'd have gladly traded places with her.  

     I had already been through a lot of what Sandy was doing, but that didn't 
mean I remembered much of it - like I wanted to anyway.  She had started out 
with a basic approach that could be used during the daytime, but also provided 
the foundation for a more glamorous look for evening.  Or so she said.  I wasn't 
feeling particularly glamorous.  What I was feeling was again driven more by the 
close proximity of her own . . . development, which had been rubbing on my arm 
again.   She wasn't, like, gross or anything, but she definitely wasn't a 'little' girl, 
either.  

     "Why, Jessica, you're blushing so much I can't tell if we have your cheeks 
right or not.  Now, why could that be?"

     I sure as hell couldn't tell her the truth on that, so I just tried to duck my head.  
That didn't work because her hand caught my chin and pulled it right back up.  
She wagged a finger in my face and said, "Have you been thinking naughty 
thoughts?  I'll bet you're thinking of how much your boyfriend is going to like 
your new look, right?"  
 
     Boyfriend?!  She *knew* that wasn't true.  Or . . . maybe she thought it *was* 
true!  She said she thought I *liked* all this sh. . . stuff.  I blurted out a denial so 
quickly I didn't have time to think of what she might say next.  

     "I don't have a boyfriend!"  

     "A pretty girl like you, and no boyfriend?  Why, that's not fair!  What do you 
say, girls, should we fix Jessica up with someone?"  

     The blonde with the too-blue eyeshadow, or at least the girl who *had* been 
wearing too much blue, piped up with a, "My brother will be ungrounded in a 
week or so, and his old girlfriend broke up with him because . . . well, they broke 
up.  He's available."  

     "There, you see, Jessica?  All you have to do is ask your friends when you 
need help."  

     Some friends.  This was starting to get past irritating and into . . . well, into 
bad things.  My stomach was churning again.  And I didn't figure my cheeks 
were any less hot now than before she made an issue of pointing them out.  From 
the inside, they certainly felt like they were burning just as brightly.  

     Sandy leaned forward to whisper in my ear, "So, tell me, pretty Jessica, does 
the thought of a boyfriend make your little tool hard?  Hmmm?  If I were to flip 
your skirt up, what would we see?'      

     Oh, God, I was gonna hurl!  

     "Miss Sandy?" Penny's voice broke in.  "Could you show me that trick to 
bring out cheekbones again?"  

     "Huh?  What?" Sandy said, startled.  She looked back over her shoulder and 
said, "Oh, Penny, you don't need any help there.  Your cheekbones are fine."  

     "Well, um," Penny stammered, "after we, uh, finish here, I might, um, be able 
to help Jessica a little, maybe."  

     "Oh very well," Sandy said grumpily.  Then her eyes lit with that predatory 
gleam again, and she said, "Why don't you change places with Jessica?  You can 
be my model for a while, if you're so interested."  

     Penny nodded, that sad smile on her face again.  God help me but I didn't 
really care.  All I wanted was to get away from that woman before I *did* blow 
chunks all over both of us.  We switched places, and Sandy called the group to 
attention again.  

     "All right, class, we're going to look at Penny now."    

     The other, that is, the, um, girls settled into their seats - most looking comical 
with partially completed makeovers, some of which didn't match right to left on 
their own faces - and Sandy started in on my sole schoolmate.  "What would we 
say is her best feature?"

     "Her cheekbones," someone called, a girl with way too much, way too sable 
hair.  Her name started with a 'B', I thought, but I didn't remember.  She 
continued, "She's got killer cheekbones.  I wish my face were that striking."  

     "Very good.  And her worst feature?"  

     You know, just asking that question was . . . cruel.  I mean, we all have 
features that are not as desirable as others, but to hold them up for such brutal 
inspection was . . . harsh.  I had felt like sh. . . felt bad when it was me in the 
spotlight, but it wasn't much better to see Penny up there.  

     "Come on, class, if you're going to fix what's wrong, you have to be able to 
see it."  

     "Maybe her, um, nose?" the strawberry blonde offered diffidently.

     "Yes," Sandy replied.  "I think so, too."  Then she smirked and said, "Aside 
from her own lack of . . . development that is.  Goodness, I'm beginning to think 
Ms. Thompson doesn't feed you girls enough out there.  In any event, since 
Penny hasn't had a nose job, like Jessica, we'll have to do the best we can with . . 
. "  

     She was interrupted by a buzz from the room.  "Jessica had a nose job? . . .  
Geez, I wish my parents would let *me* have some work done. . . .  *You* need 
it. . .  I do *not*!"  

     The last triggered a crystal waterfall of giggles as each girl pointed out what 
the *other* girls needed in the way of improvements.  There were three silent 
voices.  Sandy, who was amused but largely indifferent.  Me, who was trying to 
find someplace to hide.  And Penny, who looked shocked, but I couldn't really 
figure out the reason.  I knew it wasn't because of some embarrassment about the 
shape of her nose, though.  It wasn't that kind of shock. 

     Finally the sable-haired girl looked at me suspiciously and said, "Did you 
*really* have a nose job?"   

     I ducked my head, but I suppose that was answer enough.  She continued, 
"But why?  You're really cute.  I can't believe you needed anything like that."

     "It, um, got broken and had to be, um, . . . fixed.

     "How?"  

     "I suppose you could say it was an accident, right?" Penny interjected.  

     "Um, yes, something like that," I agreed, thankfully.  

     "Well, it turned out wonderfully," Sandy said, regaining control.  "It's too bad 
Penny didn't run into the same door.  Now, for her . . . "  

     Sandy ruthlessly pointed out the flaws in Penny's face, flaws that I was just 
beginning to be able to see.  It was surprising, really, but Penny wasn't all that 
cute.  She had a lean elegance that Sandy maximized, but I guess I wouldn't have 
put her among the typical cheerleader crowd.  Yet I remember being impressed 
with her looks when I first saw her.  Now that she was sort of, like, exposed, she 
seemed barely average.  

     "Oh, my, look at the time," Sandy said, interrupting her lecture.  "Girls, you 
just have time to clean off the practice things and get ready to go.  Next time, 
we'll focus on Jessica again, and get her ready for her big date."  

     Not on a bet, lady.  But I caught a warning glance from Penny and didn't say 
anything.  Sandy actually helped her finish up her face, and I hadn't done 
anything after I escaped from her clutches, so we were the first ones to be ready 
to go.  We slipped out of the back room as quietly as we could, finding Marie's 
wagon idling at the curb.  

     "You look nice, girls," Marie said as we slid into the car.  
 
     "Thank you, Marie," Penny said automatically.  I was still distracted from the 
funny things that had been going on at the end of the class and it took a nudge 
from Penny to get my mind back in the present.  

     "Oh, yes, thank you Miss Marie," I said.  

     "Don't tell Miss Jane," Marie said confidentially, "but what do you say we go 
get an ice cream cone before we head back to the house?"  

     Penny nodded, again being polite more than showing real interest.  Even that 
was more than I could manage.  My stomach was still roiling and I was afraid the 
ride in the car might be a problem.  But Marie's cheerfulness didn't leave any 
room for debate, and we soon found ourselves walking into a little treats parlor.  

     "Try the frozen yogurt instead of ice cream, if your stomach is upset," 
whispered Penny in my ear.  I smiled thanks at her, and took her suggestion.  It 
helped, and by the time we were ready to get back in the car I was feeling 
normal.  Well, as normal as I ever felt, considering that I was wearing a skirt, and 
a bra, and had long hair swirling about my shoulders.  

     We were, ahem, 'privileged' to dress for dinner that evening, and it was no 
surprise there wasn't enough time to get ready.  Call me paranoid, but I had a 
feeling Marie had been told to keep us away until we *would* be rushed.  What 
really chapped my . . . um, bothered me was how Marie could hover while I got 
ready - tightening my freakin' corset even further than usual - then still manage to 
arrange a formal meal at the same time.  Miss Jane, on the other hand, had clearly 
been born elegant and needed no special preparation.  As we entered the dining 
room, long skirts swirling around our legs (and was that better or worse than a 
miniskirt?), I actually had to snicker at an image that came to me.  Imagine Miss 
Jane needing to do something *casual*, and being as stressed out at dressing 
down as I was at dressing up.  Ha!  It'd serve the bi. . . woman right.  

     "My, Jessica, you seem to be in good spirits this evening," Miss Jane 
observed.  

     "Ah, yes, ma'am, I guess so."

     "Would you care to share what you find so amusing?" she challenged.  

     No.  Well, yeah, actually, but the price for poking fun at Miss Jane would be 
more than I wanted to pay.  Not that refusal was really an option either, though.  
Think fast!  "It's that, um, I think I might, ah, enjoy the meal.  My stomach was a 
bit upset earlier, but thanks to Penny, I'm feeling better now."  

     "Indeed?  Well, then thank you, Penny, for doing your part to make this meal 
a pleasant one."

     "It was nothing, Aunt Jane," Penny claimed modestly.  Her words tweaked my 
conscience a little.  The bit about the yogurt might have been no big deal, but she 
had helped me avoid the worst of Sandy's torture - by taking it on herself.  In my 
heart,, I had to admit I had been very close to losing it when Penny had 
intervened.  

     Despite my resurrected appetite, the meal was not as pleasant as Miss Jane's 
comment declared.  The food was excellent, but have you ever tried to eat when 
your middle is squeezed so tight you can't breathe, in a corset so stiff you 
couldn't relax even if it were permitted, all the while carrying on an in-depth, 
fast-paced conversation on current events?  No opinion, certainly no political 
opinion, at Miss Jane's table was ever wrong.  But the converse of that was that 
no opinion was ever automatically right, either.  Faulty or poorly expressed logic 
was ruthlessly vivisected, all the while accompanied by smiles, by light-hearted, 
airy tones of voice, and by graceful though demurely restrained gestures.   (Those 
are exact quotes, by the way, otherwise I wouldn't know a gracefully demure 
gesture if it bit me in the . . . ahem.)  I swear, that woman could use a raised 
eyebrow like a rapier, not saying a bleeping word but making me feel like I 
should voluntarily resign from the gene pool.  I was flat exhausted by the time 
the meal was over - mentally and physically.    

     Finally, she placed her napkin carefully beside her plate and said, "Well, that 
was stimulating.  However, today's excursion has probably put you girls behind 
in your homework.  I suggest we let Marie clear the table tonight - you don't 
mind, do you Marie? - and you can get in an hour or two of studying before 
bedtime."  

     "Yes, ma'am," we replied, rising like good little marionettes.  Nodding 
politely to Marie, we escaped to our rooms.  

     It was an escape in more ways than one, thanks again to my one-and-only 
schoolmate.  I had stripped out of that fragile dress and the killer heels before the 
door was completely closed, but getting out of that bleeping corset was not 
something I could manage on my own.  I'd tried.  Believe me, I'd tried.  Sighing 
as much as I was able, I put on my robe, grimacing once again at the cotton-
candy sweetness of the thing, and tried to get into my studies.  But it was not 
working out.  It had been a hel . . . been a memorable day - not pleasant 
memories, but memorable - and I was having a hard time concentrating.  Finally, 
I decided I needed to do something else, something to relax, and there was no 
doubt in my mind what would be most relaxing.  The question was: how did I go 
about it?  

     Well, there were three options.  One was out of the question.  One was, ah, 
highly questionable.  And the third was . . . possible.  At least, it might be after 
what had happened that day.

      I slid my feet into my mule slippers and walked the few paces down the hall.  
Knocking on the door, I held what little breath I had, wondering what reception 
I'd get.

     "Just a minute, please," Penny called from inside her room.  In not much more 
than that, she was opening the door and inviting me in.   "Jessica!  I'm surprised 
to see you, but you're welcome."  

     "Um, thanks.  I hate to bother you but . . . "

     "Would you like a little help with that?" she asked, pointing at my nipped-in 
waist.  

     "Girl, you are a lifesaver!" I agreed.

     "Been there, needed it done," she said diffidently.  

     I fumbled with the buttons on my robe, then dropped it so that she could reach 
the laces I couldn't reach myself.  It as only then that I realized I was standing 
there in my underwear with a young lady.   A very attractive young lady.

     "Oh, um, I, uh, we shouldn't . . . "

     "Don't be silly," she said.  "I promise you, I will not drag you kicking and 
screaming to the bed, just because I see you in your scanties.  Though I must say, 
they look a lot better on you than they ever would on me."  

     "That is not, like, good news," I said, still blushing and trying to keep myself 
turned so she couldn't, y'know, see anything.  

     "Why not?" she asked, tugging on the complicated knot that Marie always 
tied.  "You're cute. You should try to look your best."

     "Yes, Miss Jane," I replied.

     "I'm not Jane," she said quickly, sharply.  

     "Not a bad imitation," I persisted.  "You both have that air of . . . supreme 
competence.  Poise, I think it's called, not that I would know from personal 
experience."  

     Just then the laces gave and I took my first deep breath in, like, days.  Or at 
least since that morning.  Actually, Marie never tied the corsets all that tight, 
though I complained every chance I got.  But the da . . . darn things were so frea . 
. . very stiff that I still couldn't take a deep breath when I was laced down.  

     "Is there anything else?'" asked Penny, flatly.  It was obvious she wasn't really 
curious.  Something was tweaking at me again about her tone of voice, but I 
couldn't quite figure it out.

     Something more significant was bothering me though, so I turned around and 
looked closely at her, forgetting for the moment my own appearance.  I could still 
see the faults that Sandy had pointed out so unrelentingly, but I could also 
confirm my first impression that Penny was a nice-looking girl.  Then I blushed 
again, worse than ever, as I sort of, like, absorbed the whole thing.  There I was 
in my underwear- Hell, in *girl's* underwear - with a girl.  A girl who knew I 
was really a guy dressed in girl's clothes.  

     I stepped back and fumbled with my robe again.  Fastening up that pink sugar 
confection was never so welcome.  Penny looked amused in a distant sort of way, 
but she just waited patiently until I managed to get myself together again.

     "Penny, please, can we talk for just a minute?"

     She shrugged, and pointed at the seating area in her own huge bedroom.  I 
used the time while we took those few steps to compartmentalize a little, burying 
my own . . . situation in the issue of Penny's strange appearance - or maybe that 
should be my strange perceptions of her appearance.

     Penny's attractiveness - and part of me was *still* insisting on sending me 
signals about being nearly undressed in a girl's bedroom, which made denial of 
her attraction pretty stupid - wasn't because of her features, really.  She really was 
only average there, with eyes that were kinda small and too much nose, and . . . . 
other things.  But she *was* attractive, and the reason was because of a regal 
dignity that made her . . . serene.  It was poise, mixed with sophistication, and an 
almost inhuman self-control that lifted her onto a pedestal that she carried with 
her.  It made her distant, but a challenge at the same time, a prize to strive 
toward.  And it wasn't dependent on conventional prettiness at all.   She truly was 
the grand lady in the carriage, junior version, but the rest of that image in my 
mind was that she was all alone in that carriage.  

     That . . . loneliness reminded me of another issue, the real issue.  "Why did 
you go to Sandy's with me today?" 

     "I told you," she said.  "I'm used to her little games and figured I could handle 
them better than you."

     "Why bother?"  

     She almost flinched at that.  I mean, she did flinch, I guess, but it was more a . 
. . settling, as though she had sagged in her seat for a moment, then stiffened 
again.  

     "Why not?" she asked quietly, not looking at me.

     "Because you ended up in an embarrassing situation, and you knew you 
would, and you don't owe me a da . . . darn thing."  

     "No," she said, very softly, not much more than a whisper, "I don't suppose I 
really do owe you much."  

     There had been a faint but unmistakable emphasis on 'you', meaning me, in 
that.  So who *did* she owe enough that she'd take on ridicule intended for 
someone else?  

     "What does Jane have over you?"  

     "What?" 

     "What sort of leverage does Jane have on you, that would make you do things 
that you know you're going to hate?" 

     She smiled sardonically and looked at the pink robe I was wearing.  

     "Oh, give me a break," I snapped.  "This is not about me.  You told me you 
were here because you'd tried to commit suicide.  And you used bad language.  
Well, I don't see you as stupid enough to kill yourself, not anymore at least, and 
your language is as good as Jane's.  So, why are you putting up with this sort of . 
. . stuff anymore?"  

     "Better me than you," she said quietly.  

     "Why?!" I said, raising my voice as I became more irritated.  "That's no damn 
answer at all."  

     Then, before she could answer, I made another all-the-sudden-obvious leap of 
insight.  "You're doing some sort of stupid penance thing, aren't you?  You're 
taking on other people's problems as a way to 'make up' for what you did to that 
other girl, right?  What was her name?" 

     "Jane," she whispered, burying her head in her hands.  "Janey Miller."  

     "Get real," I snapped.  "And get over it!  Geez, I can't believe you're still 
freaked out about that."

     I got up and started pacing about the room.  "Shit, Penny, I figured Jane had 
some sort of hammer on you, and I've been feeling sympathetic, and grateful that 
you're helping me anyway, and shit.  You're just wallowing in self-pity.  I hate 
martyrs, at least the ones who're so damn proud of themselves for being so 
selfless.  God, you are a messed up bitch, aren't you?"  
 
     Penny stood now and looked down on me, some complex mix of anger and 
guilt and surprise mangling the elegant attractiveness and showing the plain girl 
underneath.  "Shut up.  You've got no right . . . "
 
     "Like Hell, I don't!  Get down off your cross, lady, somebody needs the 
wood!"  

     She gasped, and stepped back like I'd struck her.  That bothered me.  A lot.  
I'd done too damn much of that - hitting someone.  It calmed me down.  

     "Look, Penny, I'm not trying to say that teasing someone is a good thing, but 
Hell, it's not like you held her down and forced her to take the pills, or threw her 
off the ledge, or whatever she did."

     "But I did," she whispered, holding her head in her hands again.  Silent sobs 
heaved at her shoulders.  "I might was well have poured those pills into her.  It 
was my fault she did."

     "Bullshit!" I snapped - not angry now, but playing for effect.  "By that logic, 
it's *her* fault you tried to kill yourself.  After all, if she hadn't offed *her*self, 
you wouldn't have tried to do *your*self, right?"

     I wouldn't let her answer, but I lowered my own tone and reached out to wrap 
my arms around her waist.   "Penny, you can't blame yourself for the actions of 
others - not when they do something stupid.  Nor can you excuse doing stupid 
things yourself, just because of what someone else did.  I nearly crippled a guy 
because he bumped into me in a crowded hallway.  That's a lot worse that 
anything you've done."

     "But, she *killed* herself," whispered Penny into my hair.  

     "Yes," I replied gently.  "She did.  But it wasn't your fault - not enough that 
you have to keep killing yourself inside because of it."

     "Look at me, Penny," I commanded - softly.

     She lifted her head and I said, "My nose is 'cute' because my real nose got 
smashed by an asshole who outweighed me by 50 pounds.  Why do you think he 
hit me in the first place?  It's because I'm short, and scrawny, and, Hell I looked 
too damn much like a girl even *before* my nose got rearranged.  He was 
laughing at me about it, calling me a queer who wouldn't ever have a girlfriend 
because she'd be too jealous of how pretty I was, but just right for a boyfriend.  I 
started swinging and woke up in the hospital.  Do you think I never got called 
names after that, now that I *really* had a girl's nose?  Believe me, I've had 
words hurt me, and they do.  But sticks and stones really *are* worse.  Dealing 
with insults is just part of life - not a fun part, for damn sure - but not a reason to 
kill yourself."  

     I hugged her again, and said, "And not a reason to be a martyr.  Life's tough 
enough when you take care of yourself.  You don't have to take on everyone 
else's problems, too."  

     "But . . . what I did was wrong," she insisted.

     "Yes, it was," I agreed.  "Are you going to do it again?"

     "No!"  

     "Can your own suffering bring her back?"

     "No."  

     "Then go out and make the world a better place, not by taking on other 
people's suffering, but by removing the *cause* of the suffering, like, by helping 
me hang Sandy up by her supercilious sneer."  

     She sniffled, but I could see something different in her eyes, different even 
from her normal poise.  I pushed my advantage.  "Or by creating a little cause for 
happiness in the world.  For Christ's sake, have *fun* while you do it!  I 
guarantee you, that *nothing* makes the world a better place like a pretty girl's 
smile."  

     I guess I'd finally reached the right button or something, because at that she 
snickered and stepped up straight.  "Oh, Jessica," she said, smiling maybe the 
first *real* smile I ever remembered on her face, "if you only knew."

     "Knew what?"

     "Oh, um, nothing," she claimed, but I could see a laugh still twinkling in her 
eyes.  This time she reached to hug me, and while I didn't complain, it was still . . 
. weird enough that it wasn't really comfortable, y'know?  I mean, feeling a taller 
person's arms around me, strong arms, too, was . . . weird.  Anyway, I just, like, 
stood there and after a second she stepped back.  

     "Do you need any more help with your clothes?" she asked.

     "Oh, uh, no thanks.  I can handle it from here.  Thanks for your help, though."  

     "Thanks for *your* help, Jessica," she replied.  

     "Yeah, well, makes us even," I said dismissively.

     "No," she disagreed.  Then a twinkle lit her eyes again as she said, "But what 
*will* make us even is when I don't tell Aunt Jane about all the naughty words 
you used tonight."

     "Oh, sh . . . sugar," I gasped.  "Oh, my, you wouldn't. . . "

     "No, not for tonight," she promised.  "But if you ever talk that way to me 
again, I won't need Jane's help to wash your mouth out with soap.  I told you that 
already."  

     "Yes, ma'am," I said obediently.  

     She grinned and while she was patient, I got the idea it was time to go.  As we 
reached the door, she leaned down to kiss me on the cheek.  "Thank you, Jessica.  
Seriously.  You've given me some things to think about."

     "De nada, Stretch," I replied.

     I stepped through the door and she closed it behind me, but I was too 
distracted to get back to my studies.  My first kiss from a girl - first time a girl 
had willingly kissed me, that is.  And it was on the frea . . . cheek, and from 
someone entirely too da . . darn close to being a sister.  Major.  Heartfelt.  Sigh.     

     I went back to my desk, but I couldn't really get into Marco Polo's trade routes 
to China.  I was not so clueless that I didn't realize about half of what I had said 
to Penny applied to me as well.  It's a lot easier to lecture someone else on how 
screwed up they are than to take the same advice yourself.  In Penny's case 
though, her problems started when she caused trouble.  If she caused happiness 
instead, well, that sounded like a solution.  What was I going to do, though?  
Turning the other cheek works just fine if you're tall, and rich, and look, y'know, 
normal.  Like Penny.  But if you're short, and poor, and look like a girl even 
though you're a boy, people are not going to leave you alone just because you 
smile pretty.  Just the opposite.  I knew that for a fact.  Been there.  Got a new 
nose to prove it.  What could *I* use to replace 'having a hair trigger', and being 
'wiry?'  I knew I needed something if I were ever going to escape Miss Jane's 
satin prison, but I sure as sh. . . sugar needed some sort of clue on what it could 
be.  

***************************************

     "Am I boring you, Jessica?" asked Miss Jane.

     Uh, oh.  I'd been caught.  Miss Jane was lecturing on art, and with all due 
respect to her amazingly broad range of knowledge, in this area I had passed her 
a couple of years before.  She wasn't a bad lecturer, though she preferred a 
combination of directed self study and Socratic questioning.  The former allowed 
me to take a break when I started feeling somnolent, while the latter was 
anything but sedentary.  In this case though, she'd apparently felt a need to cover 
classic definitions of chiaroscuro and vanishing point perspective explicitly.  I 
had hoped my stifled yawn might get by unnoticed.  No such luck with Miss 
Jane.  

     "I'm sorry, ma'am," I said.  "I meant no disrespect.  It's just that I've, uh, been 
through some of this before."  

    "Indeed?  It was not noted on your transcript."

     "Well, it was sort of . . . independent study."  

     "Very well, perhaps we need to test your knowledge before proceeding.  
Prepare a 2,000-word essay on the use of perspective in Gothic art, beginning 
with . . ."  

     My and my freakin' mouth.  I swear, artists couldn't even *think* before the 
Renaissance.  At least, not what passed for painters.  They obviously couldn't 
*see* anything, either.  The short version of her essay was that they didn't even 
use perspective in Gothic art, any more than in ancient Egyptian art.  It's like they 
never bothered to try and make what they painted look like what they saw.  Even 
without the formalism of constructive geometry, they should have been able to 
see that a man standing beside a horse wasn't as tall as the man *on* the bleeping 
horse.  Yet it wasn't until the Renaissance that they started trying to show that in 
any way you could tell.  So, of course I get an assignment to write about the very 
worst period of all.  Well, maybe that's not fair.  I'm sure there were worse.  Cave 
paintings, maybe.         

     I wrote it, though, as directed.  If she'd have picked a later period, I could have 
copied a lot more than 2,000 words from my journal, that spiral notebook I'd had 
in my things when I arrived.  Not that I wanted to copy it, at least, not all of it.  
That wasn't just a record of facts, like the use of perspective by, oh, Da Vinci or 
someone else really good.  It was primarily a record of how the art made me feel.  
Personal things.  Anger or despair.  Happiness that didn't have to have a cause 
beyond the painting itself.  Majesty and awe.  The Renaissance artists were the 
first who could really create those emotions for me, within their better-than-
photographs realism.  Then came the Impressionists and emotions became the 
primary treasure.  Stepping back in time, and more importantly, in creativity, to 
the Gothic period was like, well, asking a Grand Prix driver to write an essay on 
mules.  Yeah, they were transportation, but who cared?  Not that I put that into 
the essay.  If I dumped the load of . . . processed equine feed . . . on the Gothic 
'artists' that they deserved, I'd get a lecture of a different sort and assignments I 
didn't need.  So she got her 2,000 words, but my heart wasn't really in it.

     By the time I was done with that little chore, it was time for lunch.  Not 
'luncheon' by the way.  Marie, being Marie, would usually have something hot 
and always have something delicious, but we didn't have to wade through 14 
plates and 27 utensils.  Most of the time, anyway.  I was running late, as usual, 
but I had learned that was no excuse for looking, ahem, 'unkempt', so I took a 
minute to run a brush through my hair and freshen my lipstick, making me even 
later.  This time though, that turned out not to be a major problem.  

     When I slid to a stop at the door to the dining room - one did *not* enter 
running, of course - my own entrance was lost in a shriek of feminine laughter 
coming from the kitchen itself.  Half a second later, the door flew open before a 
fast-moving, dripping-wet Penny.  

     "Come back here, you . . . Ooh!  I shall get you for this!" shouted Marie from 
the kitchen.

     "You already did, I think," a giggling Penny said from behind the safety of the 
now-closed door.  "But it was worth . . . oops!"  

     "I knew it," Marie said, pulling the swinging door her way so fast that Penny 
almost fell back into the kitchen.  

     Miss Jane's sharp tones cut through the din.  "Ladies, just *what* is going on 
here?!"  

     I expected Penny to melt into the floor at those tones.  She turned dutifully to 
face our stern taskmistress, but the humor dancing in her eyes betrayed no 
repentance at all.  Unfortunately for Miss Jane, her own eyes were dancing with 
laughter and took any real threat away from that well-practiced voice.  Marie's 
decorum was marred by an apparent inability to stand still.  She was interspersing 
twitches and patting at her clothes with glares at Penny, though once again the 
dark looks were robbed of threat by the incipient giggle she was obviously trying 
to stifle.  

     "Penny," Miss Jane said, "I asked you a question."  

     "Well, um, you see, it was sort of, um, an accident," claimed the tall girl.  

     Miss Jane was not mollified by the clearly inadequate explanation.  "I believe 
we have discussed the benefits of clarity in communications, including the lack 
of same which results from the inclusion of grunts and meaningless verbal 
pauses.  Would you care to try again?"  

     "Yes, ma'am," Penny replied contritely.  At least, her words and tone were 
contrite.  Her eyes were still telling a different story.  "I was filling the glasses 
with ice, getting ready for lunch.  There was a little ice left over, and so I . . .  "

     "So the little, ah, the tall minx tossed the residual ice down the front of my 
dress!" Marie announced, interrupting.  

     "It was an accident!" Penny claimed again.  "I was aiming at the sink, and I 
just, um, missed."  

     For just an instant, I thought Miss Jane was going to blow her top.  Her face 
got very red, and she didn't say a thing.  I was looking for something heavy to 
hide behind, all the while trying to keep my own face absolutely expressionless.  
Not the easiest thing I'd ever had to do, for sure.  I couldn't decide whether I 
ought to be shocked or fall down laughing, but I knew either option would cause 
Miss Jane to remember I was in the room, something I was trying diligently to 
avoid.  When she spoke though, it was clear that controlling anger was not the 
problem she was facing.  

     Taking a deep breath and visibly calming herself, I could still hear a snicker in 
her voice as she said to Penny, "And I suppose it was equally, ah, accidental that 
you are dripping wet?"

     "No," Marie answered for the dark-haired student.  "*That* was deliberate.  I 
was cleaning vegetables when the icestorm hit, and I sprayed her with the water."  

     "I . . . see," declared Miss Jane.  I swear, I saw her shoulders quiver like she 
was holding something in, but her voice was as carefully precise as ever.  She 
pulled one of her patented non sequiturs, and asked, "What was to be our menu 
for lunch, today?"  

     Marie replied, "Just BLTs except for Jessica who prefers ham, and a tossed 
salad."

     "Very well.  As that fare will not be materially degraded by a short delay, I 
believe there will be time for Penny to change from her current . . . attire."  The 
sneer in her voice was still not working, mostly because of the laugh crinkles at 
the corners of her eyes.  "She seems to prefer to act as a child, today.  Perhaps her 
petticoats and pinafore, and mary janes would be appropriate, with pigtails and, I 
think, freckles."  

     Penny sighed, and nodded, but her eyes lit up with fresh laughter when Jane 
continued.  "It has been some time since she has, ahem, exhibited such an 
attitude.  Marie, as she may have forgotten the, ah, nuances of such an outfit, and 
since propriety seems in short supply this - I see it is afternoon already - perhaps 
it would be helpful if you were to demonstrate the proper presentation."

     "Me, in a pinafore?" Marie asked incredulously.  

     "And pigtails," Penny crowed.  

     "And freckles," Miss Jane confirmed.    

     "You wouldn't . . . " declared Marie.  Her response was a silently-arched 
eyebrow, daring Marie to continue that statement.  " . . . wouldn't care to, ah, 
finish lunch preparations while we are changing?"  

     "Of course," Miss Jane agreed magnanimously.  Of course there was a catch, 
but it was a lot less than I'd been fearing.  "Jessica and I will take care of that 
while you - both of you - change."  

     The two not-very-chastened brunettes nodded and took their leave.  Miss Jane 
gathered me up with her eyes and led me into the kitchen.  Other than some water 
on the floor, things still showed the compulsive neatness of Marie's normal habit 
and it did not take long to finish what they had started - the decorous parts 
anyway.  Miss Jane went about her tasks in virtual silence, speaking when 
appropriate to give orders, but not supporting idle conversation.  She was 
distracted by something more than the mini-altercation we had witnessed, and for 
some reason I felt that *I*, not Penny, was the reason for her distraction.  

     Distraction was a mild word for my thoughts when I saw our two table 
companions.  A six-foot tall, ten-year-old girl is not something one sees every 
day, but that is the appearance presented by a still giggling Penny.  And that was 
the milder of the two surprises.  Marie looked much the same, despite the 
seemingly-permanent laugh lines above her apple-red cheeks, but I flat lost if 
when she spoke.  

     "We'uh, weady to eat now, Mith Jane," she declared in a perfect little-girl 
simper.  Then she curtsied sweetly and poked her thumb into her mouth.  

     Penny, of course, copied the curtsy and tasted her own thumb, provoking a 
stifled snicker even from Miss Jane when she took it back out of her mouth and 
frowned at the offending digit.  "Too sweet," she declared profoundly.  

     "Jessica," Miss Jane ordered graciously, "please pass Miss Penny the salt."  

     "Yes, ma'am," I choked out past my own clenched laughter, and passed her 
the nearest shaker despite the fact there was already one close to Penny.  

     "Thank you, Jessica, but I fear that won't quite be enough," Penny observed.  
"In this outfit - what was it you once said? - my blood sugar has raised at least 
twenty points.  I'll just have to eat a more balanced meal."  

     "Just so," Miss Jane agreed.    

     Well, the meal was indeed balanced - precariously so between the strained 
dignity of Miss Jane on one end, and the lisping simper of Marie on the other.  I 
had never been so grateful to Miss Jane before, because she had insisted we eat 
tiny bites and take tiny sips and if I hadn't formed that habit, I'd have had tea 
squirting out my nose half a dozen times.  Penny was no better, taking long 
pauses in her own meal to gaze out the windows to the garden, jaw working as 
she clearly bit her tongue into silence.  

     Despite the unusual circumstances of the meal itself, the strangest part of 
lunch that day came at the conclusion of it.  When she had finally had enough, 
Miss Jane folded her napkin with formal precision, and stood.  "Marie, Penny, 
perhaps you would clean up today.  I need to talk with Jessica in my study."  
 
     I hadn't expected that.  It had been the silliest, most cheerful lunch in the - 
what was it? - three months I'd been in Miss Jane's tender care.  In all that time, 
I'd had a number of occasions to be called into the study.  None of them were 
pleasant memories.  It hardly seemed fair to hammer me for something after what 
Penny had done, with Marie fully involved.  For that matter, I didn't even know 
*what* I'd done to rate another session in her study.  Miss Jane wasn't giving 
away any clues, though.  She pointed at the absurdly uncomfortable chair in front 
of her desk and I sat in a casually careful way.  If that sounds like a contradiction, 
well, I had thought so, too, when she first drilled it into me.  Now I could sweep 
my skirt by reflex and keep it from wrinkling.  

     Miss Jane was wearing her serious face.  If I had harbored any hopes that this 
meeting wouldn't be too bad, they went right out the bright windows into her 
gardens.  Then she really got my attention by asking, "Jessica, why are you 
here?"  

     "Excuse me, Miss Jane?" 

     "Why are you here, Jessica?" she repeated patiently.  

     "I, um, well I have a problem with . . judgment, and I sometimes, um, see 
attacks where there isn't really any harmful intent."  Like, this is news?  We'd 
been through this.  I thought we were past rubbing my nose in it.  

     "Do you?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow in a way that said I was missing 
something.  

     "Excuse me?" I repeated, feeling like an idiot, but what was she after?

     Then she made it even worse by asking, "Why is Penny here?"  

     It started to irritate me.  I mean, I'd been the target of her Socratic technique 
enough times that I knew the rules.  And one of them was that we both knew 
what the hel . . . what we were supposed to be talking about.  This questions-
from-left-field business was stupid.  
 
     "I'm sorry, Miss Jane, but this is not making any sense to me.  What have I 
done wrong?"  

     "Nothing, which is the point," she said.  Like that helped anything.  And the 
smile she showed at my discomfort was pouring fuel on the fire.  Then she took 
pity on me and started making sense.  

     "Each of my students comes with behavior problems.  At some point, their 
behavior starts to improve.  Then it's time to see if they've overcome their basic 
issues." 

     Uh, oh.  Another test of some sort.  BOHICA.  

     "Penny's problem," Miss Jane continued, "was that she felt she had done 
something so terrible that she had to be miserable for the rest of her life as 
punishment.  She seems to have turned the corner on that.  Now she has a better 
perspective on life, and on the challenges we all face.  Frankly, she's probably 
ready to leave, or soon will be.  So, I ask you again, why are you here?"  

     "You mean, you're saying I may have fixed my own problems, too?" I asked, 
thinking about it.  

     Then she surprised me again, by answering my question.  Usually she'd let me 
stew on that sort of thing myself.  

     And her answer was itself a surprise.  "I don't know," she said.  Then she put 
it back on me anyway.  "How would you suggest we find out?"  

     "You mean, like, let me dress as Jesse again, and, like, go back to a regular 
school?"

     "Would you like that?"

     The words to assure her that I would were instantly in my mouth, but for some 
reason it took a long time to get them past my lips.  "Yes, of course."

     Did she just sigh?  Nah, not Miss Jane.  I was just too distracted by her 
questions - by the whole strange interview, for that matter.  

     "Do you think that you're ready for that?" she asked next.  Tougher question.  
Unfortunately, the answer was obvious.  

     "No," I had to admit.  "I think, um, I don't think I'd hit that Wilson kid again, 
in the same circumstances, but . . . "

     "But perhaps other circumstances could still be a problem?" she offered.  

     I nodded.  This time, she did let me stew though, just lifting that questioning 
arch of brow at me.  

     "I'm not, uh, ready to agree that all this," I began, sweeping my hand over my 
clothes, "is, like, a, um, good thing.  But I do have to agree that I have learned to 
control myself better.  Maybe some sort of, um, compromise?"  

     "What sort of compromise?" she asked, doing her typical thing to strip away 
fuzzy statements.  Then she offered an answer to her own question.  "Would you 
like to go to a regular school as Jessica?"  

     "No!"  At least there hadn't been any hesitation on that answer.  

     She smiled, then leaned back in her chair.  "Well, we did establish that you 
would abide by my program until you had demonstrated you met my standards.  
There is a cart and horse problem here, wouldn't you agree?"  

     Yeah, right, like a Catch-22.  I had to show I could control my, like, anti-
social tendencies before I'd be let out of my skirts, but I couldn't show that I 
could control them until after I was already *out* of my skirts.  I mean, the other 
option, going to school as Jessica, was just not an option at all.  There was *way* 
too much to being a real high school girl for me to carry it off, even if I could get 
out of phys ed and things.  

     Miss Jane read my mind - again - and smiled her superior little smile.  
Obviously, she was way ahead of me in this, leading me to a destination she had 
planned all along.  

    "No, you couldn't really go to school as Jessica.  At least, not yet.  But that is 
the essence of the issue.  You've only been in public in tightly controlled 
circumstances.  I think it's time for you to go out on your own."

     "As Jessica?" I gasped.

     "Of course," she said, smiling again.  

     "But, what if . . . ?"

     She waited for me to finish, but I didn't know what to say.  After a moment 
she filled the void.  "Yes, that is the question, isn't it?  What if?  What if so many 
things happen, random things?"

     "What do you, um, have in mind?" I whispered.  

     "Nothing too challenging," she promised.  Ha, like I believed *that*!  
"Nothing millions of young people don't do every day."  

     "That doesn't, um, narrow things down very much," I observed.

     "No, it doesn't," she agreed, laughing.   Then she leaned forward again and hit 
me with it, right between the eyes.  "You will go to a mall.  There, you will buy a 
few things, and then you'll be picked up."  

     By myself?  Shit, I'd be killed!  I'd been pounded on already for looking too 
much like a girl, and now?  I'd be hammered into a greasy spot before I got ten 
feet inside the place.  

     Part of me was clinging to the successes when I'd been out in public already.  
We'd been to dinner, and to various little shops.  But part of me was 
remembering that I'd been, like, protected by adults, or by Penny who was almost 
as good with her regal dignity and height.  Nobody but nobody was gonna mess 
with Miss Jane, but even Marie was, y'know, adult enough that kids wouldn't bug 
us, despite her display at lunchtime.  And a *lot* of me was remembering that 
Sandy had seen right through me, and there was this lady who had a dress shop 
who . . . well, I had to admit I thought Jane might have tipped her off, but it didn't 
matter.  People would know.  And then they'd kill me - howling mobs with 
pitchforks and torches.  

     "I couldn't, um, that wouldn't, um wouldn't that be, uh, pretty risky?"  

     "I'm satisfied that you deserve the chance," Miss Jane said calmly.  What, like 
this is some sort of reward or something?  Get real!  

     I looked down at the lace and ribbons confection I was wearing.  While not 
officially 'punishment' clothes like that little-girl pinafore Penny was currently 
modeling, I was wearing something that real girls only wore in silly romance 
novels - written about two generations ago.  

     Well, she can't kill me more than once, might as well give it a try.  "This outfit 
is hardly . . . contemporary for shopping.  Is it really a, um, 'chance' if I look like 
. . .?"

     "I think you look darling," Jane said blandly.  "Very proper for a well-
brought-up young lady."

     Then she smiled again and said, "But I am not so out of touch that I don't 
realize how few young ladies today meet traditional standards for propriety.  
Marie has a more, as you say, 'contemporary' outfit for you.  I'm sure you will 
find it suitable.  And, of course it's up to you to demonstrate appropriate 
behaviors"

     Suitable?  You mean, it's got like, jeans and a t-shirt, and Reebok's, and . . ? 
*Sure* it does.  I was still waiting for the miracles to start.  Each morning when I 
checked, I wasn't suddenly tall, and it was not progress that I woke up each 
morning in a pretty blonde girl's bed - when I was the girl!  So I figured the 
chances that I'd really have a chance at this . . . test were not worth sh . . spit, 
'appropriate' behaviors or not.  

     "Go to your room and get dressed.  By now, Marie has your clothes laid out," 
she ordered.  

     I earned a couple of demerits, though I didn't even notice at the time, when I 
just stood and walked out without even nodding politely.  The real 'what if' was 
draining away all my concentration.  

     If I really could manage in public, on my own, as Jessica, then what if . . . I 
just ran away?  Is this my long-awaited Door number 3?  No reform school, no 
Miss Jane's, just . . . run away?  Only I wouldn't have to run.  I could just walk.  
Casually, naturally, unremarkably.  In broad daylight.  

     Yeah, right.  Dressed as Jessica, with no money, and no ID, ah sh . . sugar.  I 
was gonna get hammered anyway.  Somebody would see right through me, and 
then I'd be history.  Send my effects to . . . whomever might want them.  

     Marie was still wearing her petticoats and pigtails when I got to my room, but 
she had indeed laid out another outfit.  

     "Ah, Cherie, I see she has told you of your . . . opportunity, n'est-ce pas?"  

     Her lisp had disappeared, not surprisingly.  I was trying to decide if a French 
accent coming from that little-girl outfit was better or worse.  Which was, of 
course, a dodge because what I was really trying to do was *not* think about 
what was going to happen.  Marie was casually efficient, stripping me out of my 
current frills and lace and working me into a new set of lingerie as though I were 
a store dummy.  Well, at least the dummy part was right.  

     The outfit itself wasn't too bad, *way* preppy of course, but that was to be 
expected.  My pink gave way to blue in the form of a pale blue silk blouse under 
a dark blue shell.  The skirt was trimly tailored in a lightweight wool, and 
actually on the long side of teen fashion, which meant it was still well above my 
knee.  The biggest concerns I had were the shoes, pumps with about twice as 
much heel as I wanted for a long mall-crawl, though less than I wore most 
evenings for dinner.  It would be a race to see whether the skirt or the shoes were 
more limiting on my stride - a harmony that was clearly no coincidence at all.  
No running though, that was for sure.  The outfit worked, of course.  All the 
outfits Miss Jane provided were in exquisitely good taste.  In this case, it was 
mostly because the clothes had the perfection look that spoke of way too much 
money.  Rich people can't possibly be cheap, so I was automatically stylish 
instead.  It didn't take a rocket scientist to see Miss Jane's message in this.  No 
excuses.  Unlike her typical prissy styles and the teasing that might attract, I was 
going to look like a million dollars on the hoof.  The rest was up to me.  

     Miss Jane drove us to a mall I'd never seen before, stopping at one of the 
entrances but not getting out of the car herself.  I took a deep breath, looking at 
all the people scurrying in and out, then reached for the door handle.  

     "Jessica, don't you think it will be a bit difficult to buy anything without 
money?"  

     "What?  Oh, um, yeah.  I guess."

     "A lady does not say, 'yeah', or 'um'," she chided me, but with less bite than 
usual.  She leaned back against her door, regarding me with that looking-beyond-
the-surface laser stare.  "Jessica, I'm going to trust you."  

     "Oh?" Like, what am I going to do, slash somebody's throat with the emery 
board I knew was in my purse?  That thought almost made me laugh, in a grim 
sort of way, at my fears on what my purse had in it the first time I carried one.  
Now I knew it had all those things, intimately feminine things that I would never, 
ever need, but that particular issue seemed ludicrously trivial now.  

     "In the time you've been with us, you've, ah, struggled at times with keeping 
your word," she decided, "but I have seen that struggle, and I know you try to do 
the honorable thing." 

     'The honorable thing?'  There was an archaic phrase, meaning, like, kill 
myself, right?  Hara-kiri, or maybe hemlock.  Believe me, I'd thought of it.  
Somehow, the example of Penny, who had tried to do that very thing, had kept 
me from really considering it.  And no, I did *not* believe it was a coincidence 
that I found out about Penny's past the first real day I was in Miss Jane's 
household.

     "In your purse you'll find a wallet with credit cards to the three main 
department stores in this mall," she declared.  "You know that using them for 
unauthorized purchases would be tantamount to stealing, and I think you are 
better than that."  

     '"Yes, ma'am," I said softly, not sure whether to be praised or insulted.  Come 
to think of it, that had happened a lot, since most of Miss Jane's praise had been 
for being good at things that were inherently insulting, like walking gracefully in 
heels.  

     "I want you to buy some nice perfume for yourself."

     I winced.  "Perfume?"  

     She smiled her superior little smile and nodded.  "Yes, and it must be 
appropriate for you as well, something in keeping with your dress and 
personality."  

    What if those don't go together?  That would be the easy, automatic claim.  
What really bothered me at her comment though, was that a part of me was afraid 
they *did* go together, the silk blouse, the tailored skirt, the stylish shoes, and . . 
. . me.  The Jesse that was hadn't become a . . .  hadn't developed a chip on his 
shoulder in one day.  It was something I'd learned, not something that was, like, 
inherent.  Was that really me any more?  Was the preppy teen I had seen in the 
mirror more 'me', than the scrappy fighter?  The preppy teen *girl*?   God help 
me, but did I want it to be?  Right now, faced with entering the mall as the angry 
orphan Jesse or the preppy, refined Jessica, which did I really want to be . . . . 
real?

     Miss Jane sat up straighter and said, "There is also a small amount of cash.  
After you make your purchases, you may buy yourself a soda or something light 
as a snack until I return.  Shall we say I will meet you right here in, oh, two 
hours?" 

     "Two hours?" I squeaked, gulping.  

     "Is that not enough time?" she asked solicitously.  Yeah, I know.  That was 
just her tone of voice.  Of course, I knew she could play that voice like a 
grandmaster plays chess - always more than what showed on the surface.  But 
she knew I knew that, so I didn't even bother to protest her apparent 
misunderstanding.  

     I sighed, and reached for the handle again.  As I turned to go she called to me 
again, "Jessica.  I know you can do this."  

     "Yes, ma'am," I replied, wishing I had her confidence.  Ha!  Like *that* was 
unusual.  

     A long-ago lesson from Penny came to mind, the simple logic as compelling 
as ever.  The surest way to make people wonder what you're hiding, is to look 
like you're hiding something.  So I walked to the entrance with a carefully casual 
saunter that neither hurried nor dawdled, neither wriggled aggressively nor 
slithered with false stealth.  In short, I walked like I had to walk in those heels 
and the tight skirt.  Behind me, I heard the powerful car drive off and I was well 
and truly on my own for the first time since I had stepped off the train into Miss 
Jane's clutches.  

     The crowd tightened up as we got close to the choke points of the doors, and I 
slowed my pace.  My previous inappropriate reaction to jostling was not tested 
immediately.  I was almost wishing it would be, because a part of me had to 
know . . . to know what it would be like.  I was ready, sort of.  I knew I had 
myself under control enough that I wouldn't attack somebody who happened to 
bump me, but I . . . I was a girl now, at least on the outside, and what if someone 
did more than jostle me?  What if they, I mean, what if it wasn't just a, um, an 
accident?  What if they were  . . . touching me . . . deliberately?  Did I have to let 
them *do* that to me?  Or should I, like, head that off before it happened?  I 
started panting despite my need to appear calm and (Ha!) normal, and the swoosh 
of the automatic door startled me enough that I stopped moving.

     "Are you all right, miss?" a voice asked, a man's voice.   I looked over 
reflexively and saw that it was a cop!  Sh. . . shoot, not even inside the place and 
I'm already busted!     

     "You seem to be a little upset," he continued.  "Can I help you with 
something?"

     "No, um, thank you," I managed to squeak out.  "I'm just, um, not from 
around here, and I'm, uh, a little, like, confused."  

     "About what?" he asked, not unkindly.  Well, Jane had tried to tell me that 
vague responses were unsatisfactory.  

     "I, ah, haven't been to this mall before," I said quietly, trying to keep the 
desperation out of my voice.  

     "Oh, well, that's not such a big deal," he said patronizingly.  "I'm sure you'll 
do fine once you get back into the swing of shopping.  All you girls seem to have 
that ability.  It must be in the genes or something."  

     I winced at his comment.  Let's hope not, or I'm toast.  I nodded though, and 
tried to escape.  He let me get away, sending one last comment after me.

     "If you run into any trouble, don't hesitate to ask for help.  I'm Deputy Sheriff 
Bill Beale, and I'll be wandering the mall myself today, though hopefully I won't 
be spending as much money as you probably will."

     "Yes, sir," I said, stepping through the still-open door.  

     Inside was semi-familiar territory.  Malls are much the same everywhere, 
which is sort of the point, I guess.  Not far from the entrance was a directory, 
with three large blocks indicating a Nordstrom's, a JC Penney's, and one I didn't 
recognize that must be local.  That reminded me of the credit cards and I looked 
around for a quiet corner.  Inside the little wallet I found the expected cards and a 
twenty-dollar bill.  Well, I wouldn't be able to run far on that largesse, unless 
Nordstom's was having as special on, like, new Mustang convertibles or 
something.  

     Sh . . sugar, I just realized they wouldn't let me use the credit cards without 
some form of ID!  I couldn't believe Miss Jane would have some sort of bulletin 
out to all the store clerks that some anonymous, um, blonde was authorized to use 
her cards.  Did she forget something that obvious?   Yeah, right, like *that* was 
gonna happen in this lifetime. Flipping the wallet over, I found another pocket 
and within it a neat little student ID for "Seasons Manor:  A Private School for 
Girls".  Complete with typical bar code and magnetic strip.  And my picture, of 
course.  That sneaky bi . . . old woman.  She, or more often Marie, had been 
taking pictures of my various attempts at makeup and hairstyles all along.  I 
should have expected those photos would turn up somewhere.  God knew where 
else they were.  Like, on the wanted posters she'd probably already had printed in 
the event I tried to run.  

     Well, that walled me in pretty good.  Um, pretty well.  Whatever.  Making the 
next major decision on the logical basis that Nordstrom's was closest, I headed 
into the store across the little atrium/food court entrance foyer.  I had this vague 
impression that Nordstom's was pricier than Penney's anyway, and God knows I 
didn't want to save Miss Jane any *money* that day.  

     I did get one break.  The cosmetics department was visible even before I got 
through the big doorway into Nordstrom's so I didn't have to wander around in 
there.  Da . . darn small break, but I was willing to take what I could get.  Then 
things got really . . . difficult when a truly pretty girl walked up to me.

     "Can I help you?" she asked.  

     Lord save me from green-eyed redheads. With long, smooth, sleek red hair.  
Long smooth sleek everything, as best I could tell in one glance before I forced 
myself to look at her eyes.  At her eyes.  Keep eye contact.  Don't look at her . . . 
ahem.   Don't think about the gentle swell, like a lazy ocean, when she breathes.  
Don't . . . 

    "Is something wrong?" she asked.  "Do you have a headache? Do you want to 
sit down?"  

    Headache?  Well, now that she mentioned it.  Not that my *head* was where 
the worst ache seemed to be focused.  

    "I, uh, no, I'm okay," I said thinly.  If I'm okay, you're terrific!  That's what I 
wanted to say. 

     "Um, your eyes look, ah, pained," she said.  She noticed *my* eyes, too!  
How about that?!  

     "No, um, thank you.  I'm fine," I insisted.  

    She looked worried, but then her features smoothed - very smooth, actually, 
with alabaster skin that showed a dusting of freckles if you looked closely.  
Really closely.  Don't look down.  Forcing myself to stare at her face - tough, 
tough job - I realized she was a little older, at least 20.  Not that I had a problem 
with older women.  Not any more.  

     She leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially into my ear.  "I understand.  
Sometimes I just, um, deny it, too, when it's my time."  

     Then she giggled and said, "Not that it helps, much.  But spending a little 
money seems to."  

     I was still trying to sort out her last comment.  And not look down.  The 
second part of that became hopeless when she pointed at her nametag.  The one 
riding those, ah, swells.  "Hi, I'm Cheryl," it said, and she said.  A raised eyebrow 
- not in Miss Jane's class, of course, but still enough to pull my gaze back from 
her . . . nametag - asked a question in return.  

     "I'm Jessica," I admitted, letting her draw me into her web - willingly.  

     She grinned a charming little, self-deprecating smile, and said, "Normally I 
offer to give girls a makeover, but damn, girl, you should be teaching me!"  

     "There's nothing wrong with the way you look," I said quickly.  

     "Why, thank you, but I have never seen eyes as, ah, subtle, yet striking as 
yours.  I'm impressed."  

     Listen, babe, I'd be only too happy to impress my version of subtle on you, if 
we can just find a quiet place.  I was panting again.  I knew it. And hated it.  
Then things got a whole lot worse.  I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror 
behind her counter.  My *Jessica* self.  I had forgotten!  Freakin', stinkin' shi . . . 
oh, hell, in the privacy of my own mind I was gonna say it.  Shit.  Shitshitshit.  
This was the most gorgeous girl I had ever seen - and she was up close and 
personal - and *I* looked like a freakin' teen fox myself!  Shit!!

     "Could I get you a glass of water or something," Cheryl offered putting a 
gentle arm around me with concern showing again on her perfect brow.  

     She touched me!  Ohmigod, I'm gonna faint!  A genuine, living, breathing, 
green-eyed goddess touched me!  "No, thank you.  I'm, um, I was just, ah, a little 
. . . distracted for a second."

     She sighed, "God, I hate it when it grabs like that.  Don't you?"

     Then I finally caught on.  'It.'  Helloo?!  Stupid?!  You know what she's 
talking about?  She's talking about PMS, or the cramps, or whatever it is that girls 
call it.  Bleeding, and . . . things for which my purse was stocked, as were all 
girls' purses.   Oh, God, at the thought of that I almost did get sick, swaying on 
my uncertain perch.  

     I grabbed the counter and steadied myself, then forced a no-doubt sickly grin 
in my face.  "Uh, yeah.  It, um, sucks.  But I'll be okay."  

     "Brave girl," Cheryl said.  "Would you like to just sit for a minute?"  

     "Um, no, it's okay," I said.  Oh, God, how many times had I said that already?  
She must think I'm a real idiot.  Aw, shit, the freakin' best that could come out of 
this is if she's absolutely convinced I'm a girl.  With PMS.  Not like there was 
ever any freakin' chance a goddess like her would have looked at me twice when 
I was Jesse anyhow, but . . . damn.  

     "Well, then, can I help you with something?"

     "I, ah, was looking for some perfume."  

     "Oh, great!  That should perk you up a little.  What would you like?"

     "I don't really know," I said.  

     "Is it for a special occasion?" asked Cheryl with a smile.  "A date, maybe?"

     Geez, what was it with all these girls?  Did the whole world revolve around 
boys and boyfriends?  

    The quick shake of my head was probably unnecessary, since I could see the 
frown my face displayed reflected in that accusatory mirror.  Cheryl 
misinterpreted it, which was *not* a relief.

     "Oh, I'm sorry," she said gently.  "Well, as cute as you are, you'll find 
somebody else pretty quickly, I'm sure."  

     Like *that* was gonna cheer me up.  Boy magnet was *not* in my preferred 
job description.  

     Thankfully, with a definite goal in sight, Cheryl quickly moved into sales 
mode.  "Let's see, to catch a boy - as hot as you are - how about . . .  Poison?"  

     What, for me to take?  Sounds like a *great* idea.  Bring it on, Socrates.  One 
hemlock special, and grateful for it.  

     Then Cheryl earned some real but unstated gratitude when she saved me from 
embarrassing myself even worse.  She brought out this perfume sprayer and 
squirted a bit on her wrist, then inhaled it like some potent drug.  When she held 
out the sprayer to me I had enough of a clue to offer her my wrist.  She sprayed a 
little on and I sniffed at it, trying to be as delicate as she was.  

     It was potent stuff.  Heavy, in a way that I frankly didn't find appealing.  I 
guess that showed, too, because Cheryl shrugged and put the sprayer down.  "I 
know.  It's neat, but it takes somebody pretty, um, bold to wear that stuff.  Poison 
goes with sultry brunettes and elegant evening gowns.  I don't suppose you feel 
like that right now."  

     "No, not really," I agreed.  

     Cheryl would not be put off, though.  A new light lit up her eyes and she said, 
"How about 'Tommy Girl'?"  

     Another squirt later, I had to admit her choice was pretty good.  For perfume 
that is.  It was a lot lighter, with a sense of, I don't know, cheerfulness.  It was 
more flowery, more what I guess I expected perfume to be like, and it held 
associations of sunlight and clean air.  I had a feeling Marie had been using 
something similar on me. 

     But 'Tommy Girl'?  Tommy *Girl*?  I just couldn't.  It was too . . . girly.  I 
had my pride, y'know.  Yeah, right.  

     "Oh, here's something," she suggested, walking down to another display in the 
Dior area and came back with a lighter-colored bottle.  I had run out of wrists, so 
she sprayed that on the back of my hand.  It was a sort of combination, not as 
overtly flowery as the Tommy Girl, nor as - was that what they called musky? - 
as the Poison.  

     "What is that?" 

     "It's called 'Dune'," she reported.  "I think it would work well for you.  It's 
more, ah, elegant than the Tommy Girl, and just a bit exotic.  Like you."  

     She thinks I'm 'elegant', and 'exotic'?  Sh . . . Shoot, if she only knew just how 
exotic I was . . . I'd be killed, that's what would happen if she knew.  She'd 
scream so loud that cop by the door would hear her.  This was *so* not fair.  
Yeah, and to whom would you like to direct your complaint, the Judge?  

     "Um, thank you," I said, ducking my head and nodding at the same time for 
her to package some up for me.  She smiled and held the squirter up again.  

     "If you're gonna get some, then I suppose you deserve a little more of the free 
sample."  

     Before I had a chance to agree or disagree, she had sprayed my neck on both 
sides.  The scent rose around me, haunting me with wrongness even as I realized 
the perfume was somehow . . . right for me as well.  

     Cheryl had no trouble processing Miss Jane's credit card, though she dutifully 
checked my ID as well.  "Seasons Manor.  I don't think I know where that is."  

     "It's a small private school outside of town," I sort of explained without really 
telling her anything.  Actually, I didn't even know the address, beyond what was 
on the ID and that was only the name of the place, not like a street number or 
anything.  

     Cheryl glanced at how I was dressed and smiled.  Well, duh!  Of course 
preppy girls went to small private schools.  She handed me my package, the 
perfume in a bag inside a larger Nordstrom's bag.  Mission completed.  Move to 
the exfiltration point.  I looked into those green eyes yet again, hoping for one 
last communion with a goddess.  

     And found that her eyes were already scanning for the next customer.  It 
wasn't even rude.  She caught my glance and smiled with apparently genuine 
friendship, but she had a job to do and I was no longer part of it.  Major.  
Heartfelt.  Suppressed-so-she-wouldn't-see.  Sigh.    

     In another couple of minutes I was back in the main atrium area.  Looking at 
my watch - well, the watch that Miss Jane had issued to me, it was not something 
I'd have chosen for myself - I saw that I still had over an hour to go.  So much for 
the rampant shopping gene.  Or maybe that proved it *was* genetic, since I didn't 
feel the need to wander through the whole place.  Whatever, I'd gotten what I 
came for, and now I was ready to escape.  

     The deputy sheriff guy waved from a position near the food court rest rooms - 
don't even *think* about that - so I knew I wouldn't be able to just, like, loiter by 
the door for an hour.  Once again logic prevailed and I decided I'd get something 
to drink, and maybe some fries or something.  Marie was a great cook, but you'd 
think a French Canadian would like french fries more.  I started my casually 
direct glide toward the Mickey D's - say what you will about the rest of their 
stuff, they *do* have good fries - and managed to get my order without any 
further panic.  At least on my part.  The doofus behind the counter wasn't 
watching where he was going and spilled the first order of fries all over the floor.  
At least I wasn't the only idiot in the mall that day.  Despite MacD's normal 
reputation for efficiency, they didn't seem to have their act together in this 
particular store.  It didn't usually take three guys to wait on me.  

     And then I was blushing brighter than the guy who dropped the fries when I 
realized the *Jesse* would still not have had three guys waiting on him.  There 
went my appetite.  

     I realized I'd made another tactical error when I found my seat.  I didn't have 
anything to read!  I was very comfortable with the idea of being alone, if I had 
something to read.  But just sitting there like a mind-numbed idiot was *not* my 
preferred way to spend time.  Geez!  Like sitting *anywhere* doing *anything* 
while I was wearing a skirt and heels wasn't already enough of a problem.  I was 
getting *way* too used to this sh . . stuff.   

     I pawed through my package to get out the stupid perfume box just to have 
something to look at, like reading the cereal box at breakfast or something.   
There was a brochure in there, ostentatiously labeled with the perfume name, 
"Dune", and I had just managed to get it propped up when my table was bumped.  

     "Hey, babe, you need me in your life."  

     Babe?  *Babe?!*  I'll 'babe' this brainless boob into next week!

     The seat across from me was captured by a teen-aged guy who had that 'I own 
the world - or soon will' look.  It wasn't clear *why* he thought that.  He was 
nothing special to look at, average sort of hair and eyes, maybe average size 
though it was hard to tell for sure as he lounged in the chair.  It wasn't because of 
ostentatious wealth, either - even in the orphanage I'd had better clothes than that.  
His self-declared superiority was based on pure attitude.  Part of that was in his 
unquestioned assumption of permission to sit with me.  He propped his elbows 
on the table and snatched one of my fries.  

     "I would definitely have remembered if a shit-hot fox like you had been in 
here before, so that means you're new and fair game."  

     "Out of season for you," I said shortly.  

     "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"  

     "What part of it was too difficult for you?  It was all monosyllables but one."  

     "Listen, bitch, don't fuck with me."

     "Now on *that* we can agree."  

     "Huh?"  

     I thought about a snappy comment, several actually, but in a moment of 
unaccustomed lucidity I remembered I was indeed wearing a skirt and heels.  If I 
made another smart comment, he was likely to express his displeasure in non-
verbal ways - language-challenged as he obviously was - and I was pretty sure 
that would not be what Miss Jane had in mind.   Part of my mind was rapidly 
evaluating options:  Should I just kick the heels off and run, or try to skewer him 
with the spikes, or maybe even grab one off my foot and use it in my hand?  But 
part of my mind was remembering that was the sort of thing that had gotten me 
into my present situation and was frantically trying to come up with less-
unpleasant options.  

     A new voice intruded into my tunnel-vision consciousness.  "Excuse me, but I 
noticed you're a fan of 'Dune, too.'  Which book do you like best?"  

     "Book?" I repeated stupidly, turning to see yet another teen-age boy.  This one 
was standing upright, and once again I couldn't tell his size for sure, because 
from my sitting perspective all I knew was that he seemed quite tall, with glossy 
dark hair.  A good guy for Penny, I realized in a moment of totally ludicrous non-
relevance.  

     "Surely you don't prefer the movies to the books," he said confidently, 
pointing at the brochure with 'Dune' splashed all over it.  The word, I mean, 
though Lord knows there was still enough of the scent around, too.    

     "I ,um, this is perfume," I said, shaking my head in a futile attempt to get my 
mind around this strange interlude.  

     "Oh, well, my bad," he said easily.  "Do you suppose there is any overlap?  
Like, does this smell like the spice?  Melange?  You already have really great 
blue eyes."  

     Now my head was *really* whirling.  "I don't . . ."

     My reply was interrupted by the first guy.  "Hey, Sand, get lost.  We were 
already talking."

     "Were you?" the tall guy, Sand, asked blandly.  "What were you talking 
about?"  

     "None a' your damn business," the seated guy said.

     Sand laughed easily and said, "You're probably right there, Will, but think 
how boring life would be if we all just minded our own business.  Why, you'd 
still be over there with the GQ crowd, and I wouldn't have noticed the lady likes 
Dune."  

     "You do like Dune, don't you?  The stories, not just the perfume," he said, 
turning to me.
 
     "I, uh, yeah, um . . . "  Geez, this was stupid!   I was tongue-tied at this guy's 
easy flattery like I, well, cared or something.  It was just that I was all ready to 
fight, and now I'm being . . . I'm receiving a very different kind of attention.  I'd 
rather have had to fight.  

     But by God I'd survived intimidation by Jane Thompson and no tall, dark, and 
handsome guy was gonna put me at a disadvantage!  For da . . darn sure not with 
just a smile!  
 
     "I liked the books well enough," I said, calling on the poise Miss Jane had 
demanded of us, "though I only read the first three or four.  The movies were . . . 
disappointing."

     "Exactly!" he agreed quickly.  "I thought they had great potential, but in the 
end they just didn't capture the . . . complexity of the original." 

     "Complexity?" I sniffed.  "The books were as needlessly ornate as Baroque 
architecture.  What they had was . . . "

     Once again the other guy, 'Will' I guess, interrupted.  "Look, Sand, I told you 
to fuck off.  You're not welcome here."       

     "Gee, that's too bad.  Well, I guess I'll be moving on, then," Sand replied.  
Then he looked at me, offered his hand, and asked, "Would you like to come 
with me?"

     "Where?" I asked in surprise.  
  
     "Why, right over here looks like a nice spot," he said, pointing at the next 
table not three feet away."  

     Will stood up and said, "I told you to fuck off, Sand.  Who asked you to push 
your way in here?"  

     "Ah, a valid point," he said, still smiling easily.  Then once again he turned to 
me and said, "I never did get your name."

     I found myself blurting, "Jessica," and was even more shocked when I 
realized I had answered without hesitation.  

     "And I'm Johnny Sand," he said bowing graciously.  "And no, that's not why I 
like 'Dune.'"  

     I laughed.  It was silly, and I was so tense I was either going to laugh or 
scream.

     "So, it appears that she doesn't mind my company, Will," Johnny said, turning 
back to the increasingly red-faced guy.  "And I think I'll take that as an 
invitation."  

     "Okay?"  This was directed at me.  

     "Oh, sure," I said, still smiling.  

     Will decided to change the point of attack, turning to look at me.  "Look, 
babe, you don't want to waste your time with old 'Pound Sand' here.  Come with 
me and we'll find some real action.'  

     "But I haven't finished my soda," I observed with wide-eyed innocence.  

     "Drink up, then," he snapped.

     "Actually, I hadn't finished the points I wanted to make on the books, and that 
might take a while.  I wouldn't want to keep you from whatever you considered, 
ah, 'action.'"

     Johnny moved subtly yet unmistakably to a position just a bit closer to me 
than Will was.  "Hey, Will, I have an idea.  Why don't you go read - what was it 
you said, Jessica? - the first three or four Dune books and then *you* can discuss 
them with us?"  

     Will scowled and said, ''I ain't leavin' until *she* says so."  

     I smiled at Johnny, then nodded at Will.  "Well, um, Will, I really think you'd 
enjoy the discussion more if you were familiar with the books, so why don't you 
go and do as, um, Johnny suggests?"  

     Will's fists clenched and he was clearly about to say something more, when 
we were interrupted by the sound of keys dropping on the tile floor just a few feet 
away.  

     "Oops, sorry," said the Deputy Beale, squatting to pick them up.  "Clumsy."   
He straightened and asked, "So, what are you guys discussing so intently?  
Sounds interesting."  

     "Dune," Johnny said with an easy grin.  

     "I like it," Beale said.  "Lighter than Poison, but distinct."  

     "I'm lost," Johnny admitted.  

     "He's talking about the perfume," I said, snickering.  

     Johnny laughed at himself, unaffectedly, and took a slow, deep breath.  "Yes," 
he observed, "very nice."  

     Somehow Deputy Beale had managed to move closer to me than Will was 
also, and turned his shoulder in a little.  I was still sitting down, and the shorter 
guy was mostly looking at their backs, almost like a little kid trying to peer over 
a fence.  

     "Ah, shit, first dumb old books, and now *perfume*.  You guys are a bunch of 
pussies."  He sneered and walked off, back to a crowd of similarly scruffy 
compatriots.  

     I had to snicker again.  Little did asshole know but there wasn't a single, well, 
he was just about as wrong as he could be.  

     "Goodness," Johnny said blandly.  "It seems I'm not as unwelcome as I was.  
We might not have to move after all, at least, not if you don't mind if I stay."  

     "No, that would be okay," I said automatically.  

     "Are you going to be okay, miss?" the deputy asked.  

     "Yes, sir.  I'll be fine," I assured him, while wondering who was going to 
assure me of that same thing.  

     Johnny sat down next to me    Glancing once over at Will and his friends, who 
were now moving noisily down the mall, he settled just a bit in his chair and said, 
"Whew, I'm glad that's over."  

     "Excuse me?"

     "For a little while, I thought he was going to make trouble, but, 'all's well that 
ends well.'  And I, for one, am glad that ended peacefully."  

     "Yeah, right," I sniffed.  "I expect that happens a lot, when somebody's as big 
as you are."  

     "Think that's what does it?  Not really.  I was defending damsels in distress 
when I wasn't as tall as this table."  

     "Indeed?" I said, but something in his tone actually did make me believe him.  

     "Yep.  What makes it work is blind cheerfulness.  If you are really obviously 
*not* looking for a fight, then it makes the other guy just as clearly the bad guy.  
Even a guy with a chip on his shoulder usually needs an excuse to fight.  That 
way he can feel he was the one who was defending himself.  That excuse also 
helps if he gets beat, because then it wasn't his fault since someone else started it.  
I just don't give them an excuse to move to the violent stage.  And so I seldom 
need to fight.  Goodness, I don't remember the last time I did.  Certainly it was 
before I had my last growth spurt."

     "So, you just bend over and let someone pick on you?"  

     He ostentatiously looked under the table, then at the empty tables close to us, 
then lights danced in his dark eyes and he said, "Seems to me that I'm here and 
Will is gone.  Is that really what you think happened?"   

     "Well, no, I guess not, but this is, like, a public place, and the deputy was here 
and all."

     "Yep," Johnny agreed.  "All part of the plan.  I don't go looking for trouble, 
and if it tries to find me, it's usually going to have to look in a public place with 
other responsible people around.  Works like a charm."  

     "You make it sound so easy," I said pensively.  

     "Easy?  Look, Jessica, there truly are predators in the world who are out to 
hurt other people.  Sometimes, you do have to defend yourself.  But in public 
places like this . . . well, Will Barker was just strutting to impress a pretty girl, 
and I can hardly blame him for that.  There wasn't any need for a fight," he said, 
shrugging.  Then Johnny grinned again and said, "I won't say I'm glad we had to 
spend so much time getting him to leave, though.  After all, I haven't found out 
yet what parts of 'Dune' you think are broke."  

     "That's Baroque, dummy," I said, and so help me God I giggled.  

     "As in needlessly ornate, I know," he said, lights dancing in his eyes again.  
"But I've always wanted to use that pun, and you are the first person I ever met 
who actually said, 'Baroque' and meant it."  

     "You are a . . .a rakish person," I managed to say, after a moment to stifle 
what I felt like saying.  Puns, yet!  I hated puns.  Unless I came up with them 
first, of course.

     "'A rakish person,'" he repeated.  "A, a Fremen.  Well, they always say, 'the 
best things in life are free.'  At least, I presume they say that on Arrakis."  

     Darn, he got it.  Before I could say anything more, the deputy wandered back 
our way again and interrupted.  "I'm sorry, but my watch seems to be on the fritz.  
Do either of you know what time it is?"

     Ohmigod, the time!  Miss Jane would be waiting!  I started to gather up my 
things.  "Now I'm the one who's sorry," I said.  "But my ride is waiting.  I have to 
go."

     Johnny stood up, still smiling.  "Well, Jessica, it was nice to meet you.  Is 
there a chance I could see you again?"

     "I don't think so," I said, and I could hear in my own voice just a hint of 
sadness.  

     When I got out to the curb, Miss Jane was waiting.  I wasn't very late, but I 
didn't suppose that would make much difference to her.  Well, whatever 
punishment she had in mind wouldn't make much difference to me, either.  I was 
going to be a million miles away for a while, trying to figure out what that trip to 
the mall really meant.   I was more than a little afraid of what I might find out.  

*************************************

     I quit when I got it down to 4,508 words.  My punishment for being late 
leaving the mall was an essay, assessed at 1,000 words per minute.  I had been 
tasked to write about clocks and timekeeping, the history of clocks, types of 
clocks, and why knowing the time was so important to civilization.  Subtle, she 
ain't.  Since I was 4.5 minutes late - by her watch of course - I had to write 4,500 
words.  

     I had spent almost half the time making it *shorter*, not longer, but I was not 
going to give her the satisfaction of doing more than I had to.  I know that's a 
contradiction, but it was the principle of the thing.  And it's hard to squeeze 
things down while maintaining perfect grammar and adequate development of 
each point.  Those aspects were non-negotiable though, as I had learned the hard 
way when earlier assignments had been rejected.  Several times over, when I had 
first arrived.  No excuses, no arguments, just do it over until it was acceptable.  I 
think her plan was to make learning skills like applying eyeliner seem easy by 
comparison, sort of like hitting your thumb with a hammer so you wouldn't 
notice a toothache.   Worked about that well, too.  

     "It seems I should have tasked you to buy a few more things, Jessica," Miss 
Jane's voice intruded on my musing.  

     "Excuse me, Miss Jane?"  I looked up to see her standing in the doorway to 
the computer room.

     She smiled - an honestly amused smile, not her patented rapier-with-a-twist - 
and said, "Perhaps it was my fault.  I could have chosen a different entrance to 
the mall."  

     "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't understand."

     "Ah, Jessica," she said, still smiling, "you have indeed come a long way."  

     Where the hel . . . where in the world had that come from?  I didn't know what 
she was complaining about, and I for sure didn't know why she'd complimented 
me.  

     She patted me on the shoulder and sat in a nearby chair.  She sat correctly, of 
course, perfect posture, legs gracefully crossed, skirt smooth, but there was still a 
surprisingly casual feel, as though being in the computer room instead of in her 
office were relaxing for her, too.  Then she granted me the favor of a simple 
explanation, for once.  "You did very well in the mall yesterday, Jessica.  I could 
have hoped you would . . . enjoy the outing more, shopping just for the pleasure 
of seeing pretty things.  We'll have to work on that.  But you did accomplish the 
specific task I assigned.  That truly is a good scent for you, and I'll expect you to 
use it regularly from now on."  

     "Yes, ma'am," I sighed.  No surprise there.  

     "It would seem you even managed to avoid what could have been an 
unpleasant confrontation, and I was pleasantly surprised that you were able to 
find such a . . . gentleman to assist you."  

     "You had someone watching me," I accused.  

     She nodded blandly, not the least apologetic.  "Of course.  I've just received 
the report."  

     "You didn't trust me."  

     "Actually, I did," she claimed.  "I knew you could present yourself properly as 
Jessica, and I truly expected you could control your . . . impulsiveness.  But I was 
concerned for your safety - and with some justification it appears."  

     "I can take care of myself."  

     "Can you?" she asked, gently.  "Jessica, your courage and . . . determination 
have never been in doubt.   Your judgment, however, was questionable, don't you 
agree?"

     Well, for starters, I'd ended up in a situation that had me wearing a skirt, 
makeup, and perfume.  Hard to claim perfect judgment in that condition.  

     But I knew what she meant, and I knew she was right.  So I just nodded.  

     She reached out gently and touched my elbow.  "More than that, the challenge 
you faced was one few young people could handle with such . . . dignity.  I am 
proud of you, and have confidence in you, but the risk was real and you deserved 
protection."

     "So Johnny, Johnny Sand, was a plant?" I asked, feeling an unwanted pang of 
disappointment.

     "No.  Young Mr. Sand was genuinely noble in coming to your aid.  And 
genuinely interested in you.  Though that was, in fact, one of the risks that 
needed to be considered."

     I was thinking back over the day, and realized the cop had to be Miss Jane's 
spy . . . though I realized in another second that there was no reason to believe 
there was only one.  Oh, God, I hope the green-eyed goddess, Cheryl, wasn't 
another one.  Then the rest of what Miss Jane had said sunk in.  

     "Johnny was a risk?"  

     Miss Jane did her always-irritating segue into a seemingly unrelated topic.  
"Do you remember your reaction when I asked if you wanted to attend a regular 
high school as Jessica?"

     I nodded.  

     "There is a lot more to interacting as a pretty young woman than I have taught 
you.  A very large part of that is interacting with young men.  I did not receive 
the impression that was . . . interesting to you."

     "No way!"  

     "Just so," she said, smiling and patting my hand.  "Yet when a young woman 
as pretty as you goes out into society, she will inevitably be faced with that 
interaction.  A girl with a more . . . conventional background would have learned, 
ah, techniques for dealing with suitors."

     "I am *not* interested in that!"  

     "My dear, the techniques can be used to discourage as well as to encourage.  
Yet one can be polite, friendly, and demure as well."  She leaned back in her 
chair, spreading her arms to the rests in a body language message of openness.  
"Tell me, Jessica, did you enjoy meeting Mr. Sand?"  

     "I suppose so," I said, remembering.  "I mean, he was polite, and we had an 
interesting discussion."

     "Would you like to see him again?"

     "I guess so," I answered.  

     "Would you like to go on a date with him?"

     "No!  That's . . . disgusting."

     "Leaving aside the morality judgment, I will accept that your interest does not 
lie in that area.  Despite the skills and discipline I require of you, it has never 
been my intention to push any such choice on you.  However, let me ask the 
inverse question.  Do you suppose Mr. Sand would like to go on a date with 
you?"  

     Well, there it was, out in the open.  Miss Jane was not one to let a problem 
fester.  This is what I had been carefully *not* thinking about while I immersed 
myself in unnecessary tweaking of my essay.  I knew the answer, and it was not 
comforting.

     She didn't need my reply, at least, not more than showed in my expression.  
"Jessica, child, even if you had, as I said, 'a more conventional background', you 
would be too young to date.  But I do think we are going to have to work on your 
diplomatic skills, since it is clear you *will* be approached."  

     She smiled again and stood up, glancing at my essay on the screen.  "You will 
probably find those skills - diplomacy and tact - to be at least as useful in your 
later life as grammar and spelling."  

     "Yes, ma'am," I said softly.  Ohmigod, what was I in for now?

     "Oh, that reminds me," she said, stopping on her way out the door.  "You 
earned one brownie point for not grunting when you didn't understand what I was 
talking about at the start of this conversation.  You were, in fact, quite polite in 
accepting that the fault might be yours.  As a result, you may tell Marie I said 
dessert tonight will be your choice." 

     I should have realized there'd be a hook in that.  Later when I approached 
Marie with my choice for dessert - I had always liked apple pie, especially a la 
mode, so the choice was simple - I was, ah, privileged with the opportunity to 
bake the stupid thing myself.  Did a good job, too, if I do say so, but next time I 
was going to choose Jell-O.  

      Despite my misgivings about the next set of lessons Miss Jane might choose 
to inflict on me, I knew I had passed a major milestone in my solo flight through 
the mall.  I could pass as a girl, even a pretty one.  It wasn't a skill I was 
particularly proud of, but it did mean that I could go out without worrying about 
the mobs with torches.  That was, of course, a sword of the two-edged variety.  
Since going out in public was no longer a serious risk, I could no doubt expect to 
be doing a lot of it.  Nonetheless, the only immediate change in my situation was 
that there were fewer practice sessions with cosmetics and clothes.  From that 
point, I was expected to be able to dress myself presentably, from lingerie to 
makeup and accessories, for whatever setting was indicated.  As a result, I 
actually had a little more free time to myself.   

     Idleness would never be one of Miss Jane's virtues - some would call that a 
vice, but not me.  So after only a few days of my somewhat easier pace, I started 
my 'diplomacy and tact' lessons.  Not that I recognized it at the time.  

     My first lesson started one pleasant afternoon while I was sitting in the 
garden, writing in my journal.  I had snuck one of Miss Jane's art print books out 
of the library and had it propped open on a bench.  In it was Renoir's portrait of 
the young Irene, and I just had to capture my feelings about the sense of 
quivering transition - both in the girl's innocently sad expression and in the style 
itself.  The light focus was as effective as Rembrandt, though more subtle, and it 
showed both the crisp precision of the Renaissance in her lonely, no-longer-little-
girl eyes and the first stirrings of Impressionist simplification in the casual flood 
of her hair.

     "Hi, cutie, come here often?" Penny asked.  I looked up to see her standing 
over me.  Miss Jane must have decided to modify her training program as well, 
because for the first time since we'd met, she was wearing a dark Versace 
pantsuit instead of a dress or a skirt.  It made her long legs look like they went on 
forever, but it really wasn't all that flattering to her shape.  

     I dropped my pen, slapping my journal closed.  'Oh, Penny, you startled me."

     "Not hard to do, when you're that intense on something," she said, laughing.  
Then she slid onto the seat near me, leaning close to look at the book.  "What's so 
interesting?"

     "Oh, nothing really," I claimed.  "Just looking at some paintings."  

     "Cute girl," Penny said, looking at the portrait herself.  Her shoulder pressed 
against mine, and I could feel her breath on my neck.   I closed the book and slid 
a little further down the bench.  

     "Hey, I wasn't finished looking at it," complained Penny.

     "Oh, sorry.  Here, you can have it," I said, offering her the book.  "Put it back 
in the library when you're done, okay?"      

     "Oh, that's okay," she replied.  Then she smiled and put her hand over mine 
were I held the book, saying, "Your eyes are prettier anyway.  I can never tell if 
they're blue or gray, and the effect is fascinating."  

     "What?  Oh, um, thanks."  

     Penny waited for a moment, then shook her head gently, though her smile 
stayed in place.  "Jessica, girl, you *do* have a few things to learn."

     Standing, she offered me her hand.  I took it more from reflex than any felt 
need, and stood beside her.  "I don't understand.  What have I done wrong?"

     "Wrong?  Why, pretty lady, you are what makes the world *right*.  I just 
wanted to . . . show my appreciation, if you know what I mean."  

     "I, uh, well, no, I don't know.  Penny, you do remember that I'm not . . . really 
. . . you know."  

     "Yes, sis, *I* do, but that's the point.  It's time you forgot, at least a little."

     "I, um . . .  forgot what?"

     Penny laughed and slid her arm around my waist.  "Why, forgot to be 
offended when someone shows they . . . appreciate you."

     "Let me go!"  

     "See what I mean?" Penny asked with a smile.  "You need to be able to wrap a 
guy around your little finger so *he* won't think he can get away with that sort of 
thing."  

     "Try it again, and you won't think you got away with a da . . . thing!"

     She kept her grin, but elevated a finely-arched brow into a comment even 
Miss Jane would consider elegantly eloquent.  She did, however, back off a little.  
"I'm sure you could.  Let's see, after Aunt Jane's heavenly haven, where do you 
suppose you'd end up - assuming you, oh, broke my arm or something?"  

     "That's different.  What I did before was . . . well, it was different."

     "Indeed it was, in some ways," she agreed.  Then she bowed in a very courtly 
manner and said, "Miss Jessica, may I carry your books for you?"  

     "I've got them," I snapped.  

     Penny just grinned.  She swept her arms in another courtly gesture, inviting 
me to precede her into the house.  Miss Jane was there.  She was not grinning.  

     Well, I'm not so dumb I hadn't figured out what was going on, but this was not 
fair.  I didn't need to let guys paw me, so I didn't need to learn to react to that.  
Not that Miss Jane accepted that excuse.  

     "Thank you, Penny," she said.  Then she turned to me.  "Let's try that again . . 
."

     She had a plan, of course.  I was going to learn how to discourage a suitor, 
*and* how to encourage one - not to the point of actually doing anything, but so 
that I would know what might be considered encouragement even when that's not 
what I intended.  

     Penny played the role of that suitor.  That was strange.  She was tall and 
slender enough even with what curves she had that when she wore a pantsuit, 
with her hair pulled back, she . . . bothered me. The illusion of being a guy was 
just good enough to sneak up on me.  We would be practicing some mundane 
thing, like ballroom dancing, and Penny would put her hand on my waist and 
take the other one in her hand, then all of the sudden I'd feel like I was holding 
hands with a boy.  I was probably just imagining it, but I had the feeling she'd 
hold my hand just a bit too long, or give it a squeeze, and it would be . . . wrong.   
I mean, it would be, like, right, if she were a guy and I were really a girl.  It was 
polite, but . . . intimate, somehow.  Something that we shared just between us, 
that no one else knew about.

     Then I found out that it wasn't that private at all.  The first time it happened, I 
snatched my hand back like it had been burned.  Penny grinned.  Miss Jane 
sighed, and I knew I'd failed another test.  It was so complicated.  Penny had it all 
down, both the natural reflexes and the deliberate variations.  Lordy, if she really 
*were* a guy, she could have had any *girl* she wanted wrapped around her 
little finger.  She could send a frea . . . a shiver down my spine with a smile - but 
it wasn't a girl's demure come-on smile, and it for damn sure shouldn't make me 
feel all soft and squishy, but it did.  In my head, I knew this was really a girl and 
knew she knew I was really a guy so it was okay to be . . . responsive, but she 
seemed more and more like a guy every day - at least when we were acting out 
our little dramas.  In my gut, I felt like I was responding to a guy, and that was 
bad enough.  But when I'd blush, or smile, or, well, get all freakin' fluttery inside, 
I felt entirely too much like a girl.  

     Penny would play up to that.  Every time she saw she was pushing some of 
my buttons, she'd follow up, getting into my space, flattering me, making me feel 
like I was the center of the universe.  I had to make her back off without getting 
rude, without even 'officially' recognizing what she was doing so that there was 
no insult.  Yet if I had done something to insult her, even unintentionally, I had to 
recognize *that*, too, and then it was up to me to rebuild the closeness.  That was 
done with honest-to-God, accept-no-substitutes flirting, which in this case meant 
making *him*, I mean Penny, feel like she was the center of *my* universe.  The 
standard for success was a sense of close, personal friendship without sexual 
intimacy.  Like I said, complicated. 

     That wasn't all we did, even aside from our formal academic lessons.  Once it 
was established that no one would question my appearance - and that I knew it - 
we moved on to other social lessons as well.  We 'dined' in all styles of 
restaurants.  Miss Jane took seriously her comment that I needed to learn to 
appreciate shopping and arranged plenty of, ahem, 'opportunities.'  And every 
time a charity event needed volunteers, I, ahem, 'volunteered.'  So it was with an 
understandable degree of concern that I saw the Deputy Sheriff from the mall in 
Miss Jane's office when I was called into it one day.  

     "Jessica," she said, rising along with the sheriff, "I'm sure you remember 
Deputy Beale."  

     Well, I hadn't remembered his name, but I remembered his face and his 
uniform.  "Yes, sir.  Nice to see you again."    

     "Nice to see you, too, Jessica," he said, then jumped right into the business 
that was apparently at hand.  "Has Miss Jane told you about our fair?"  

     "No, I don't believe so," I answered, trying to keep from glaring at Miss Jane.  
I was sure it was not an accidental oversight.  

     "We're doing a street fair to benefit the pediatric oncology hospital, and I 
wondered if we might enlist your aid.  Penny has already agreed to help."  

     "Oncology?" I repeated, trying the unfamiliar word on in my mind.  

     "Cancer," Miss Jane supplied gently, real pain in her voice.  I had become 
sensitive to the tones in that voice, and realized I'd heard that one a lot lately.  Or 
perhaps I'd just learned to recognize it lately.  

     "Children's cancer?" I said, putting the parts together.  "That's . . . awful."  

     "It's sad," Deputy Beale said, "but it wouldn't be right not to do what we can."

     "Oh, no!  I didn't mean that at all.  It's not their fault if they get sick, and they 
should get the best possible care."  

     "Then you'll help?" he asked.

     "Of course," I agreed quickly.  

     He smiled and nodded.  Then a pensive look came onto his features and he 
looked at me quite . . . directly, from head to toe.  He glanced at Miss Jane, and at 
her shrug, he pointed to a chair near where he had been sitting.  "Would you sit 
down, Jessica?  I'd like to ask you a special favor."  

     Uh, oh.  If I needed to sit down, then I *knew* I was going to hate what came 
next.

     "There are a couple of jobs that are . . . that need special qualifications," he 
began uneasily.  "You would be extremely . . . helpful in either of them, but it 
might be too much to ask."  

     "Deputy Beale, I grew up in an orphanage.  I would do anything to help sick 
children," I declared firmly.  Then I realized I'd better pull that back a little or I'd 
get some serious lectures.  "Anything Miss Jane would agree to, of course."  

     She smiled at me, a genuine smile of pride!  I almost hiccupped in shock.  But 
the deputy started up again.  "The, um, special qualifications are, well, maybe I 
should just explain the jobs.   The first one would be to, um, it would be in a . . . 
kissing booth."  

     A kissing booth?!  Like hell!  I felt a flush rise to my cheeks, and it took all 
the self-control drilled into me in half a year with Miss Jane to keep from 
jumping up and . . . responding dramatically.  Instead, after a moment to take a 
deep breath, I asked, "I don't believe I am, ah, qualified for that."  

     "We usually ask the prettiest volunteers to work there, because, well, because 
it earns the most money.  You would be a, um, very effective draw," he claimed.  

     I took another deep breath, and looked very carefully out the window.  After a 
minute, I looked back at Miss Jane to see a very carefully neutral expression on 
her face.  Turning to the deputy, I asked, "Would you mind telling me what the 
other choice is?"  

     His first response was to blush, and that almost *did* get me to run from the 
room.  If the second choice was worse than a kissing booth, then God help me!  
But in this case, his embarrassment was for a different reason.  

     "The second option is to be my assistant," he said.  

     "A deputy sheriff?" I asked incredulously.  Why in the world would he offer 
that sort of job to me?  

     "No," he said, laughing self-consciously.  "I'm a bit of an amateur magician, 
you see.  And my assistant helps me in my act."  

     A magician?  The slender, polite cop?  I didn't see him as a showman.  I also 
didn't see why he wanted me.  "What sort of special qualifications do I have for 
that?" 

     "Well, for some of the tricks, I really need the audience to be looking, ah, 
elsewhere.  So my assistant has to be, um, distracting."

     "What, like jumping up and down or something?"  

     "No," he said, shaking his head.  "It's got to be subtle.  The audience can't 
know that they're being distracted."  

     "I'm sorry," I said, frustration creeping into my voice.  "I don't understand."

     Miss Jane sat up straighter in her chair and resolved my confusion - at least 
on what the job required.  "They need a girl pretty enough to draw attention away 
from Deputy Beale, and the show costume is intended to emphasize that."  

     "Costume?" I squeaked, finally realizing what he, what *they* had in mind.

     "Nothing lewd, of course," the deputy promised.  "Just a standard sort of 
magician's assistant costume."  

     "Why am I not particularly . . . comforted by that statement?" I asked sharply.  

     "Well, it's fairly flashy," he admitted.  "Lots of sequins and things."  

     "'Things?'" I repeated.

     Miss Jane stepped in again.  "High heels, fishnet tights, and a red leotard - 
with sequins, of course."  

    "A few other things as well, but that's the basic image," the deputy said, 
nodding.  

     I looked directly at Miss Jane.  She met my eyes just as directly, recognizing 
the challenge.  This was above and beyond 'normal' things even for a teen age 
girl, above and beyond what she had established at the beginning of my time in 
her home.  If she chose to call in my promise, then I would abide by it, but I 
wanted her to acknowledge it was unfair to demand this of me.  If this were 
another test, then I wanted her to admit that I had passed.  

     She did, but took it a step further by making it not a test of my honor at all.  
"Jessica, I won't require that you do this, though I will permit it if you agree.  
Your word to obey me is not in question here.  But we make a lot of money for 
the hospital with this fair, and Deputy Beale is quite skilled.  His act is a good 
draw, but his prior assistant, a former student of mine in fact, has recently gotten 
married and is no longer available.  I would appreciate it if you would help him, 
as a favor to both of us."  

     "Jessica," Deputy Beale took up the task of convincing me, "you are very 
pretty, and I know you'd do a good job.  In addition, Miss Jane can provide you 
more flexibility in scheduling classes than the girls in the regular high school will 
have, so we can practice more around my own irregular schedule.  You really 
would be the best choice, at least for me."  

     "What is Penny doing?" I asked, suddenly remembering a question I'd had 
earlier.  

     Miss Jane sighed, and her eyes glanced at the door as though to make sure it 
was closed.  "Penny is a dear soul, but she's not sufficiently . . . distracting for 
this role.  She will be working as an administrative assistant, primarily 
cataloguing art sales." 

     "Art sales?" I asked in surprise.  I'd *love* to get involved with art, especially 
if the artists were any good.

     Even as I heard the explanation though, I knew it wouldn't work for me, not 
now.  If I claimed a surpassing interest in art, it would sound like I was using that 
as an excuse to get out of  . . . flaunting myself.  Then I decided it wouldn't be 
much preferable as a job as Miss Jane explained that most of the art was donated 
by local artists for a sale to benefit the children's hospital.  Donated art, by local 
artists, was not likely to be . . . interesting.  Actually taking money for it would 
be, well, it would seem worse than merely unethical.  

     "Does this really help the children?" I asked plaintively, wanting to believe 
the path I was clearly on would at least be beneficial.  

     "We took in over $2 million last year," Miss Jane declared.  

     Well, there went the last valid objection.  There was no likelihood I would 
*ever* earn $2 million on my own.  On that scale, there wasn't much I could 
substitute for doing what they asked, not if I were going to help the children like 
I said I would.  

     I sighed, and nodded.  

     "Thank you, Jessica," Deputy Beale said, rising and beaming happily.  "I'm 
sure you'll be terrific.  I'll let Miss Jane fill you in on the details, arrange a 
costume and so on.  I'm afraid I have to get to work."

     I rose when he did, of course, so we shook hands.  He did the same with Miss 
Jane, and then jauntily promised to find his own way out.  Surprisingly, Miss 
Jane allowed this breach in her normally perfect propriety and motioned me to 
say in the room with her.

    When the deputy had left, she moved over to touch my elbow lightly, 
establishing a bridge between us.  "Jessica," she said, "I really appreciate this.  I 
know it will not be easy for you, but you are truly the best choice.  And the 
hospital is . . . special." 

     "Oh, well," I said, trying a brave smile, "I'm sure with Marie's help, we can 
come up with a costume that is sufficiently, ah, distracting."

     "I'm sure we can," she said lightly, but her eyes showed true thanks, and real 
pride.  At least, that's what I think they showed.  All of the sudden, mine weren't 
focusing very well.  

***********************************
     
     The Great Bildini's voice carried a lot more than necessary for what seemed to 
be a private warning.  "Don't move, Jessica.  Don't even blink, and you *should* 
be okay."

     Easy for you to say, buster.  It's not *your* gizzard that's about to grow a 
three-foot sword.  

     The list of things in the category 'could never possibly apply to me, not ever in 
a million years - but did' was *way* too long to count.  Being grateful that I was 
wearing a too-tight, too-stiff corset was certainly on it though, and near the top.  
However, that outrageous situation did indeed apply to me, at least right then.  

     I was contained in a box that showed only my head and my flashy, red-taloned 
hands.  Inside the box, mercifully hidden from sight for at least a little while, I 
was wearing my show costume - what there was of it.  Actually that's more than a 
little ironic, because most of my skin was covered.  Not concealed, really, but 
covered.  Part of the costume, about the only part that was even partially 
concealing, was the expected bright-red leotard confection with huge white frills 
around the top and not much around the bottom.  In between was an integral 
corset into which Marie had squeezed me in preparation for my 'performance' as 
the Great Bildini's assistant.  That corset guaranteed that I would not sag, or even 
wiggle, into any of the blades that were being rammed through the box around 
me.  Hopefully *around* me and not *through* me.  

     "Let's see if we can get another one through here," Bildini - actually Deputy 
Bill Beale, of course - said.  He took a wickedly curved scimitar with a huge 
blade and started pushing it straight into my navel.  

     On cue, I giggled, "Ooh, that tickles!" 
  
     "Really?" he asked in apparent surprise.  He wiggled the sword ostentatiously 
back and forth, each swing provoking another blushing titter from me.  

    "Really, sir.  I'm not that kind of girl!" I protested theatrically.  The more adult 
members in our audience picked up on the implication, and now it was their time 
to snicker.  Of course, for Miss Jane and I there was another level of hidden 
meaning, and I had to fight to keep my own expression properly demure.    

     Bildini pulled the sword back out of the box, then sighted along the blade 
before pushing it once again into one of the pre-cut slots.  This time is went 
between my legs - barely - before protruding from the rear of the box.  The curve 
in the blade allowed it to move under me, yet the eye tended to connect the tip 
and the handle, making it look like it went right through me.   That provoked a 
very satisfying gasp from the audience as Bildini whirled the box around on it's 
hidden rollers, revealing all sides of my predicament. 

     "Let's have a hand for our brave Miss Jessica," Bildini suggested, and the 
audience responded quite enthusiastically.  Bildini looked at the box, then at me, 
then lifted his shoulders in a theatrically large sigh.  "I use up more assistants that 
way."

     He negligently gave the box a shove toward the side of the stage, prompting 
another gasp from the audience, this time accompanied by a shout from near the 
front.  

     "Aren't you going to let her go?" a young girl called.  The ball cap she wore 
couldn't conceal the fact she had no hair.  

     "Why should I do that?" Bildini asked.  He walked over to where my box had 
stopped rolling, not surprisingly still well within the range of the stage.  Looking 
at me, he asked, "Does it hurt?"

     "Only when I laugh," I claimed, stifling a groan at the corny line.  Of course, 
that was part of the shtick, and it received the expected groan/giggle response.  

     Bildini looked out over the audience and made a request.  "Perhaps some of 
you would like to help Jessica out of her predicament.  Any volunteers?"  

     This was actually the hardest part of our show for me.  I had to smile while 
children in desperate need walked by my box, all the while making it seem 
unremarkable that a beautiful little girl had no hair, or a young boy weighed half 
what he should.  Some were in wheelchairs, some had timers dripping poison 
into thin, burned-out veins.  That was what a lot of their chemotherapy entailed:  
Poison that attacked the runaway cancer cells just a bit faster than it attacked the 
rest of their emaciated little bodies.  

     It was a good thing Deputy Beale had things pretty well scripted.  It would 
have been impossible to come up with witty, light-hearted quips when you're 
looking into the eyes of an eight-year-old girl - who looked eighty.        

     "Could you do me a favor?" I asked - loudly enough for the crowd to hear - 
after she had pulled her sword from the box.

     "Sure," she replied, too faintly to carry to the audience, but her old, old eyes 
widened in pleased surprise.   Not many people needed the sort of help she could 
provide.  It was all too often the other way around.  

     "Could you scratch my nose?" I asked, wrinkling it up into any weird 
contortion I could manage.  

     She giggled and reached out a tentative hand to touch the tip of my nose.  

     "A little to the left . . . no, *my* left . . . higher . .  ahhh!!!  Thank you *so* 
much."  

     She giggled again, rubbing so vigorously I knew I'd have to redo my makeup 
as soon as I left the stage.  It was a small enough price to pay, though.  The 
audience laughed, unable to hear her titter but catching on quickly to my staged 
need.  I wiggled my hand at her from the side of the box and she reached out to 
shake it.  

     "Thanks," I repeated.  She nodded and rewarded me with a smile that even all 
of Miss Jane's money couldn't have bought.  I watched her place her sword on the 
table, then I turned back to the next of my rescuers. 

     That's when I almost lost it.  I think if I hadn't been confined in that box, I'd 
have run from the stage.  What I saw when I looked at the next one who was 
offering to help me was . . . me.  Not the person I had become, Jessica, but the 
person I had been, Jesse.  The next person, hardly a child any more, was a short, 
frail young man with stubbly hair, gray-blue eyes . . . . and one leg.  He moved 
with horrifying ease on his crutches.  No kid should be that skilled on crutches.  
No kid that agile should be . . . should have one leg missing.   And for damn sure, 
no kid with those sorts of problems should be so cheerful.  

     "Which one would you like me to take out?" he asked politely.  

     "Oh, um, take your, uh, pick," I stammered.

     He grinned, slipped both crutches under his left arm and balanced himself, 
then grasped the big scimitar that apparently skewered me.  That was a standard 
part of the act, and I tried to get into the normal sort of routine.  It was held pretty 
firmly by the slots so whoever tried to draw would always take it slowly.  That 
gave me time enough for cartoonish winces and loudly-whispered 'Carefuls' to 
make it seem like I was really feeling it retract.  

     When it was finally all the way out of the box, I sighed dramatically and said, 
"Thank you, my Hero, but if you do that again, we'll have to get married."

     "Deal," he said quickly, starting to put the sword back in the slot.  Bildini 
intercepted him and everyone laughed.  So much for stupid ad libs.  

     In another few minutes, the last blades were removed and Bildini opened the 
box with a flourish.  I stepped out in all my 'distracting' glory, tight red leotard, 
black fishnet stockings, and white (very) high heels.  Twirling gracefully - it had 
taken enough practice to get that move down that I for sure was going to use it - I 
demonstrated that I was unharmed.  

     That was really the finale to our act, and after a few pirouettes and arm waves 
as we drew applause from the crowd for each other, the curtain came down.  
There would be another show in a couple of hours, not really enough time to 
change clothes, so I wrapped a little white skirt around my hips, fixed my 
makeup (managing not to poke myself in the eye with my showy new nails, for 
once) and went out to enjoy the street fair.  There were plenty of vendors for 
treats of one sort or another, and as an obvious performer I had a sort of line of 
credit or something.  In any event, I never had any difficulty getting something to 
eat.  

     This time, there was a small crowd at the exit from the stage area.  The girl 
with the ball cap was there, along with a few friends or family members.  "Miss 
Jessica," she asked as I stepped through the door.  "Could I have your 
autograph?"  

     "My autograph?" I repeated stupidly.  "Goodness, I'm nobody special.  The 
Great Bildini will be out in just a second. He's the star of the show."

     "Please, Miss Jessica," she repeated.  

     Well.  How can you argue with that?  I took the offered pen and scrawled a 
quick 'Jessica Shepherd' on the event program.  The guy standing beside her - 
father, probably - smiled his thanks, then frowned.  "Is something wrong?  You 
look flushed."  

     "No, I'm fine," I claimed, feeling my blush deepen.  "It's just that nobody ever 
asked for my autograph before." 

     "Our Jessica has quite a collection," he claimed proudly.  

     "Your name is Jessica, too?" I asked in surprise.  

     The girl nodded shyly.  "When I grow up, I want to be just like you."

     Oh, God, that was *way* more than I could handle.  And then it got infinitely 
worse when the sad look in her parents' eyes made it instantly clear what the odds 
were that this Jessica would make it even to my age.  

     I'm not going to say that I grew up in that moment, because I'm not sure I can 
claim to have grown up even now, but at that moment I became so disgusted with 
the Jesse that had been that I almost threw up.  I guess the corset helped me 
again, because it stifled the gasp that my body wanted to make and stifled the sob 
that the gasp would have supported.  Instead, I just stood there for a long, long 
moment, then looked back at the other Jessica.

    "You will be much, much more beautiful than I will ever be," I promised her.  
She reached up to touch her bald scalp below her hat, and winced.  

     I was too short to do the 'kneel down to put myself at her level' thing, so I just 
leaned over to whisper in her ear.  "Don't tell anyone, but I'm wearing a wig 
myself.  See, there's a solution to anything."

     "A wig?" she gasped out.  

     I giggled and whispered again, this time loudly enough for her whole family 
to hear.  "I asked you not to tell anyone."  

     Her hand flew to her mouth and she looked stricken, but I laughed again and 
said, "I don't mind, really.  I just wanted longer hair, and didn't want to take the 
time for it to grow out."  

     "Oh," she said, then the sadness returned to her eyes.  

     I don't know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing that I hadn't noticed 
until then the poorness of their clothes.  I mean, at one level it meant I wasn't 
snob enough to care, but on another level it meant I wasn't paying attention as 
well as I should, either.  In any event, it was suddenly obvious to me that the 
younger Jessica was not likely to be getting a nice-looking wig any time soon.  
At least, not if her parents had to pay for it.  That probably fell in the 'cosmetic' 
category as far as whatever insurance they had was concerned.  If they even had 
insurance.  

      That was too damn much.  My mood flipped from sad to angry in a heartbeat, 
and I decided I was by God going to do at least one good thing in my whole 
useless life.  "Are you folks going to be around for a while?" I asked. 

     "Yes," the man nodded.  "Jessica has treatments all week."

     "Do you mind telling me your name?"

     He shrugged and said, "Jackson.  I'm Jake Jackson, and this is my wife June, 
and you know Jessica."

     "Doing the 'LBJ' thing, are we?" I asked with a smile.  "Or, I guess just the 'J' 
thing."

     He smiled and nodded.  "When I started going with June, well, the rest 
seemed to follow."

     "Indeed it does, Mr. Jackson," I said.  "I'll see you around, but if you don't 
mind, I have an errand to run."  

     I shook hands politely with the father, gave little Jessica a quick hug and went 
on my mission.  

    I couldn't find Miss Jane right away, but I thought I had a pretty good idea 
where Penny would be, and sure enough I found her behind the auction stage, 
officiously cataloguing things in her neat little pinstripe business suit.  I was 
surprised she hadn't added some window-glass spectacles to complete the image.  

     "What do you think we should expect for this?" she asked as I came walking 
up.  'This' was a blurry watercolor of . . . . something.  

     "Well, at least the frame is worth a couple of dollars," I observed.  

     "Darn it, Jessica, I need some help here.  You're the one who's into all this art 
stuff."

     "Art, yes.  This . . . stuff doesn't deserve that label."

     "It's the same as that abstract stuff you like," she claimed.  

     "That's like saying Miss Jane is the same as your typical public school 
teacher," I countered.  

     "Ooh, that's cold," she said, giggling.  

     "Speaking of Miss Jane, do you know where she is?"  

     "I think she might be over near the main entrance to the clinic," Penny said.  
"She's been conducting tours for the high-rollers, showing them what's needed 
for the expansion."  

     "Thanks," I replied, moving off.  "Sorry I can't stay and help, but if I see one 
more painted goose, I'm gonna wring the thing's neck."  

     Penny just sighed and waved me away.  Her advice was good, though, and in 
a few minutes I found Miss Jane in an office just inside the building.  She was 
talking with a guy wearing fancy Italian loafers and Armani slacks.  Or talking 
*to* him, since the force of the conversation was all one way - not like that was 
any surprise, of course, with Miss Jane.  

     "There is no *way* that the county deserves 20% of what *we* raise for their 
own hospital system," she declared.  "They have a valid need, but let them raise 
their own money.  They have the power to tax.  We don't."

     "That's what it is, Jane," the man declared, "a tax.  It's just on charity fund-
raising instead of on sales or on property."

     "There's got to be a way around it.  It's not fair to suck off that much money.  
Get someone to work on it."

     "I'll see what I can do," the man claimed.  "I'm sure I can convince the 
partners to put this on our pro bono list."

     "I'm not talking about some half-hearted, spare time effort," snapped Miss 
Jane.  "I'll pay your fees.  I want someone who will rip the guts out of anyone 
who tries to take this money away from the children."    
     
     "Well, that does put things in a different light," he replied.  "Would it be, ah, 
acceptable to have at least a little pro bono effort thrown in?  Mine, for 
instance?"  

     Miss Jane anger deflated as quickly as it had arisen.  "I'm sorry, Richard.  I 
know you'll do your best, but . . . "

     "But when children are involved, 'Don't mess with the Mama', right?" 

     "Something like that," she agreed, smiling.  

     "I'll take care of it," he promised.  The man turned away to leave, and saw me 
standing there.  

     "I'm sorry," I said.  "I didn't mean to eavesdrop."  

     "That's all right," the man said, smiling.  "I find it much too difficult to be 
angry with pretty young women.  I gave it up when my daughters were about 
your age."  

     I blushed and ducked my head.  He smiled and nodded once again to Miss 
Jane, then moved off.  

     "Miss Jane," I said, trying to justify my hovering.  "I need to ask a favor of 
you."  

     She could, as I had learned the hard way, convey more information with an 
eyebrow than most people could manage with paragraphs of words.  Her message 
was open-minded acceptance without any promises.  Good enough.

     "I've been with you for quite a while, now," I began.  That must have been a 
bad beginning, because she started to frown.  So I hurried on, "And my hair, my 
real hair, has grown out quite a bit."

     "Yes?" she said, suspicious, but also confused.  

     "Well, I was wondering if I could, like, do without my wig?"

     "Perhaps," she agreed tentatively.  "Certainly by now you have enough hair to 
support other methods, extensions or a weave."  

     "Okay," I said.  "And, well, would you need the wig afterwards?"  

     "You want the *wig*?" she asked in surprise.  "Whatever for?"

     "There's this girl, and she, um, well her hair is . . . "

     "I'm aware of the problem," she said gently.  "It's not uncommon here."

     "Yes, ma'am.  Well, I was wondering.  If I don't need it any more, and since 
it's sort of, like, old now.  Would it be possible to, like donate it or something?  
To someone specific?"

     "Who did you have in mind?"  

     I grinned at the irony, and said, "Would you believe her name is Jessica, too?"

     "Jessica Jackson?" she asked.  

     "Yes!  You know her?"

     "I know her situation," Miss Jane said, then she nodded and smiled.  "I'll make 
you a deal.  We'll get that old wig off you.  You're ready for something better, 
and I know it can be hot at times.  And itch."

     "I'll say," I blurted out.  

     "Just so," she said, still smiling despite my interruption.  "And we will arrange 
for something suitable for young Miss Jackson as well.  She was originally 
brunette, and though we'll let her be a blonde if she really wants to, I think 
something more suitable for her coloring might be found."

     If she had expected this promise to make me happy, well, she was wrong.  
Though I'd had a *lot* of practice making my face show exactly what I wanted it 
to show, it wasn't enough and I had to turn away quickly.  

     "What's wrong, dear," Miss Jane asked softly.  

     "Nothing," I claimed, hearing the tightness in my voice and hating it.  God, 
how selfish could I get?  

     "Jessica," Miss Jane said.  "Please, tell me what's bothering you."  

     I felt the tears start, but I couldn't stop them.  When Miss Jane's arms slid 
around my shoulders, I lost it entirely, turning to bury my face in her neck.

     "I'm sorry, Miss Jane," I blubbered out.  "I just wanted . . . "

     "Wanted what, dear?" 

     I managed to get myself under control enough that I could whisper my 
selfishness into the anonymity of her shoulder.  "I'm sorry.  It's just that . . . I 
wanted to do something for her . . .  myself.  I mean, I don't have anything of my 
own, except my Mom's Bible and the scout knife my Dad gave me.  I just 
thought, maybe that, well, my clothes, I mean, your clothes, the clothes you let 
me wear won't fit her, but my wig . . . I'm sorry.  It isn't really mine anyway.  
None of it is mine.  I'm so sorry."

     "No, my dear, sweet Jessica," Miss Jane whispered back.  "There is nothing 
sorry about you.  Nothing at all.  You are pure, precious gold."

     Her arms urged me gently back until she could look directly at me.  "We will 
arrange for *your* wig to be styled in whatever manner Jessica Jackson desires.  
I am sorry I have been so blind to the need in your life, in everyone's life, for at 
least a little that they can call their own.  I think we're going to find you a job, 
something suitable to your many talents.  But in the meantime, we'll work 
something out where you can help Miss Jackson, and some of the other children, 
with the gift of your time.  Would that be acceptable to you?"

     "Yes, of course," I said, wiping my hands ineffectually at my destroyed 
makeup.  

     "Through here, dear," she said, standing and pointing at a washroom off the 
office she was using.  "You clean up your face and I'll get Marie in here to help 
you repair the damages."

     "Miss Jane?" I said, looking at her.  

     "Yes?  What else?"  

     "You might want to, um, check the mirror in there yourself before you go."

     "What?  Oh, dear!" she said, her tone so plaintive that I had to smile.  

     "Thank you, Jessica," she said, smiling. "That's one I owe you."

     "Good," I said, now worked up to an actual grin.  "I'll remind you of that."

     "I'm sure you will, you scamp," she said.  

*****************************

     "Ssshhhugar!" I said into the sudden silence.  Just what I needed on this frea . 
. . this wonderful, marvelous, oh-so-pleasant day.  In honor of the successful 
fund-raising fair - the best year ever now that the proceeds and pledges were 
finally all counted - Miss Jane was taking us to the *opera* that night.  Strike 
one.  And so we had to spend the day in the beauty salon.  Oh, joy.  More time 
with Sandy.  Be still my trembling heart.  Big, bleepin' strike two.  And now my 
bleepin' hair dryer had quit.  If I didn't get my hair styled correctly, we'd be late 
for our styling appointment.  Yeah, I know.  But one simply did *not* leave Miss 
Jane's house - shoot, one didn't even leave one's bedroom - looking 'unkempt', 
y'know?  Without a hair dryer, I'd never get my hair to look right, not unless I 
took the time to put it up on rollers and then let it air dry that way, which I did 
*not* have time to do.

     I was sure Penny had a hair dryer.  She probably didn't need it, though.  She 
always looked so bleepin' perfect that I figured she must sleep on rollers every 
night and just brush it out in the mornings.  So I poked my head out into the hall, 
checking to make sure Miss Jane wasn't around to see me in my straggly 
condition, and ducked across to Penny's room.  

    "Hey, Penny," I said as I knocked and slipped quickly inside before anyone 
caught me in the hallway.  "Can I borrow . . . . ?  Oh my God!!"  

     "Jessica?"  The voice paused then started over again in a lower register.  
"Jessica, you should wait to be invited before entering."  

     "You . . . you're . . . "

     "Yes, I am," *he* said.  The figure before me had a towel slung just above his 
hips, revealing a chest no more curvaceous than my own.  It was not an 
indication of arrested development, though.  At least, not if the shaving cream 
spread over the face and neck of the person I knew as Penny were any indication. 

     I slowly backed out of the room, unable to tear my eyes away from the 
suddenly-strange person I had encountered.  Penny, uh, whoever that really was, 
started to move toward me.  "Jessica, let me explain."

     That motion tripped me over the line into wild action. I turned and ran back to 
my room, yelling, "Stay away from me, you . . . you freak!"  

     Once back in my own room I slammed the door and then stood with my back 
to it.  A moment later I heard a knock.

     "Jessica, please, let me explain."

     "Go away!"  

     "Jessica, please let me in.  I think you owe me that much."  

     "I don't owe you shit!  You're . . .sick.  You're disgusting!"

     The voice that had been talking through my door wasn't Penny's.  It was 
similar, but it was deeper, and flatter, and didn't belong to Penny.  The next 
words though, were clearly Penny's voice, even to the calm, serene tones she 
always used.  

     "Jessica," she said quietly, just loudly enough to hear through the wooden 
barrier, "what makes you think I had any more choice than you did?"  

     What?  How dare she, *he* compare herself- damnit, himself - to me!  I never 
lied to anyone about . . . oh, shit.  I had lied to hundreds of people about who I 
was.  But I had never done it to a friend.  Other than Johnny Sand, and, well, 
Deputy Beale, and they didn't count.  Those were special circumstances.  I didn't 
choose to lie to any of my friends.

     "Have you ever been under a suicide watch, Jessica?" Penny's voice asked, 
still just barely loud enough to hear through the door.

     "What?"

     "A suicide watch.    There's someone with you, 24/7.  The room is stripped of 
everything sharp and all chemicals that might be poisonous. Even the sheets are 
sewn to the bed so you can't take them off and make a rope or something."

     "So what?"

     "I've been there, Jess.  And my way back was through Penny.  Won't you at 
least let me talk with you about it?"  

     Shit.  I was *not* the one who was wrong here, and I would not let *him* 
make it seem like I was.  I moved away from the door and stood watching it from 
across the room. "These doors don't lock," I said.

     "I won't come in unless you invite me," Penny's voice said.  

     "Come on in then, but . . . don't even try to come close to me."

     "Fair enough," Penny said, but it was someone else who stepped through the 
door.  The . . . person had stripped the shaving cream off his face, but it was still 
a guy's face with no makeup.  The body was still a guy's body, too, despite the 
frilly, pale green robe.

     "Who are you really?" I challenged as soon as he was inside.

     "Good question," Penny replied wryly.  "I'm not sure I even know any more.  
But I was born as a real snot - no, that's not fair, it wasn't my parents' fault - 
anyway, I used to be a real snot named Benjamin."

     "Not much improvement," I said, pouring acid in the words.  

     "Perhaps not," Penny's voice said.  It didn't fit that face and that body any 
more than the stupid robe did. 

     "Don't . . . talk like that.  You're not Penny."

     He shrugged, then resumed in his guy voice, "No, I suppose I'm not, though 
I'm a lot closer to Penny than I am to that old Benny."  

     "Not from where I sit," I snapped.       

     "Indeed?  I would have figured you would understand . . . Jessica."

     "Don't you *dare*!"
  
    "Dare what?  Jessica.  What gives you the right to judge me?  What makes you 
think you're the only one who ever needed Aunt Jane's special kind of help?"

     "I never lied to you," I said, repeating the argument I already knew was 
flawed.

     "No, I don't suppose you did," he admitted.  "Even when you were at your 
most . . . unpleasant, you were honest.  At least with me."

     God, that was a wicked twist of the knife.  At least with her, um, him?  Not 
with anyone else, though.  I got that message.  Unfortunately, it was a valid shot.  

     "Why?" I asked softly, carefully looking out the window so that I wouldn't see 
who I was talking to.

     "I told you," he said.  "I needed to go through a particular kind of hell to . . . . 
pay for what I'd done."  

     "No, why did you lie to *me*?  You were done with your . . . whatever.  Why 
did you go along with what was done to me?"  

     "I could say that I owe Aunt Jane, and that would be God's own truth," he 
said.  "But that's not enough.  I believe in Aunt Jane and what she does.  I think 
she helps people.  I know she helped me and I think she helped you, though 
you're the only one who can say for sure.  Still, I was *trying* to help you." 

     "Some help!  You humiliated me.  You laughed at me!"

     "When?"

     I looked back at him and started to shout out all the times this . . . person had 
taken cruel enjoyment from my situation.  I started, but I ran out of words with 
my mouth hanging open before I made a single sound.  

     He, this 'Benny' person, smiled sadly and said, "One of the reasons Jane uses a 
'big sister' in her program is because that is the one person who will never laugh 
at the other student.  We may tease you and make you look inadequate, but we . . 
.I would never laugh at you.  I've been on that side of things, and it still hurts."

     Benny stood a little straighter, and looked me right in the eye.  "But so does 
what I did before.  It will always hurt.  God help me if I ever quit hurting about 
what I did.  Both hurts are real, but I'm a better person now than I was then.  It's a 
price I had to pay.  It's a price I think you had to pay as well.  Would you rather 
still be the angry, destructive Jesse who first came here?"

     "There are other ways to. . . I could have been helped in other ways.  This . . . 
lie wasn't necessary."  

     "Something was, though.  Right?"

     Oh, hell, I wasn't that much of an idiot.  I knew I had been screwed up before.  
I just shrugged, but Benny knew it was really a sign of agreement.  

     "Look, uh, Jesse, I don't know about any other approaches.  I won't deny that 
there might be some that work.  But I *do* know Aunt Jane's approach works.  
You're not the first one who's been helped.  Hell, you're barely in the first 
hundred."

     "She's done this to a *hundred* guys?"

     "More or less," he confirmed, nodding.    "And that knowledge gives you the 
power to hurt her deeply."

     "I wouldn't do that!" I snapped reflexively.  

     "I didn't think you would.  Not now.  But it's part of the reason you couldn't be 
told immediately that you're not unique.  Don't you see that?"

     "I don't know.  I . . . guess so."

     "Good morning, Penny, Jessica," we heard through the open door.  Miss Jane 
stood there.  

     "Since we're in the mode of revealing secrets," Miss Jane began, "I suppose it 
is appropriate to acknowledge that your rooms are monitored." 

     "Monitored?" I repeated.  

     "Penny is not the first suicidal student we've had in our home," Miss Jane 
declared.  "But I admit that I had arranged to be able to hear what's going on 
inside the students' rooms even before the first young man tried to kill himself."  

     That was a lot to absorb, too.  I was trying to remember everything I'd done in 
my room when I thought I was alone.  Not much that I'd particularly wanted to 
hide, that I could remember at least.  Comes from not having much privacy in my 
life, so I didn't ever really . . . relax.  While I was thinking back, it was Penny 
who drew the obvious conclusion.

     "So you know what happened this morning."  

     Miss Jane nodded, then looked at me.  "Jessica, are you willing to continue 
with the . . . program that we have laid out of for you?"

     I shrugged.  "How far does it go?" 

     She smiled, then nodded again.  "A good question.  In fact, Marie and I were 
just discussing when we should reveal this to you.  You are essentially finished."  

     "Yeah, right," I snapped, but I knew that was harsh even as I said it.  The look 
on Miss Jane's face at the thought I didn't trust her was . . . bad.  I wanted to tell 
her I didn't mean it, but . . . well, I *did* mean it.  What could I trust anymore?

     Then the *rest* of what she'd said finally sunk in.  "Finished?" I repeated.

     "What do *you* think?" Miss Jane asked.  "If we arranged to cut those new 
extensions from your hair, and use the solvent on your nails, and, oh, the rest of 
the things that would return you to a masculine appearance, would you go back 
to beating up on people who jostle you in crowds?"

     "No!"

     "Of course not," she agreed.  "Just as Penny would no longer try to kill 
herself, nor wallow in drugs, you are no longer unable to control your violent 
reactions.   So, what else do you need?"

     "What do I *need*?  I don't understand."

     "It was never my intention to address only the superficial problem," Miss Jane 
declared.  "My goal is for you to have a happy, rewarding life.  I can still help 
you with that."

     I looked sharply at her.  "Help Jessica, or help Jesse?"

     "To me, child, they are the same," she said gently.  "The clothes and makeup 
are just window dressing on the real person within.  I can help *you*, and I 
would like to."

     "Why?"

     "Why did you help young Jessica at the hospital fund-raiser?"  

     "I . . . she needed help more than I do."

     Miss Jane nodded.  "Just so.  And I am more proud of you than I can say 
because that is true.  Once upon a time, it might not have been."  

     I shrugged again.  Apples and oranges, in a lot of ways, but I couldn't deny 
that I had needed help.  

     "Jessica, my students have become fine, honorable, caring young men.  Some 
have risen to become pillars in their various communities.  Yet when they came 
to me, all were hurting.   I take pride in having made a difference in at least a 
small corner of the world.  Is that so hard to understand?"  

     "No, of course not," I said quickly.  "I really appreciate what you've done for 
me.  It's just . . . I'm not sure where I go from here.  This is so much . . . bigger 
than I had thought."  

     She nodded and said, "Then let me suggest this.  Let's continue with what we 
had in mind for the next, ah, three days.  You will continue to be bound by your 
agreement to do as I direct.  That will include treating Penny as the person she 
appears to be, just as we will treat you as Jessica.  At the end of that time, we'll 
decide together what will be best for you.  Is that agreeable?"

     "Yes, ma'am," I said automatically.   Usually, when Miss Jane asked that sort 
of question, it was pro forma.  My promise to do as I was told meant that, like in 
the military, a request from her was essentially the same as an order.  This time I 
knew it was different, but even as I was absorbing the fact I could legitimately 
have disagreed with her, I was realizing that I didn't want to.  Right then, I was 
more comfortable being Jessica than launching into some unknown and ill-
defined path.  Three more days wouldn't really matter.  

     It wasn't until we were cleaning up the breakfast dishes that I remembered I 
could have gotten out of going to the bleepin' opera!

**********************************

     "There you go, girl, and if I do say so myself, you're gorgeous!"  Sandy 
crowed as she pulled the cape away from me.   

      In the mirror was indeed a gorgeous young woman.  Whether it was me or 
not was a bit harder to decide.  This was to be the first time we would be going 
out for a formal evening in Providence, and Sandy had done . . . . something 
special.  I looked older, for one thing, 22 maybe, just old enough to be all grown 
up without in any sense seeming to have aged.  She must have used half a dozen 
different shades of eyeshadow, starting mysteriously dark but blending so 
thoroughly you couldn't tell where artifice left off and my natural colors took 
over.  The same was true on my vibrant, perpetually excited cheeks.  On the other 
hand, my lips were very crisply defined - full and puffy, but well defined.  The 
effect was dramatic, yet refined.   

     My hair was piled up in a confection of spun gold so that I looked, and 
somehow felt . . . fragile.  Like I were made of porcelain and captured sunlight, 
frozen in some sort of stasis that might collapse at any instant.  I felt like I should 
glide rather than walk, and hold myself very . . . delicately.

     "Wow," I whispered.  

     "Why, thank you sweetie," Sandy said softly, her normally acerbic tones 
hidden beneath genuine pleasure.  "That may be the nicest thing one of Jane's 
students has ever said to me."  

     "I, um, thank you, Sandy," I said, meaning it for the first time.  

     Penny was already finished.  Her look was always more formal than mine - or 
at least more formal than mine had been - so it wasn't quite as dramatic a change 
for her.  Or, um, for him.  That was not a productive line of thought.   In the first 
place, now that, um, she was back to her normal appearance, it was just not . . . 
reasonable to think of Penny as a guy.  It was jarring and made me question my 
memories rather than the direct evidence before me.  And in the second place, I 
had agreed to treat her like . . . well, *her*.  Nothing different.  It would be a lot 
harder to do that if I fought my perceptions rather than going along with them.  

     And the worst part of all that is it made me question myself, too, in all sorts of 
ways.  I was quite a bit prettier than Penny, and if that were the case, and she was 
so . . . undeniably feminine, then what did that make me?   Was it something I 
should be ashamed of or proud of?  Before, when I thought Penny was a girl and 
I was the only one in the world who knew what it was like to be trapped in Miss 
Jane's satin prison, I could sort of . . . hide from what it meant.  There was no 
standard that proved whether I was just  . . . coping, grudgingly surviving the 
inevitable, or whether I was going above and beyond the minimum required.  
Now . . . well, now it was not productive to think of all that.  So I decided to just 
be Jessica for the evening, for the next three days in fact.  Maybe something 
would make sense after I'd had time to think about it.  

       For that night, specifically, I would be a very elegant Jessica.  Marie had my 
clothes laid out for me when we got back to the manor.  I didn't do it deliberately, 
but the first word out of my mouth was an unintentional echo.

     "Wow," I said, provoking a small giggle from Marie.  

     "Ma cherie, ce soir you will be . . . magnifique," she claimed, and who was I 
to argue?  

     "Vite, vite," she chided me.  I stripped out of my casual clothes (Okay, Laura 
Ashley is hardly casual, but on that day it felt that way) and Marie pointed to the 
bedpost.  "Take hold, m'enfant, tonight you will be tres elegante, tres . . . "

     "Tres broken in half, if you keep that up," I grunted.  She didn't quite put her 
knee in my back to haul on my laces, but I think it was only because she felt the 
busk rubbing on my backbone - from the front side.  

     "Oh hush," she said, giggling.  "You will look so slender and elegant and yet 
shapely, just right for the delicate flower you are."  

     "This delicate flower is *still* going to break in half if you don't ease up a 
little."  

     Marie laughed, but she tied off my laces then reached for the stockings.  Lord 
knows I couldn't have done them up myself.  I couldn't even twist around enough 
to see if the seams were straight, let alone reach to straighten them.  

     "Please, Marie, this is too tight."

     "Non, non, cherie, it will be fine in a few minutes.  Just be calm.  It is the size 
required for your dress."  

     I suppose I'd have had a better chance of convincing her if I hadn't said much 
the same thing every time she laced me up.  Unfortunately, she knew I could 
handle it, and she knew I knew it, too.  I'd have sighed if I could have.  At least I 
had learned to handle the stiffness, so that was just inconvenient.

    "Lift your foot, m'enfant," she ordered, and like a horse being shoed I let her 
move my leg as required.  

     "Doggone it, Marie, those are *way* too high.  I'll fall on my . . . "

     "Ah, ah, ah," she interrupted, waving her finger in my face.  "You will do fine.  
Besides, it is right . . . "

     "For the dress," I interrupted.  "What I want to know, *Miss* Marie, is who 
picked the dress?"  

     "Tsk, tsk," she said, interrupting her stern expression with another giggle.  
"Do not be concerned with needless details."  

     She swept the dress from the bed and draped it before herself.  Then her voice 
took on a dreamy tone and I could see genuine pleasure in her eyes.  "Oh, child, 
you will be *so* beautiful.  Truly a princess from a storybook tale."  

     That was not good news, except . . . I just couldn't take that pleasure away 
from her.  In that moment, I knew that I was the daughter that Marie had never 
had, and it didn't matter what was inside my dress any more.  What mattered was 
her pride in me, in her vicarious sense of young beauty that she could never again 
feel except through others.  

     I reached out and hugged her.  "Marie, I've never told you how much I 
appreciated your help.  The others, Miss Jane and Penny, they had a job to do, 
but I never thought it was that way for you."

     "Non, cherie, it has always been more than a job, but for Miss Jane and Miss 
Penny, too."

     "Oh, I know that, but still . . . you're special, and I should have let you know 
that more often."  

     She hugged me for a long, slow moment, then she drew back abruptly.  "Now, 
now, don't get me started.  We don't have time to fix up your makeup, and I know 
that if I get to blubbering, you soon will be also."  

     "I expect you're right," I said, but my opinion was hardly a critical addition to 
the facts of the shine in her eyes, matched by one I know showed in mine.  

     "Here, lift your arms," she ordered, and then the fabric was drifting down 
about me like a wisp of smoke.  Marie had picked basic black for my formal 
social evening, but there was nothing basic about that magical dress.  It was 
asymmetric, flowing from my left shoulder to caress cunningly around my 
nipped-in waist without seeming tight (well, not scandalously so, anyway), then 
slithering sensually to the floor, the acres of fabric nestling so delicately that it 
seemed to be snug to the ankles.  Turning me around she slowly tugged the 
hidden zipper up, then stepped back.  
    

         
     "Now, m'enfant, your gloves," she said, 
then held the first snowy white tube to my 
hand.  

     "But, I've just had my nails done again," 
I protested.  "I didn't think I'd be wearing 
gloves."  

     "Of course a lady wears gloves," she said
 adamantly.  "But it is also good that your 
nails are done.  They will make your fingers 
look so long and lovely."

     "And I won't be able to pick up anything, 
or, well, do anything," I protested again as 
she slid the first one up almost to my shoulder.
 
     "But of course not!" she declared, giggling 
again.  "That is for your escort to do."

     "Escort?" I squeaked.  "As in . . . a guy?"

     "But of course," she declared, deliberately 
mimicking her own tone.  "Did Miss Jane not 
tell you?"

     "She did *not*!"  

     "I'm sure it was just an oversight," she said 
negligently.  "Nothing to worry about."

     "Nothing to worry about?!" I repeated stupidly.  
"I'll be, I mean, there will be some . . . man 
hanging around me all night and it's nothing to 
worry about?"

     "Why, child, you are not intending to do 
anything improper for a lady in public are you?"

     "I should say not!"  

     "Then what is the problem?  He will be a 
gentleman.  You will be a lady.  All will be 
proper, n'est-ce pas?"  

     I was about to protest further when it hit me just what I was protesting about.  
I was going to spend the night in a formal social setting, dressed like a zillion 
bucks - as a girl.  Like, what made that part okay, while the proximity of some 
stuffed shirt society dude in a monkey suit made it not okay?  Like, would I be 
any more likely to be turned into a greasy spot on the carpet if *this* dude 
figured out what was going on than say, that sleazy guy from the mall?  

     Yeah, right, cling to that rationalization.  Like it was gonna help or something.  

     "Come, come, child, we have more to do."  

     The more to do turned out to be primarily jewelry.  I was draped in another 
zillion dollars worth of baubles, all real as far as I could tell.  The theme was 
apparently rubies, at my throat and wrist and ears.  Set off by the requisite 
diamonds, of course.  All in impeccably good taste, of course, just small enough 
to avoid being gaudy.

     "Oh, dear," Marie said, a hitch in her voice as she stood back.

     "What's wrong?" I asked in a reflexive panic.

     "Nothing," she whispered.  "Not a single thing, ma cherie.  You are . . . 
beautiful."

     "I . . this is . . . not me," I whispered, barely able to breathe myself as she 
showed me the image in the mirror.  "It's all . . .  your dress and Sandy's makeup, 
and . . . things."

     "Hush, child," she ordered.  "Just once in each person's life, he or she should 
feel truly, magnificently beautiful.  Not many people manage it, and to be frank, 
you would never reach that pinnacle as a man, not as slight as you will always be.  
But as Jessica, you are truly . . .  magical."

     I wanted to disagree with her, but the image in the mirror *was* something 
magical, something special that few could attain.  Right then, it didn't matter why 
I looked like I did, or whether someone might think I should, it was enough that I 
did.   

     "Thank you, Marie," I said softly, pulling her beside me so that I could meet 
her eyes in the mirror without looking away myself.  

     "Dear, sweet, Lord," I heard from the open doorway.  Penny stood there, 
magnificently tall and dressed like a Grecian goddess in a tumble of white much 
too elegant to be called a toga, even aside from the wicked slit that showed a 
*lot* of leg.  It fulfilled her serene elegance with patrician majesty, and she 
looked like the rest of the money in the mint. 

     "You're gorgeous," we both said simultaneously, then all three of us dissolved 
into helpless giggles.  

     "Well, you are," I finally managed to insist.  

     "Thank you, Jessica, but nobody is even going to know if I'm there tonight," 
she declared.  

     "Ha!" I argued.  "When they shunt me off to play with the little kids, you're 
going to be holding court with the leaders of industry."  

     "Wanna bet?" she said archly.  

     "Uh, oh, what do you know that I don't know?"  

     "More than I can tell you in one night," she laughed.  Then she sobered for a 
moment and said, "Truly, Jessica, you are beautiful."  

     "Truly, Penny, *you* are beautiful.  I'm still a self-centered, mixed up mess," 
I said, then I giggled and did a little pirouette.  "But I won't argue if you *insist* 
that I'm prettier than you, at least for tonight."

     "Deal," she said, laughing herself.  Curtsying like the most formal of ladies-
in-waiting, she gestured gracefully for me to precede her out of the room.

     Marie interrupted my grand exit, though.  "Ooh, wait a moment, cherie.  You 
need your purse."  Quickly gathering up an apparently random sampling of 
mascara, lipstick, and blush, she tucked a few tissues into a very slim purse and 
held it out to me.  Then she raced from the room with no further explanation.  

     Penny figured it out, though, before we reached the head of the stairs.  
"Wanna bet she's got her camera out."  

     "Oh, God," I groaned.  "Is there a back stairway?"

     "Yes, but even I wouldn't try it in heels like these," she sighed.  At least 
whatever foundation garments Marie had picked for her left her enough air to 
sigh.  On the other hand, it confirmed that she had tall heels that night as well, 
which was at least a little good news.  Misery loves company and all that.  

     At the bottom of the stairs, Miss Jane waited in a simple gray gown that 
probably cost as much as most new cars.  She had simple gray gloves and a 
matching small purse. The only discordant note was a slight frown that one 
would have imagined showed impatience if such a flaw could apply in the 
presence of that much elegance.  That frown vanished as though it had never 
existed when she saw us, though.  

     "One at a time, one at a time," Marie demanded from behind her camera 
viewfinder.  

     Penny shrugged, then grinned and held out her own white-gloved hand, 
clenched in a fist.  "On three."

     She started to pump it up and down, counting each time.  Along about two I 
caught on an joined her.  "Paper," I called.  

     "Scissors," she crowed.  "You go first."  

     Yeah, right.  Well, the stairs were thickly carpeted, and I figured if I bounced, 
at least I'd be out of the rest of the night's festivities.  Despite the distraction of 
Marie's annoying flashes, I managed to make it to the bottom of the staircase 
intact.  

     "Good luck," I called up to Penny.  

     "Thanks," she said, looking down the long flight from above.  

    "Don't frown, dear," Marie said.  I could see that Penny's initial reaction to that 
was - and needed to be - stifled.  But she put a game smile on her face and made 
her own stately way down.  

     "Well, at least the worst is over," I said.  

     "You wish," Penny replied, and after taking a look at Miss Jane's face, I 
decides she was a lot closer to the truth than I was.  

     Lesson Number 8 Zillion and Twelve:  A lady does not drive herself to the 
ball.  Or whatever other high-society bash she's attending.  Miss Jane had a 
Lincoln that was a city block long and the cool, high-performance Audi, but 
neither were even close to satisfactory.  That was apparent as we stepped out the 
door that evening to see about *three* city block's worth of limousine idling on 
the driveway.  

     We were, of course, not cold as we left the house.  It was late fall and we 
could have been, except for all the fur draped around us.  Yeah, real fur, ranch-
raised fuzzy weasel, and it's no worse than wearing leather shoes, so don't start.  
Mink is warm, and it feels a whole hell of a, um, heck of a lot better than itchy 
wool on bare skin.  Besides, all I had was a stole.

     The chauffeur (complete with little cap, no less) opened the door as we 
approached.  "Good evening, Miss," he said to Penny, tipping that cap politely.   
See, I told you so, when I first saw her I knew she was the kind that rated that 
sort of gesture from the peasantry.  Then the guy did it to *me*, too!  Lordy, 
who'd a ever in a million years thunk it?!  I mean, I know it was the job and he'd 
would probably have tipped his cap to a the cat if it were slipping into his limo, 
but dam . . doggone that was cool.  

     There must have been a nuclear power plant under the hood of that land yacht, 
because we pulled away from the door with smooth acceleration and absolutely 
no noise.  Miss Jane settled into the deep seats and smiled at us.  "Well, ladies, I 
must say, you look very nice this evening."  

     "I don't feel nice," Penny said, but her giggle took away any real complaint.  
"I feel like I'm the princess of some medium-size kingdom, with absolute power 
over high and low justice.  'Off with their heads!'"  

     "I guess that makes me Cinderella," I said.  

     "Who are you calling a wicked step-sister?" Penny challenged, laughing 
again.  

     "Well, if the shoe fits - and Lord knows nobody else could wear *your* shoes 
. . . "

     "Girls, a little decorum here, please," Miss Jane ordered.  

     "Very little," I promised, smiling demurely.   Well, anyway I tried to look 
demure. 

     "That's what I'm afraid of, young lady, and for that crack about me being a 
wicked step-mother, you're going to go back into your pinafore and pigtails 
tomorrow."  

     "But I didn't say . . . . "

     Penny's laugh interrupted my denial, but I didn't mind because Miss Jane said, 
"I'm glad you feel so sisterly toward Jessica, dear.  I'm sure you will enjoy 
joining her in pettis and pigtails tomorrow."      

     "But . . ," Penny began, then caught herself.  "But of course, Aunt Jane.  We'll 
have a tea party.  You'll come won't you?"

     "Oh yes, please, Miss Jane?" I simpered sweetly.  "I'll let you hold my 
favorite dolly."  

     She arched one of those power eyebrows at me, but it bounced off my armor 
of innocence without a dent.  Of course, it had lost a lot of its impact because of 
the twinkle that was sparkling in her eyes.  

     "Bingo," I crowed in triumph.  "We'll tell Marie, tea and petticoats for four 
tomorrow."

     "I did *not* agree to wear petticoats," she declared regally.  

     Penny lifted her own patrician features into a disdainful glare.  "One simply 
does *not* hold a dolly at a tea party when one is not properly attired, and you 
yourself have defined what is proper.  Are you saying that you will not abide by 
your own rules?"  

     I expected Miss Jane to work her way out of the corner we'd created for her.  
Lord knows she could, I mean, I'd had my words turned around on me so many 
times that I was really just playing along to see how she made things come out 
her way.  As a result, she threw me totally off balance when she nodded her head.  
"Very well, tea and pettis for four tomorrow."

     Penny recovered first.  "And pigtails!'  

     I joined in, "And freckles!"  

     "We'll tell Marie . . . "

     " . . . that you agreed, and it will be . . . "

     " . . . two against one if you claim otherwise!"  

     It still wasn't fair, of course.  I mean, a mature, powerful woman like Miss 
Jane should have been at least embarrassed at the idea.  But she wrapped herself 
in serene dignity that even Penny couldn't touch and made it clear our little 'trap' 
didn't concern her a bit.  In fact, we spent the rest of the trip into the city planning 
the event as carefully as an amphibious invasion - who would bake what 
crumpets, which tea service would be used, all the important details.  

     When we got to the performance hall, our limo was only one of many.  As the 
doorman helped us out though - and believe me, I needed the help with those stilt 
heels - we did trigger a little wave of oohs and ahhs through the crowd.  Heads 
were turning our way from around the entrance and that seemed to be the signal 
for three in particular to focus on us.  Three men.

     "Ohmigod, here it comes," I gasped to Penny.  

     "No problem, sis," she hissed back.  "If Aunt Jane set it up, they're gonna be 
nice guys."  

     "Tell it to my stomach," I whispered back.  "Where the butterflies are 
stomping."  

     The masculine assault force approached in a chevron formation, the leading 
man somehow familiar.  He was older, at least Miss Jane's age, and had that look 
of casual dignity that said wearing a tux was not remarkable for him.  I thought I 
knew him from somewhere, but I couldn't remember exactly.  Flanking him were 
two younger men, both very fit, both good looking in that chunked from granite 
way I had always envied, both with wavy dark hair.  They were a little older than 
Penny or me but close enough to our age to be obviously intended for us.   Oh, 
ssshhhugar.  

     "Jane, you look fantastic," the older man said as he walked up.  "You 
remember my son, Matt, and this is his friend Daniel.  Boys, this is Ms. Jane 
Thompson, and these are . . . ?"

     Miss Jane easily filled the gap with hardly a break in the train of words, 
"These are my nieces, Penny McQueen, and Jessica Shepherd.  Girls, this is Mr. 
Richard Ellis, his son Matthew, and Daniel . . . ?"  (Nieces?)

     "Daniel Carter," the young man said.  "Though plain ol' Dan is just fine."  

     In a reflex old before time began, the young men sorted themselves out by 
size.  Plain ol' Dan was taller than Penny even in her heels, and that left Matthew 
Ellis for me, an opportunity he wasted no time exploiting.

     "And I'm just Matt, unless I'm in trouble," he said to me, grinning.  

     "Pleased to meet you," I said, formally offering him a snowy glove.  I swear, 
he almost bowed over it and kissed my hand.  And what was *really weird is that 
it sent a shiver up my spine when I thought he might.  But all he really did was 
shake it politely, lightly grasping the tips of my fingers.  

     Then Matt offered me his arm so naturally that the only natural thing to do 
was to take it.  I had practiced enough in heels that I didn't really need the 
stability, now that I was out of the limo, but I had no clue where we were going.  
Well, I mean it was obvious we were going inside the building but after that I 
would have been lost.  

     It didn't matter, though.  Matt guided me to one side, then asked, "May I take 
your wrap?"  

     "Thank you," I said quietly.  He took care of the minor business and I again 
found my white glove sparkling against the inky darkness of his tuxedo.  

     "I hope you won't mind if I'm a bit forward," Matt said, "but I must say, you 
are incredibly beautiful."  

     "Thank you," I repeated softly.  That was rapidly becoming . . inadequate, so I 
tried a little more.  "So, um, 'just Matt', how did you get roped into this?"  

     "Why, I'm a famous fan of the opera," he declared grandly, then chuckled.  
"And if you believe that . . . you're not half as smart as you look."

     "E = mc squared," I said loftily.  "Or is it cubed?  I never can remember."  

    He smiled unselfconsciously and said, "Don't ask me.  I'm having enough 
trouble with Marbury vs. Madison."  

     Thank you, Miss Jane.  A year ago, I'd never heard of that - and probably 
never would have heard of it.  But Miss Jane was very big on the Constitution.  
"So, you're a, um, an attorney?"  

     "Not yet," replied Matt, nodding at my recognition of the reference, "but I'm 
working on it.  In the meantime, I'm working as an intern in Dad's firm."

     Bingo!  Now I remembered where I'd see the older man before.  He was the 
guy who promised to help Miss Jane with some sort of tax thing for the hospital.  
That started a little tickle in the back of my mind, but when I tried to grasp at it, it 
slithered away.  I'd have to let it grow a little before I could get a handle on it.  

     Our seats were the best, of course, a box practically hanging over the stage.  
That meant we had to go up a wide staircase, and for that I truly appreciated 
Matt's stabilizing hand.  About half way up I nearly got the giggles when I 
realized I'd been practically holding hands with this guy for, well, ten or fifteen 
minutes at that point, but he had never touched me.  He had touched my gloves, 
just as I had touched his sleeve with my glove, but it was as though we were 
protected by force fields or something.  That actually helped me relax, at least a 
little.  I needed the relief because I felt excruciatingly fragile as I climbed the 
stairs.  Matt held my (gloved) elbow and I held the skirt to my dress in both 
hands as I tried to keep it out of the way of my feet.  I won't say I would have 
fallen, but I felt the support of his hand more than once.  With it, we made it to 
the top of the stairs as though it were no big deal, and I challenge anyone who 
thinks it wasn't a big deal to try it - don't forget the spindly heels.  

     Our escorts helped us to our seats, Penny and I next to each other in front with 
the guys right behind.  It turned out that Miss, ah, 'Aunt' Jane and *her* escort 
had the next box down - no crowding allowed in the high-rent district.  I'm glad it 
worked out that way, because it saved me from a major gaffe.

     "So, Penny, what's with our 'Aunt' Jane and the handsome lawyer?" I 
whispered.  

     "Chill, girl, you are *definitely* barking up the wrong tree there.  Aunt Jane is 
married to a professor of psychology, and Mr. Ellis's wife died of cancer a few 
years ago."

     "Oh, sugar.  I'm glad I didn't ask that right out."

     Penny smiled serenely at me, one hand pointing at her own face from her lap 
where our escorts couldn't see.  "Rule number one of being a young lady in 
public:  Let a smile do as much of your talking as possible."

     "Good advice," I sighed.  "Still, where is, um, Aunt Jane's husband?"  

     "I understand he's conducting some sort of field study on war trauma, in 
Bosnia.  Not a job I'd want to have."  

     "Me, neither," I agreed.  Then the lights went down and the curtain went up.  

     The less said about the silly opera the better.  "The Marriage of Figaro" is not 
what I'd call music you could dance to.  I'd give it about a minus 10.  If it had 
gone on another day or two (the performance took three full weeks as I recall), I 
swore I'd frig his bleepin' roll for real.  But I swore it silently, a lady not being 
permitted such language, don't you know.  I was never so glad to have a show 
end in my life.  

     And then I thought of a second reason to be happy.  The end of the opera 
meant we would have no further need of our official social escorts for the 
evening.  Not that 'just Matt' had been much of a burden.  I don't think I'd said a 
dozen words to him all night.  Still, it was weird to be so close to a guy, y'know?  

     My second cause for joy vanished as quickly as I had imagined it.  It seemed 
we were all headed out for dinner.  

     "Girls, if you'd like to freshen up, we have a few minutes before the car 
arrives," Aunt Jane announced.  

     Yeah, right, like I was going into the inner sanctum of womanhood.  Then it 
turned out I was indeed going in, pulled by Penny in a grip much more 
demanding than Matt's had been.  

     "Fix your face," she hissed as we entered, then proceeded to do the same.  I  
had bitten off most of my lipstick, at least the glossy top layer, so I set about 
making the needed repairs.  When I was about to close my purse, Penny giggled.  
"Not yet, girly.  Think of where we are."

     "I *have* been thinking of that," I hissed at her.  

     "No, dummy," she whispered back.  "What's this place called?"

     "'Jail time,' if we're caught."  

     Penny sighed, rolled her eyes, and then took pity on me.  "It's called a 'powder 
room', airhead, so powder."  

     She pulled out her own compact and took the shine off her nose and forehead.  
Yeah, well, I was distracted, so I forgot, okay?  Anyway, I took care of that, too, 
and we glided off to find our, um, to find Miss Jane.  

     Matt had retrieved my mink and was waiting to drape it over my shoulders.  
Plain ol' Dan had Penny's jacket, too, and we moved out to stand in the line 
awaiting vehicles.  

     "So, what did you think of it?" Matt asked conversationally.  

     "I think I'm not buying the bit about you being a 'famous fan of the opera,'" I 
said.  "I heard you snoring back there."

     "I didn't . . . "

     "Give it up, Matt," Dan interrupted.  "You had the curtains moving clear 
across the auditorium."  

     Penny grinned at her tall, dark, and . . . um, don't go there.  "From where I sat, 
it sounded stereophonic."  

     "I do *not* snore," Dan announced grandly.  "I have stayed awake to find 
out."  

     That earned him quadraphonic groans.  Even he joined in.  After stifling 
incipient giggles brought on by the unplanned harmony, I tried to return to the 
topic at hand.  "Since we have established, counselor," I said, looking at Matt, 
"that you were not there on the night in question to enjoy the opera, just why 
were you at the scene of the, ahem, crime?" 

     "Not for the reason I thought I'd have," he replied cryptically, but further 
explanation was interrupted by the arrival of the limo.  Lord knows it was big 
enough for all of us, so we arranged ourselves among the seats and glided silently 
away from the crowd.  

     "So, Jessica," Mr. Ellis said, "Jane tells me you just might be the best student 
she's ever had."

     Aunt Jane laughed - in a genteel way, of course - and punched him lightly in 
the arm. "Richard, you know better than to tell her that."  

     I was too busy blushing to say anything immediately, but nobody bailed me 
out, either.  After the fire in my cheeks died down to stellar core temperatures, I 
lifted my head a little and tried to escape.  "If that is so, Mr. Ellis, it must be 
because I had the most to learn."

     Penny gave me a quick thumbs up from her side of the limo, while Matt 
whispered, "Wow.  Smooth."  Then he turned to Aunt Jane and said, "Gee, Ms. 
Thompson, if you can teach that kind of cool, maybe I need to come to your 
school."  

     Okay, that was too much.  I lost it.  Penny lost it.  Even Aunt Jane couldn't 
completely stifle a more-than-polite laugh.    I couldn't have spoken coherently to 
save my life, so I rooted around in my purse and found my student ID, the one 
that said I attended a 'private school for girls.'

     Even aside from the fact I didn't think Matt went around beating up on people, 
he clearly already had a very large dose of manners.  But he also demonstrated all 
the poise that Aunt Jane might desire when his own easy laughter spilled out and 
he passed the ID to Daniel.  

     "Whoa, bud, that would be a fairly serious, ah, change for you," Dan said.  

     "You never know," Matt replied. "It might be worth it."  I wish he hadn't been 
looking at me when he said that.  

     Mr. Ellis had laughed along with the rest of us.  He apparently knew about 
Aunt Jane's school - and I hoped like hel . . hoped desperately that all he knew 
was the surface layer.  He smiled as the general level of mirth fell to 
conversational levels, then turned their attention back at me.  "What are your 
favorite subjects?  What sort of career field interests you?"  

     Like a lightbulb over a cartoon character, the little tickle at the back of my 
mind suddenly clicked in.  "Actually, sir, I was thinking that I'd like to study 
law."  

     Aunt Jane sat up straighter, looking sharply at me.  Mr. Ellis, on the other 
hand, smiled indulgently.  "I appreciate the flattery, young lady, but you don't 
need to say that just to please me.  I'm genuinely interested."  

     "Thank you, Mr. Ellis, but I'm not just saying that.  I don't know if you 
remember, but we met before . . . "

     "At the hospital fundraiser," he said, nodding.  "I'm not likely to forget a girl 
as pretty as you - even if you are younger than my daughters."  

     "Thank you," I said, hating the blush that fired my cheeks again.  "But the 
important thing is that M, um, Aunt Jane needed some legal help to fix a tax 
problem."  I paused for a moment, not really wanting to spill my life story to all 
these people I'd just met, but it was key to my explanation.  "I don't know if Aunt 
Jane told you, but I'm an orphan.  I have to think there are a lot of children's 
homes, and hospitals, and people like the Jacksons who could use legal help, 
especially with taxes."

     "The Jacksons?" Mr. Ellis asked.  

     "Their daughter is being treated at the cancer clinic," 'Aunt' Jane supplied.  
"I'm not sure they pay much in taxes, but I'm sure any help they could get would 
be appreciated."

     "Pardon me, Aunt Jane, but I expect they *do* pay a lot of taxes.  There are 
sales taxes and gasoline taxes, and you know," I said, warming up to my subject, 
"all taxes are really paid by the consumer.  I mean, the gas taxes a trucker pays 
are passed along to, say, the grocery store, which passes them along to the 
consumer.  That all seem so unfair, those buried taxes."  

     "Goodness," Mr. Ellis said, turning to Aunt Jane, "we seem to have hit a nerve 
here."  Then he turned back to me, "And you seem to know your subject.  How 
would you like a job?"

     "A job?" I repeated.

     "Yes, as an intern in my firm.  We don't pay a lot to interns, but if Jane is 
picking up the tab for your clothes and things, you'd find yourself with a little 
spending money."  

     "Hey, that would mean we'd be working together," Matt said brightly.  

     Uh, oh.  I looked desperately as Miss Jane, whose own face showed a frown.  
After a moment, she said, "Thank you for that generous offer, Richard.  I think 
Jessica and I will need to talk it over before we make any sort of commitment."  

     Was this another occasion when I was glad to wear a corset?  Possibly, 
because the stiffness of it kept me from sagging with some weird combination of 
relief and disappointment.  The da . . . darn thing didn't help my whirling mind, 
though.  *That* problem was helped by our arrival at our restaurant.  Matt and 
Dan were back into normal escort mode, helping us from the limo and once again 
checking our wraps for us.  

     We had a reserved table and the service was impeccable.  As far as I could 
tell, our orders had been pre-arranged.  Certainly I never saw a menu.  Not that it 
mattered.  I had no clue what most of the dishes were, beyond being the most 
fabulous Italian I'd ever had, and I knew I couldn't have made better choices if I 
*had* seen them listed - in Italian, no doubt.  My only regret is that I could only 
manage a few tastes of each course in that infernal corset.  Well, that's not true.  I 
wished Marie had been there, too.  She could have picked up some terrific 
recipes, and I had no doubt she could have added them to her incredible 
repertoire.  

     Mr. Ellis sat back expansively after some final sweet course, and nodded to 
his son.  "Matt, Jane and I need to talk for a little while.  Why don't you two take 
the girls and dance or something?"

     "Yes, sir," Matt replied quickly.  It would seem he didn't find that particular 
chore too burdensome.  Lucky me.  Lucky Penny, too, because Dan was just as 
eager.

     I caught Aunt Jane's eyes for just an instant, but it was enough to get her 
signal to go along.  Well, it was for this that I had dodged Penny's toes in all our 
practice.  Allowing Matt to handle my chair, I rose as gracefully as I could and 
let him lead me to the dance floor.  There was probably more money in that room 
than in the vaults of most countries, and that sort of wealth was not really 
compatible with . . . undisciplined dancing.  So I was not surprised to hear the 
strains of a waltz coming from a no-kidding live string orchestra.  My practice 
paid off as my hands went naturally to hold my skirt and to meet Matt's, and we 
were soon moving to the easy music.  

     He was, as he had been all evening, impeccably polite.  There was the 
requisite handspan between us at all times, and his right hand stayed at my 
armored waist.  He was also a nice guy in that he picked up on my inner turmoil 
and let me have a few moments of silence.  

     Finally I shook off the unproductive spiral my mind wanted to get trapped in, 
and looked up at him.  "You're pretty slick, you know."  

     "Huh?  Um, I mean, uh, what do you mean?"  

     "I've asked you twice tonight why you were here, and both times you've 
dodged my question."  

     Matt chuckled and said, "I did, didn't I?  Well, it wasn't really deliberate.  Or, 
um, at least, not the second time."

     "You're still not getting to the point," I noted.  

     He laughed again and bowed his head in ostentatious shame.  Then he perked 
up and grinned at me.  "It's your fault."

     "My fault?"

     "Sure," he said, then his expressive eyes darkened in a moment of pain.  
"After my mom died, Dad, well, he didn't take it very well.  He had . . he *has* a 
lot of friends though, and they wouldn't let him just withdraw from the world.  
He's always been active in charity things, and they started pushing him to get 
involved again.  There are a lot of rich widows in this part of the country and the 
society matrons used him to fill in when they needed to balance the numbers at 
some social event."

     I was still trying to decide how any of that was my fault, when Matt smiled 
again and said, "Anyway, he sort of became the on-call socially-proper escort.  
About that time I got 'roped in', as you say, to the same sort of thing.  Dad just 
told me to find a friend, and that we would be escorting two young ladies to the 
opera and dinner.  So, here I am."

     "So why did you dodge my questions earlier?"

     His face flushed at that, a silly sight on such a masculine visage, and it was a 
minute before he replied.  "Well, you see, some of the young, ah, ladies that I 
have been asked to escort were, um, well, lets just say I needed another reason to 
be there, y'know?  So I sort of developed this knee-jerk answer to that sort of 
question.  I'm a famous fan of the opera, and of the ballet, and of 'th' theatah' and, 
well, you know."

     "So, it was a polite cover for mercy dates," I said, snickering.  That actually 
made me feel better.  I could handle being a mercy date.  At least, I could handle 
it better than the alternative.  

     "I didn't say that," he disagreed gallantly.  

     "That's okay," I said lightly.  "I can take it."

     "Oh, no!" he said quickly.  "Not you!  You're . . . fantastic.  You're smart and 
you're, like, the way you move is so graceful and you're so gorgeous that I . . . "

     "Whoa, there, big fella," I said.  "Take a breath.  I mean, that's really sweet of 
you, but don't overdo it."  

     He blushed again, carefully looking over my shoulder.  "I'm sorry," he said 
after a moment.  "I didn't mean to come on so strong."  

     "That's okay," I said softly.  And found myself surprised to realize that I 
meant it.  

     "Look, Jessica," he said, looking back into my eyes - from a distressingly 
short distance.  "I meant what I said about you.  You're no mercy date, not by the 
furthest stretch of the imagination.  Let me prove it to you."

     "I don't need any proof," I said, smiling.  

     "Fine," he said, a grin showing again.  "Let me prove it to you anyway.  Why 
don't we go to, like, a movie or something?  I promise, no opera."  

     Uh, oh.  Red alert!  Earth to Jessica:  Hellooo, stupid!  Didn't you see that 
coming?  

     Where were all those lessons in how to handle guys, now that I needed them?  
I guess some of them took because I managed to keep dancing instead of, like, 
fainting or something.  Or maybe it was just all that practice with the corsets that 
kept me from needing to breathe for a long, long time.  

     Finally I managed to recage my tumbled gyros and start looking for some way 
out of the mess I was in.  "Um, I'm flattered, Matt, but my, ah, Aunt Jane says I'm 
too young to date."  

     "Bullsh . . . um, look Jessica," he said, frowning, "I appreciate that you're 
trying to let me down easy, but that's pretty bogus.  Hell, even if you considered 
*me* a mercy date I think I deserve better than that."

     "No, really," I protested.  "She is really strict about that."  

     "So tell her to bug off.  Sh . . shoot, that's positively medieval.  The age of 
consent is 18, y'know, not 25 any more."  

     I had to giggle, and maybe the real humor in it helped to convince him I was 
serious when I said, "I'm not, um, 18 yet, but thanks for thinking so."  

     "Well, I'll be," he said, flushing again.  "Now I *am* impressed.  I mean, I've 
been impressed all evening, but I figured, well, I won't argue that you look a little 
younger than I thought, but you're so . . sophisticated that I figured you just 
looked, well, better than other girls your age.  Oh, hell, that didn't come out right.  
Anyway, when I first saw you, I put you at about 18, maybe a little less, but I 
would have believed 20 easy, from the way you, well, move and your poise and . 
. . "

     "Oh, stop," I begged, snickering.  "Penny already thinks my head is over-
inflated.  If she heard you going on like that, I'd never hear the end of it."  

     He chuckled and started leading us with more purpose.  "I'll show you," he 
threatened, "we'll go right over there and I'll repeat every word."

     "Don't you dare," I gasped, but I had to giggle, too.  God, if he really did that, 
Penny would have a cow.  I know Aunt Jane would hear about it and I'd be in 
little girl frocks for the rest of my natural life.  

     He took pity on me after we got close enough to make his threat real.  With 
Dan and Penny dancing only a few feet away, he leaned down to whisper in my 
ear, "Last chance.  Tell me how old you really are, and I won't tell them what I 
said."

     I should have, right then.  Why not?  I mean, it wasn't like I cared what he 
thought of me, right?  Well, that was the answer of course.  I *did* care, not 
because I wanted to date the doofus, of course, but having someone, someone 
who obviously had his own sh . . sugar together pretty well think I was 
sophisticated and poised enough to be several years older than I really was . . . 
well, that was flattering.  I didn't want to pop that bubble, at least not, like, 
quickly.  So I dodged his question.  

     "A girl has to keep *some* secrets," I whispered back.  "Otherwise men lose 
interest so quickly, y'know?"  

     "You're still claiming to be less than 18?" he pushed.  

     Well, I'd already said that, so I nodded.  

     "Seventeen?" he asked.  

     I just smiled and regarded his chest, refusing to meet his eyes.  Something 
must have given me away, though.  He gasped and hissed, "You are *not* going 
to tell me that you're only sixteen!"  

     "Okay, I won't," I replied lightly.  

     "No way," he said, loud enough for Dan and Penny to look our way.  

     "Be quiet," I hissed at him.  

     "No," he said.  Actually, he was lying because he did drop his voice again, but 
his tone said it as on its way back up if I didn't answer his question.  "No kidding, 
how old are you?"  

     "I'll be sixteen in a few more weeks," I sighed.  

     "I don't believe it," he said, then as he saw color start to bloom in my cheeks, 
he said, "I'm sorry.  That was wrong.  I *do* believe you, but I swear if you 
hadn't told me yourself, I'd want proof."  

     "Sorry, take it or leave it," I snipped, still a bit irritated.  

     "No, I'm sorry," he said.  "Really, I am just so impressed with you that I didn't 
want it to be true, I guess."  

     Well, that was a pretty nice apology.  I let him have a small smile in return.  

     Maybe it was the adrenaline rush, or actually the flush afterwards, but all the 
sudden my feet really started to hurt.  "Would you mind if we went back?" I 
asked.

     His face fell, but he nodded and led me from the floor.  I tried to straighten 
things out.  "No, Matt, it's nothing you did.  Truly, I'm not angry.  It's just that my 
shoes are killing me."

     "That's okay," he said sadly, clearly not convinced.  

     I refused to accept his disbelief.  "Hey, buster, you try dancing in heels.  And 
until you do, trust a girl when she says her feet are hurting."  Yeah, buster, come 
to Aunt Jane's for a while and you'll see what it's like!  Let's see . . . Matt . . . 
Matilda?  Oh, that would be just *too* perfect.  

     I laughed, and stopped as we walked.  It was as much to get my laughter 
under control as anything, but for an excuse I lifted the front of my skirt to show 
one slender ankle and the not-so-glass slipper that adorned it.  

     "So, if I rub your feet, will you follow me home?" he asked, leering 
theatrically.  Well, at least it meant he was over his hurt.  

     "Oh, Lordy, Matt, but that sounds good," I moaned.  "But, there is that 
problem of my age - and my Aunt.  Believe me, you do *not* want to get on the 
wrong side of Aunt Jane."  

     "I expect you're right," he grimaced.  The he sighed and copied my words, 
"Oh, Lordy, Jessica, but I may just have to wait until you *are* 18."  

     You'll wait for longer than that, mister.  But you don't need to know that.  Sh . 
. . shoot, if you *did* know the real story, you wouldn't wait for a heartbeat - to 
kill me.  Thankfully we had arrived back at Aunt Jane's table.  

     Unfortunately, with the change of pace I had relaxed a bit as we walked, and 
that had . . . opened my perceptions to another problem.  I tried to ignore it, but 
as always Aunt Jane missed nothing.  

     "Jessica, why are you fidgeting?"  

     "Oh, sorry, um, Aunt Jane."  

     "That's not an answer to my question," she said, but her corrective action was 
lost in the arrival of Penny and Dan.  

     Penny was snickering at something Dan had said, and she rode that energy to 
sweep by our table practically without pause, one long arm gathering up her 
purse.  "C'mon Jess," she ordered.  "Time to powder our noses again."  

     Well, I might be able to fight it from the inside, but when I was getting it from 
all sides I figured I might as well surrender.  Gathering up my own small bag I 
followed her to the powder room.  This time it just wasn't optional and I slipped 
into one of the stalls.  It took *forever* to get my stupid gloves off, and to get all 
that dress out of the way, and all the while my need was building, sort of like a 
horse that smells water - oh, bad analogy, don't think about water.  

     I nearly groaned out loud when I finally managed to take care of my problem.  
Hel . .  Goodness, maybe I did, because I heard Penny giggle from the next stall 
down.   Well, too late to worry about it then.  I went through the reverse 
contortions, not including my gloves, and went out to wash up.  Even with my 
nails, it was easier to get my lipstick on without my gloves, and I took an extra 
moment to add a little mascara as well.  

     "Lookin' good, girl," Penny said from beside me as she took care of her own 
needs.  "What were you and Hunk, Jr. talking about out there?"  

     "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I said.

     "So, when are you goin' out with him?" 

     "I'm not!  How did you . . . ?"  

     "Geez, girl, get a clue.  The most beautiful girl in three states is dancing with a 
rich, unattached, *available* guy who has fallen so far into her eyes that not even 
his toenails are showing.  What's not to understand?  You're gorgeous, you're 
polite - that shy demure look works so much better on a petite girl like you than 
on a big old horse like me - and you're obviously no airhead with the topics you 
were discussing on the ride over here.  Good catch, sis.  From what Dan tells me, 
he's probably got more money - in his own name - than Aunt Jane."

     "I didn't 'catch' him," I said sharply.  "Nor do I want to.  He's, um," I 
interrupted myself to check and see if we were truly alone.  "He's not, um, my 
type."  Leaning over, I hissed in her ear, "I don't want to date guys."  

     "So don't," Penny said, smiling.  "Just because he asked doesn't mean you 
have to say yes, and you didn't.  The important issue is that he *did* ask, and he 
asked because you succeeded in fitting into very high-class circles."  

     "But I look like a girl!" I said, forgetting my caution.  "I don't want men to be 
attracted to me." 

     "No," she replied, "you want men to respect you.  Manners are gender-neutral.  
Oh, the specific roles men and women play are different, but what counts is 
knowing what those roles are, and being able to play them naturally and 
consistently.  Once you learn them from either side, you'll be able to play them 
from the guy's side.  

    "Maybe that's true, but then why do I look like that?" I asked, pointing in the 
mirror.  "Why bother coming at this from the wrong side? None of this is really 
me."  

     "*All* of this is really you," argued Penny.  "*You* are not the clothes.  You 
are what's inside the dress."

     "Yeah, that's the problem," I said.  

     "That's the *solution*, you dummy," she said.  "The manners and the poise 
and the sophistication are part of *you*, not that silly rag you're wearing.  Why 
do you think Jane brought us here tonight?"

     "Like I could figure out why she does *anything*."

     Penny claimed, "Everything she does has a purpose, and a perfectly logical, 
efficient one."

     "Look, Penny, I'm not denying that Aunt Jane's method worked.  I mean, I 
believe you that you were pretty screwed up when you came here, and I know I 
was, or am, or whatever.  But that doesn't justify all this," I said, sweeping my 
hand down my sleek curves.  "Her methods may be effective, but they're hardly 
efficient."   

     Penny snorted with most unladylike disdain.  "Hellooo!  As a girl, you are 
allowed to be quiet, to let the men take the lead and take care of things.  You 
never have to make the first move, so you don't have to know what move that is.  
You can learn as you go.   Actually, Jane is making it easy on you by letting you 
take the woman's role in social interactions.   

     "Yeah, right, so all this is the best, most efficient way for me not only to fix 
my screwed up behavior, but to prepare myself for the life I will lead as an 
adult."

     "That about sums it up," claimed Penny.  "I knew you'd catch on, sis."  

     "Get, real," I said.  

     Penny stopped what she was doing and grabbed me by the shoulders.  "This 
*is* real, Jessica.  As real as it gets.  You're a well-mannered person with an 
education way beyond your peers.  You can build on that to be *anyone* you 
want to be.  *That* is what this is all about."  

     She let go of me and leaned against the vanity.  "I love Aunt Jane more than 
anyone else in the world.  She saved my life - literally - and then gave me an 
even better one.  What part of that don't you think is real?"  

     I started to answer her . . . and ran out of words before I started.  My eyes 
started burning and I sagged against the counter.  Penny had me in her arms in an 
instant and cradled my head against her chest.  "I love you, too, sis.  Jesse.  I love 
the total person you have become.  You're a good person, and you'll do great 
things in life.  Trust me on this."  

     She gently lifted me from her shoulder and looked me straight in the eye, 
"Any less would be, would hurt Aunt Jane, and I don't think you want to do that."  

     "No, I don't," I whispered, unconsciously straightening my shoulders.    

     Penny nodded, and smiled.  "Now, let's get ourselves fixed up before they 
send the search parties after us."   

     It wasn't that easy, of course.  I had a *lot* to think about, and in my 
distraction just getting my stupid gloves back on was a battle.  But Penny helped, 
part of which was giving me the time to think without interruption.  When we 
finally got back to our table, I was at least mobile and back in the same time zone 
with the rest of them.  

     Aunt Jane had apparently been talking with Mr. Ellis, and they quizzed me on 
my expressed interest in the law while we sat.  I hadn't really realized it before 
that night, but that really was what I decided I wanted to do with my life.  Mr. 
Ellis described the opportunity to be an intern in his office, and I tried to get a 
reading from Aunt Jane on whether that would really be possible.  

     She was neutral, though, and the conversation drifted onto other topics.  Matt 
and I danced again.  Dan did his duty with me as well.  Even Mr. Ellis took his 
turn, telling me the whole time about how he used to dance with his daughters, 
who were now a doctor and a financier.  Apparently Matt had some mighty big 
footsteps to follow, even if some of them had a pointy heel.  By the time Matt 
claimed me for one last dance, my feet were killing me and I was about to fall 
asleep in his arms.  

     "I think we should be going," he said.  "Though I wish this night would never 
end."

     "Thank you, Matt, that's very sweet," I said languidly.  

     He smiled, though there was an undercurrent of sadness in his eyes.  "Oh, 
Jessie, if only . . . "

    That startled me from my drowsiness.  I could hear in his voice that he was 
just softening my name into a friendly, more personal form, but that wasn't the 
only way to hear that name.  It forced me to face things that I had been ignoring - 
again.  Not that facing them provided any answers, but it kept me from slipping 
into any greater problems.   
       
     "Yes, Matt, I think we should be going," I agreed, carefully ignoring the rest 
of what he said.  

     The ride in the limo back to where Mr. Ellis had parked their car was 
strangely silent.  Matt slipped his arm around me in the car, but it was more 
companionable than romantic.  When they got out, he gave me a hug and I found 
myself reflexively kissing his cheek.  On the scale of that evening, that was way 
too minor to worry about.  

     I fell asleep during the ride home, unconscious habits keeping my dress neat 
and my knees together.  I don't know if Aunt Jane wanted to say anything, but it 
wouldn't have done any good.  Marie helped me out of my beautiful clothes and I 
fell into my bed, hiding in my dreams from a reality even more confusing.  

***************************

     "Bonjour, cherie, bonjour.  Levez!  C'est le matin," an impossibly perky voice 
chirped at me.  

     I guess it would be unfair to say it had been a short night.  I had just spent it 
on other things than sleep.  Most of it, anyway.  I would have regretted that 
decision, if I could work up enough energy for such complex emotions as regret.  
Okay, focus.  Start with the basics.  In.  Out.  Breathe.  Slow breathing is good.  
Sooo relaxing . . . . 

     The covers leaped off the bed and a nuclear blast of light melted my eyeballs, 
even through my eyelids.  

    "Vite, vite, cherie.  Today is *not* the day to keep Miss Jane waiting."

     "Yeah, like, what makes today any different about that?" I grumped from 
below the pillow I'd grabbed to protect my still-shut eyes from the brightness.  

     "You will see, Miss Jessica," the voice promised.  

     Accepting the inevitable - besides, it was cold without the covers - I 
cautiously poked my head out from under the pillow.  And cracked up.  I laughed 
so hard I *really* had to hurry to the bathroom. 

     "Marie, you look just . . . darling!" I called from the safety of the little alcove.  

     "As will you," she threatened.  

     Oh ssshhhuugaar!  That's right.  Today was pettis and pigtails, for all of us.  
Ohmigod, for *all* of us.  

     Some things just can't be hurried, but as soon as I could I dashed back into the 
bedroom to find Marie - in the frothy little frock held out by an explosion of 
petticoats, with pigtails and freckles, that I had seen her wearing before - 
arranging a similar outfit for me on the bed.  Her dress was a delicate pastel 
yellow.  Mine, as I saw immediately, was robin's egg blue.  Other than that, they 
were pretty similar all the way to white tights and mary jane shoes.  

     "Aunt Jane, too?" I asked in wonder.  

     "Today would not be a good day to keep her waiting," Marie repeated, not 
quite answering.  

     "Not for a million dollars," I agreed.  "*This* I gotta see."  

     Not that my agreement made things go any faster.  It was even harder to make 
my face up like a little girl than a more, well, ordinary look.  The flaws had to be 
hidden so subtly that it didn't look like I was wearing any makeup at all, yet I 
needed fully, pouty, cupid's bow lips and wide, alert eyes.  Everything had to be 
nearly invisible, except for the freckles and overly-rosy cheeks.  Of course, on 
those Marie went *way* overboard.  

     She left me to put my own hair up into pigtails and to finish getting dressed.  
Hey, no corset!  I guess little girls don't have to have as much shape.  I figured 
this was going to be a pretty good day after all.  No corset.  Low-heeled shoes.  
And Aunt Jane in petticoats!  I rushed through the rest of getting dressed, only 
my still-long nails a contrast to relatively (relatively!) comfortable clothes, and 
went across the hall to knock on Penny's door.  

     "Come in," I heard from inside.  

     Penny was just finishing her own pigtails.  Stiff petticoats held the little skirt 
of her cotton-candy pink dress out like a ballerina's tutu, and showed about nine 
feet of sleek leg down to her own patent leather shoes.   Some girls do not look 
like children, regardless of their clothes, darn it.  

     "Are you ready?" Marie asked me.

     "Yes, ma'am," I replied pertly, dipping in a dainty curtsy.  

     "Then let us be off," she said, giggling.  We trooped together down the stairs, 
then marched into the breakfast room.  

     "Ohmigod," I gasped.  Penny whacked my unarmored sides with her elbow, 
but her own giggle spilled out despite her best efforts.  

     Little Missy Jane was there, in all her budding glory.  A sea green dress with 
bows and lace and ruffles danced around her erect torso, calling out the 
highlights in her auburn pigtails.  An array of freckles at least as extensive as 
those on my faced wiggled under her eyes as she turned to look at us.  I was sure 
she had petticoats at least as full as ours, but I wanted to sneak a peek under the 
table just to see.  

     "Come in, girls, and sit down.  We have dawdled enough," Aunt Jane's voice 
said.  It seemed strange coming from that figure, because it wasn't strange at all 
and the figure certainly was.  

     "Yeth,  Mith Jane," Marie lisped, curtsying.  I wasn't about to try the lisp 
thing, mostly because I knew I'd lose it if I tried.  I was close enough to a giggle 
attack as it was, but I dipped into my own curtsy, and took my place.  From 
somewhere, Marie had found plastic bowls with cartoon characters on them, and 
plastic spoons.  That's all we needed, because our breakfast meal was one 
children could manage; cereal, milk, and orange juice.  

    "Jessica, I was quite impressed with your understanding of hidden taxes last 
night," Aunt Jane said as we sorted out the milk and fruits.  

         "Thank you, Aun . . . I mean, Miss . . . ," I stammered to a stop, then 
decided I needed to start over.  "Could I . . would you mind if I, um, called you 
'Aunt' Jane?  I mean, you introduced me, um, us as your nieces last night, and I 
just started, I mean, it was . . . nice."  

     She looked quickly out the window and I was afraid I'd made her angry.  In a 
moment she looked back though, and the shine in her eyes was bright enough I 
didn't think anger was fueling it.  "Yes, dear," she said.  "I would be very pleased 
if you chose to consider me your aunt.  Very proud."  

     Proud.  How many times in my life had I ever made someone else feel proud?  
Ever?  I'd like to think there had been a few times - too few - when I'd been 
justified in a little pride myself, but making someone *else* feel proud?  Dear 
Lord, that was . . . different.  That was . . . nice.   I ducked my head because I 
knew there was a shine in my eyes, too, but I didn't really mind a bit.       

          Aunt Jane let us chatter through breakfast after that, distracted perhaps 
from whatever conversation she had intended.  She smiled indulgently as we 
made fun of the grandiose pretensions of the opera singers from the night before 
and added an occasional reinforcing tidbit to the report we gave Marie on the 
fabulous Italian meal.  She didn't even intervene when Penny and I got into a 
pretend fight over our 'favorite' cereal, each demanding to have the box so we 
could read it.   Through it all, Aunt Jane was her normal, serene self, no different 
than if she had been dressed in her usual designer clothes.  The contrast was just 
devastating, and I had to stop and look out the window every few minutes to 
regain whatever composure I had.  Looking at her in her pigtails, with formal 
New England diction spilling from those cutely drawn lips, was just tooooo 
much!  I couldn't decide whether to be disappointed or relieved that the simple 
meal was quickly over.  We formed a virtual conveyor belt to the kitchen, 
carrying boxes, pitchers, and dirty dishes for the shared cleanup.

     "Very well, this is what we'll do next," Aunt Jane said as we finished, not 
quite able to relax from her deeply ingrained need to be in control at all times.  
"Jessica, I believe we had agreed that you would work on the crumpets, with 
Marie.  Penny, I believe the silver tea service is appropriate, but I think it could 
use some polishing."  

     "Miss Jane!" Marie gasped in surprise.

     "I think it could use some polishing," Aunt Jane repeated, but her smile 
showed she knew the task to be unnecessary.  As if anything in Marie's 
household would be less than spotless.  

     I decided two could play at that game.  Curtsying as daintily as I could, I said, 
"May I be excused for just a moment Aunt Jane?" 

     She thought she knew what I wanted - maybe the fidgeting that was so 
obviously bothering me was a clue.  But I didn't really lie, see, because I just 
asked to be excused, and fidgeted, with my legs crossed, and rocking back and 
forth a little.  

     Aunt Jane smiled and nodded, and I ran from the room.  I figured if I were 
dressed as a little girl, it would be in character to run instead of walking, 
especially if I had needed to be excused so badly.  But I used the opportunity to 
dash to the top of the stairs and retrieve what had to be the ugliest doll I'd ever 
seen.  I didn't remember what Cabbage Patch dolls looked like (in truth, I didn't 
care) but I had this vague image of a lumpy head like a potato on a chubby little 
body. That description fit this . . . thing in my room, anyway.  Whether it was a 
Cabbage Patch doll or not was irrelevant, though.  It was ugly, and it was 
durable, and it was fairly big - no little Barbie doll that could be stuffed in a 
drawer.  

     I grabbed it off the dresser where it had loomed over me for months, and 
raced back down the stairs.  Sliding to a stop in front of the other three in their 
precious pettis, I held out my prize to Aunt Jane.  "Aunt Jane, last night I 
promised you that you could hold my favorite dolly today.  Her name is, um, 
Polly.  Take good care of her."  

     I thought Marie was going to choke, and Penny didn't even try to contain her 
hoots.  Doggone that woman though, but Aunt Jane took it in stride like I had just 
handed her the crown jewels.  Cradling the thing in her arm, she nodded and 
went on with her directions about which tablecloth to use with hardly a pause.  

     Our orders clear, we went to work.  As had been the case so many times, 
Marie could have fixed the crumpets in a fraction of the time it took me, but she 
was as patient as always.  She was a great teacher, though, and despite the time it 
took, they came out pretty well.  I took a tray of hot crumpets in to Aunt Jane 
about mid-morning, with some tea, and she nodded her thanks since she was on 
the phone at the time.  Lordy, there is something about a grown up woman in a 
little girl dress, with an ugly doll next to her on her chair, reaming some bozo 
over the phone, that just goes beyond description.  I know I'll never forget that 
image.  

     Lunch was peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.  What else?  But I was 
surprised at Miss Jane's next order.  "Girls," she said, "I think it is time for your 
naps.  We'll have our tea after you get up."

    Naps?  I hadn't taken an afternoon nap in, like, years.  And Aunt Jane was 
*not* tolerant of laziness.  Then I saw through her deviousness - as usual, after 
the fact.  She had known our previous night would run very long before we left 
the bleepin' house!  And so, she had intended us to be in little girl clothes so that 
we could legitimately take an afternoon nap.   If not our silliness about Cinderella 
and the wicked stepmother, then some other pretext would have gotten Penny 
and I into our pettis.  That tricky, sly old . . . fox, or vixen, or whatever.  

     Not that I was complaining, of course.  I was tired and whatever excuse 
allowed me to catch up on a little sleep was fine with me.  Besides, we could take 
those silly petticoats off while we slept.  Marie bustled in to wake us up after an 
hour or so, and then we sat down to a perfect little tea, ostentatiously crooking 
our little fingers and saying, "Would you like another crumpet, deah?"  Through 
the whole thing, Polly never left Aunt Jane's side, though she wasn't a very good 
little girl.  She never did finish the tea and crumpets set before her.

     It was all so . . .surreal.  It was just unheard of for Aunt Jane to be so . . . 
undignified, except, that's not really what it was.  She had dignity regardless of 
how she was dressed.  Still, the whole day I was expecting some sort of . . . 
reaction to the silliness, and she treated it with the most incredible nonchalance 
all day.  

     At least, until our tea was over.  "Very well, ladies, I think it's time we all 
grew up a little.  Marie, if you would clear the table, I'd like the girls to go get 
dressed in something more . . . suitable for a discussion we need to have."  

     "Yes, ma'am," we said.  

     I wouldn't have been surprised to see clothes laid out on the bed when I got to 
my room.  I'd have bet money that Marie had the ability to be in two places at 
once (as opposed to Aunt Jane, who had the ability to be wherever you didn't 
expect her) and so I figured she'd have slipped out and done her normal maid 
thing.  But this time we were left to our own devices.  I stripped out of the 
petticoats and brushed out the pigtails, and tried to decide what to wear.  
Somehow I had the feeling the other shoe was about to drop.  Whatever had 
caused Aunt Jane to indulge in the childish clothes all day was about to be offset 
by a correspondingly serious evening. 

     In the end, I chose the outfit I had worn on my first mall outing.  It was 
unbearably preppy, but that was better than the ostentatious stylishness of Laura 
Ashley.   Besides, I'd had enough of white stockings for the day.  I even slipped 
across to Penny's room to get her to do up my laces so I had my budding-young-
woman curves.  Penny chose Laura Ashley, but that was right for her.  As a 
result, she looked five years older and five times richer than I did when we went 
back down stairs, but I could live with that.  

     It was no surprise at all to see Aunt Jane in an elegantly simple green dress, 
not a hair out of place when we reached her study.  Instead of motioning us to 
chairs though, she stood when we entered.  "Let's go someplace a little less 
formal," she said.  Leading us down the hallway, we entered the conservatory, 
still warmly lit by the rays of the setting sun.       

     Aunt Jane looked at each of us in turn, a long, discerning glance where the 
critical appraisal I had come to know so uncomfortably well was absent.  In its 
place was something complex, but sadness was a big part of it.  Finally she 
turned to look directly at Penny.  

     "You have been one of my most challenging students ever," Aunt Jane said to 
her.

     Penny's head and shoulders fell like she had been struck.  "I'm sorry, Aunt 
Jane."

     "Don't be, child, because that also makes you one of my greatest successes," 
Aunt Jane replied.  "I am so very proud of you."

     "Proud of  . . . *me*?"  Penny asked, looking over at me.  "I've never, um, 
done very well at, this."  

     "You have done wonderfully well," Aunt Jane disagreed.  "We both know you 
faced . . . challenges in the role I laid out for you.  I daresay few could have done 
as well even with greater advantages."  

     She rose to look out the windows into the garden, and somehow the gravity of 
her mood was serious without being threatening.  "But this environment, those 
clothes were never an end in themselves.  They were a way to allow you - to 
force you, in fact - to face your personal demons."  Turning back to Penny, Aunt 
Jane said, "I believe you've done that now."  

     "I . . may have," Penny said.  "I, um, we talked last night, Jessica and I, and I 
realized as I was talking to her that all of what I said applied to me, too.  I can 
never bring Janey back, but I can make a difference from now on."  

    Now Penny changed her focus to me and said, "And thanks to you I think I can 
even find that fulfilling.  I can be . . . happy."  

     "Thanks to me?" I asked in surprise.  "All I've done is given you, both of you, 
grief!"  

     "You have indeed done that," Aunt Jane replied, smiling gently, "but that is 
hardly all you have done."  

     Aunt Jane's body firmed up somehow, as though she were straightening an 
already perfect posture even further, and she looked at Penny.  "Penny, dear, I 
think it is time for you to leave."  

    "Leave?"  

     "I think it's time for Penny to leave, and for Benny . . . Benjamin to return.  
You need to move out of my world into the wider world before you become 
trapped in a form that doesn't suit you."  

     "Like Victoria?" Penny asked.  

     "In some ways," Aunt Jane said, nodding.  "Your parents love you, and they 
deserve the chance to show that to you.  They deserve to feel the pride in you that 
I feel.  That is where your home lies, and your future."

     There was regret in Penny's expression, and a bit of fear as well, but also 
resolve and confidence.  You could see the change in her attitude even as she sat 
there.  For the first time since I had met her, she looked down at the way she was 
dressed with a sense of awkwardness.  "So, what do I, um, do?"  

     Aunt Jane's smile showed in the corners of her eyes, a lie that was 
demonstrated by their shine.  "Today, one last day, you have been my precious, 
shiny Penny."  Then she sighed.  "Tomorrow, Sandy and Carolyn will come here 
to 'deconstruct' you; to take you back to a masculine appearance.  We will spend 
a few days helping you learn to move and talk like a man again, then . . . . well, 
then your parents will get a chance to see how fine a young man you are."  

     "Oh, Aunt Jane, I . . . ," Penny cried, rising and reaching out to hug her 
tormentor, and mentor, and molder.  

     I felt like an intruder, a voyeur watching something private and precious, of 
which I was not truly a part.  If I had been standing near the doorway, I'd have 
tried to sneak from the room, but I was afraid it would be too noticeable if I stood 
at that point, so I tried to disappear into the upholstery instead.  It didn't work, of 
course.  Nothing escaped Aunt Jane's notice.  After a moment she leaned away 
from Penny, so gently there was no sense of rejection at all, then looked at me.  

     "Jessica, you are indeed one of the best students I've ever had," she said, 
clearly moving on to a new topic.  

     "Thank you, Aunt Jane.  I meant what I said last night, though.  If that's true, 
it's because I started out worst."  

     "Hardly," she disagreed.  "But I wasn't talking about your skills in dress and 
deportment only.  I meant your academic excellence.  You are a very quick 
study.  It is to your credit that you can apply your lessons of course, hence your 
success as Jessica.  But even in purely academic areas you shine.  You write well, 
you are very good at research, and you have creative insights."

     "Um, thank you," I replied, shocked.   

     "Would you really like to be an intern in a law firm?"

     "Sure, I mean, yes, ma'am."

     "As Jessica?" she asked, fixing me with her looking-inside-my-mind stare.  

     I didn't answer immediately.  There were a lot of implications to that.  Like, if 
I said, 'no', what would happen to me?  I decided that was a fair question, and one 
I couldn't reason out by myself.

     "What are my, um, choices?"  

     She smiled, nodding appreciation at whatever I'd done that was good.  "Let 
me assure you of one thing.  You've fully met my standards as a student, and I 
believe you've done your best.  That was our deal, was it not?"

     "Yesss," I said slowly.  

     "So regardless of what happens from here, I will stand by the rest of our deal.  
I will see that you get the college education of your choice."  

     "I, um, thank you, but that is so much money.  I need to, I don't know how, 
but I need to do something to pay my own way."  

     She nodded, and while I had no clue how to make good on that commitment, I 
also got the clear impression she would make that happen, too.  "With that as a 
given, what would you like to do now?"  

     "You mean, like, I could go back to being Jesse?"

     "If you'd like."

     "And, um, go back to the home?"

     "Only if you want to," she said.  "I was hoping you would consider staying on 
with me.  If not, I can arrange for you to stay at an appropriate preparatory 
school.  As Jesse."

     I took that statement apart and realized the, 'as Jesse' was tagged to the prep 
school, not to the 'stay with her' part.  Penny shifted in her seat, and a grinned at 
me, "Each one teach one, sis.  You can go be a preppy if you want, but if you 
stay here, you could do a lot of good."  

     "You would not have to be Jessica all the time," Aunt Jane explained.  "But it 
is important to my program that the troubled young men feel there is no solace 
available from other male figures in the household, at least in the beginning.  
Beyond just not having a male in residence though, I could really use your help.  
A 'big sister' is an important part of the program."

     She looked back out the windows again, gazing on the gray, near-winter day.  
"I need the special insight only a big-sister confidante can provide.  The risks are 
greater, significantly greater, without it.  Sometimes too great to be acceptable.  
There have been . . . problems that I would not chance again.  And that might 
mean that some young man loses his chance to become all he can be.  I really do 
believe we have helped sometimes."  

    Turning back from the window and the memories the gray day held, she 
looked at me.  "That is not meant to force your decision.  I have other options, 
other ex-students who could fill that role.  It is an opportunity, not a duty.  
However, you could be very helpful, if you are willing."

     Then she walked over to sit beside me on the low couch.  Her manner was 
deliberately upbeat, brisk and confident.  "In any event, I can arrange for a legal 
internship for you.  You can understand, I am sure, that you could not go 
alternately as Jesse and as Jessica to the same place, so you would need to choose 
one or the other for fairly extended periods - the time a new student is in 
residence as Jessica, or a full semester at boarding school as Jesse.  However, 
internships of an equivalent duration are available, so that is a free choice either 
way."   

     "Wow," I said softly.  "That is a lot to think about."  

     "Just so," she said gently.  "And that is why I asked you to give me three days.  
Think about it, and give me your answer tomorrow."  

     I nodded, mind whirling with options and combinations that seemed to spiral 
out of control.  

     Standing up again, Aunt Jane urged me to my feet and then reached another 
hand to Penny.  "Tonight is our last night together as ladies.  I'm sure Marie has 
something interesting in mind for dinner.  You should not have challenged her 
French cuisine by praising last night's Italian so enthusiastically.  Shall we see 
what she has created?"  

*************************************

     "Don't forget to pack this sweater, mon chou," Marie said.  "It matches your 
eyes so beautifully."  

     "Mais oui, Tante Marie.  Bien sur," I said, reaching out one arm to pull her 
close enough as she passed that I could kiss her cheek.  

     She blushed at the attention.  After all this time, I could still get a rise out of 
her whenever I wanted, and she knew it.  Of course, she didn't mind.  Also of 
course, she didn't let me pack the silly sweater myself.  Refolding it three times 
until it was the perfect shape to fit the niche she had picked out in my already 
bulging suitcase, she patted it into position and stood back, surreptitiously wiping 
away a tear.

     "Jesse, mon cheri, it seems like you just arrived to share your life with us."

     "To become alive, you mean, Tante Marie," I said.  "If not for you and Mama 
Jane, I'd have no life at all."  

     "You are a tough one, Jesse, and I don't mean that you are a swaggering bully, 
regardless of how you seemed when you came here.  You'd have survived.  But 
not, I think, flourishing as you have with us."

     "I'd have picked on somebody one time too many and ended up broken into 
little pieces," I disagreed gently.  "And we both know it."  

     Old whatsisname, the tall dude I had met in the mall that day, had been right.  
If you don't go looking for trouble, you don't find it very easily.  I had found 
much more pleasant things instead.     I was going away to Yale law school, 
riding on the credentials of a maxed-out LSAT despite being two years younger 
than my soon-to-be peers.  Of course, I had been drinking through an academic 
firehose for the last few years.  Mama Jane saw to that, even when it took 
hellaciously competent tutors after I had passed her own abilities to teach me.   
That, plus some courses as an undergrad at Yale had gained me a BA degree 
already, and I was officially qualified for Law School.    

     The soft sweater Marie had packed provided a cushion for some additional 
treasures I needed to take along - photos of my continually expanding family.  
The first item I nestled securely away was a triptych of my three little sisters.  
'Little' used loosely, of course.  Two of them had been taller than I would ever be, 
unfortunately, and one of those was older as well.  But I had managed to mother 
them just the same.  Of course, I had great teachers in that sort of thing as well.  

     Which were represented in the second photo, this one of a very magical 
group:  Mama Jane, Tante Marie, Penny, and this admittedly cute little blonde 
with a slightly shocked expression.  Of course, I had always been at least slightly 
shocked back then.   Marie bustled by and looked over my shoulder as I held the 
photo before packing it away.  

     "Jessica always was a heartbreaker," Tante Marie said.  "It is just as well 
you're comfortable as Jesse, because if you had been like our Caitlyn, Miss Jane 
would have had to hire a squad of Marines to keep the suitors away."  

     "Don't remind me," I grimaced, then laughed.  "Lordy, if I had a nickel for 
each time I had to use the, ah, diplomacy skills Mama Jane taught me - to 
discourage some bozo - I wouldn't need to work for a living."  

    Tante Marie's expressive eyes drooped into a sad wistfulness.  "Do you ever 
regret, cheri, not going off to boarding school as Jesse more often?  You could 
have found a nice girl if you weren't so busy *being* a pretty girl for your 
sisters."

     I took her into my arms for a real hug, one we both needed actually.  "Not for 
one, single heartbeat," I declared, softly but adamantly.  Then I leaned back and 
grinned.  "Besides, the good-lookin' high school girls wouldn't be interested in a 
scrawny little geek like me."

     She pretended to slap me, but there was just enough bite in her words to show 
she was serious.  "Do not put yourself down, child.  You are a wonderful person, 
and some day some girl will realize that."  

     "Of course," I agreed easily.  "But they won't *see* it, since so many of them 
look over the top of my head."  Before she could protest further, I continued.  
"That's okay, though, because in a little while when I make my first or second 
zillion dollars, I'll let the smell of all that money catch their attention.  After that, 
I'll sweep 'em off their feet - even if I have to use jiu jitsu to do it."

    Now she did slap my arm, but she giggled even as she shook her head.  I let 
her bustle off and tried to remember what else I'd forgotten to pack.   My glance 
fell on the nightstand beside my canopied bed, and I almost said some naughty 
words.  "Can't forget that," I murmured as I walked over.  In the drawer were my 
once-upon-a-time only possessions in the world.  The annotated copy of 
Machiavelli was long gone, though not forgotten.  I still thought ol' Mac had 
some good points.  My mother's scorched Bible was still there, though.  I was 
going to have to find the time to read it again one day.  And the scout knife my 
dad gave me.  Those went into my briefcase too, since I'd be on my way in my 
own car - courtesy of Mama Jane and a very nice going away present it was 
indeed - so I wouldn't have to pass through some useless security checkpoint 
somewhere.  

     The last item in the drawer was a dusty little spiral notebook, my 'journal' as 
I'd once so proudly considered it.  There hadn't been much time for fine art in the 
last couple of years.  No big loss.  Not much leverage in helping children's homes 
through understanding of old paintings.  Better off without it, in fact.  That was a 
blurry emotional drain when I needed to be crystal clear and focused.  Like 
Mama Jane.      

     "Dear, you should pack a tie and a nice shirt," Mama Jane said as she walked 
through the open door.  In her hands she held one of each, nicely coordinated of 
course.

     "Yes, Mama Jane," I whined like every nagged-to-death teenager in history.  
It pulled her up short.  I laughed and slithered over to sneak a peck on her own 
cheek.  "I'll put it with the six other ones you already made me pack."  

     "I did not," she denied defensively, then blushed at being tweaked so 
successfully.

     She saw what I had in my hands and her eyes widened in surprise.  "I haven't 
seen that for a long time."

     "Just as well," I said, dropping it in the wastebasket.  "Childish anyway."  

     She looked at me for a moment, then shrugged.  "As you wish."  She walked 
over to the tattered old Bible and gently picked it up.  "I remember the first day 
you arrived."

     "Lordy, so do I," I replied, grimacing for real this time.  "I was such a - sorry 
Mama Jane, but nothing else will do - such a prick when I got here." 

     "But a cute one," she said, laughter shining in her eyes.  And more than 
laughter, too.  

     I moved over to embrace her just as I had Marie, but it was not really the 
same.  Marie was special, but . . . "I love you, Mama Jane."     

     "And I love you, child," she said, squeezing me just a little too tightly, which 
was just right.  She stepped back and wiped ineffectually at her cheeks.  It was an 
opportunity to tweak her again, but I was not hypocritical enough to take 
advantage of it.  After all, if I'd have been wearing mascara, my eyes would have 
looked just as bad.  That I knew from hard, but valuable, experience.  

     It could have been awkward.  I didn't know what to say, and neither did she.  
No words filled the silence between us, but after a moment I realized none were 
needed.   There was a bond between us that was forged of much more than mere 
words.  

     And I realized nothing else needed to be packed, either.  At least, nothing so 
desperate it couldn't wait.  I was only going to be a couple of hours away by car - 
less if I could dodge the speed traps in my new bimmer.   So I smiled and closed 
my briefcase.  Taking the unneeded necktie and shirt from her, I crushed them 
into the suitcase and zipped it shut as well.

     I think the two bags weighed as much as I did, but one had rollers and I 
balanced the other on top.  Mama Jane picked up my briefcase herself, and we 
walked together down the hall.  She grimaced at little as I let the suitcase wheels 
down each step of the wide staircase, but despite her sense of propriety, she was 
always eminently practical as well so she bowed to the necessity.      

     "It's only two hours," I said, repeating my earlier thoughts.  "I was further 
away those semesters I was at prep school."

     "It's not the physical distance, Jesse," she said quietly.  "You're all grown up 
now, going out on your own adult life.  That's not easy for a mother to accept.  
No matter how proud she is of her child."  

    Oh, God, that did it.  I managed to get the bags in the car, but only because I 
could find it by feel.  My eyes wouldn't focus and I was sniffling in a way that 
put the lie to her claim of my maturity.  Now it was awkward, not because we 
needed to say anything, but because I had run out of excuses to delay, yet I didn't 
want to leave.  

     Tante Marie rescued me - again - by bustling out of the house with a little 
paper bag in her hand.  "Attendez, mon chou, you need these."

     Inside the sack were fresh baked cookies.  "Thank you, Tante Marie, but I'm 
not likely to starve in the next couple of hours."  

    "Skinny as you are, one never knows," she sniffed.  "You have never eaten 
nearly enough."

    "It is not because I didn't love your cooking," I declared.  "It's because 
whenever I'm home, you strap me into one of those corsets."  

     "And you look just lovely when she does," Mama Jane said, but Marie's magic 
had worked and we were again able to handle the moment.  I gave them each a 
quick hug and then opened the car door, sliding behind the wheel and inserting 
the key.  The warning beep that sounded when the key was in the ignition with 
the door open demanded that it be closed, and there wasn't much more to do.  

     "I will expect a call at least once a week," Mama Jane said sternly.  

     "You mean, in addition to the ones you'll get from all your spies?" I teased.  

     "Of course," she agreed blandly, showing not a shred of guilt.  

     "Just so," I said, grinning.  She reached out to put her hand on my cheek, and I 
leaned into it for just a second.  Marie was less formal and returned the kiss to 
my cheek that I had stolen earlier.  Then they both stood back.  I wasn't about to 
say good-bye, so I started the car and drove off, looking at them in the mirror as 
they in turn watched me all the way down the drive. 

**********

Excerpt from the Personal Diary of Jane Thompson  
 
Jesse left Seasons House today.  He starts law school at Yale next week, two 
years early due to his very hard work and very great talent.    
 
He's accomplished so much in his years with me and come so far from the 
insecure, vulgar, nearly-violent boy placed in my charge by Judge Ruth.  His 
academic record speaks for itself, and I have never had a more committed, more 
accomplished 'big sister' in all my years of working with petticoated boys.  He 
could carry off all the roles from prissy, overly feminine debutante to scheming 
co-conspirator.  I cannot find fault in any aspect of his performance in his time 
with me.  
 
No, the fault is with me.  
 
It would be laughable if it were not so damned depressing.  Here is Jesse, by all 
accounts and measures, the definitive statement of my method of rehabilitation.  
My masterpiece.  He is polite, well spoken, educated, even brilliant, and genteel 
in all the ways that such things are judged.  Lord, just the other day Betty 
Franson told me she had never seen a student who so epitomized what I taught 
and who so completely emulated me in their behavior and outlook.  
 
What was the name of that character in that stupid movie?  The small person who 
was a miniature copy of the villain?  Oh yes, Mini-Me.  That is Jesse - my mirror 
image 
 
My image in slacks.  
 
My masterpiece.  
 
My greatest failure.  
 
God above, but I have failed that child, and now all I can do is keep my word and 
try to . . . to. . . what?  Help him in this notion of his to become a millionaire 
lawyer?  Is that any fate for someone with the soul of an artist?   He should be 
going to the National Museum of Art to study painting, not to some Ivy League 
school to study Blackstone!

And I never knew until the very day he left, when he casually tossed in the trash 
a journal filled with passion and insight and a deep love of art that thrived even 
when he was alone and unloved in all the world.    
 
What have I done?  
 
What could I have done that I didn't do?  I wish I knew.  In all honesty, I think 
the course was set in stone during those first early days.  He fell into the program 
so easily after those first few weeks, though like all the good ones he took longer 
than that to accept the value of my program.  None of the really good ones were 
easy, and Lord knows Jesse was not.  I, well, it isn't an excuse, but Penny, that is, 
Benjamin still concerned me, too.  In my distraction, I missed the clues that 
should have told me to become the mother Jesse so badly needed instead of the 
stern teacher/governess that I knew how to be; that he knew only too well from 
the state-run institutions that awaited him if I declared him a failure.  I missed the 
need to nurture his gentler emotions instead of ruthlessly suppressing them along 
with the darker ones.   
 
In 20/20 hindsight, I should have seen it from the way he relaxed when I forced 
him to do 'artsy things'.  Dance, music, drawing lessons - heavens, he even 
enjoyed embroidery, although he denies it to this day.  I just never saw it as 
anything but a boy finding pleasure in 'girlish' pursuits and resisting that aspect of 
himself as unmanly.   
 
Now I know that he was resisting for a far different reason - he resisted because 
he saw the artist in him as uncontrolled and uncontrollable, and as the barrier he 
had to overcome to achieve the security he craved more than anything else.  In 
reading his journal I saw insight beyond my own, and before he even came to me 
- so far beyond my own that I mistook his  impatience with my shallow 
knowledge for lack of interest, while nothing could have been further from the 
truth.  And in my lack of support, he saw a lack of value.     
 
So it has come to this, and no one but me will ever know what a terrible failure 
I've perpetrated on this young man.  Because he will be a 'success'.  He's brilliant, 
hardworking to the point of obsession and will have every advantage my money 
can give him.  
 
He'll be a 'good man'.  Charitable, honest, a leader in the community.  He'll help 
the needy, take on all kinds of pro bono clients.  He'll be respected, and he'll be 
financially secure through his own efforts.  
 
And every day, his artist's soul will wither just a bit more.  
 
Who will 'force' him to do the 'artsy' things now?  
 
Hmm, let me follow that thought.  Whom do I know that is active in the art scene 
down in New Haven?  Oh, yes, Judith Cranston.  She has one of those tony 
galleries that cater to the high-dollar crowd.  As I recall, she has a daughter who 
helps out in that gallery.  Tabitha?  No, Tamara, and she's a redhead, too.  Jesse 
has always been just silly about redheads.  I'm sure that between Judith and I, we 
can arrange for those two to meet, and if that doesn't get him back into the fine 
arts, well, I'll just think of something else!  I will settle for nothing less than his 
happiness.  

Goodness, for once I'm glad I don't have a new student coming in right away.  I 
can focus on this full time.  No child of mine is going to fail to develop his - or 
her - full potential.  

I will *not* let that boy - that fine young man - be harmed by something I have 
done.