Doing it all Over Again... My Greatest Wish

[whiskynaam]

When I came home from work that night Mom was once again sitting on the couch and watching television.
"Hi, Bill," she greeted. "Feeling better today?"
"Much," I lied, putting on a cheery face.
"Have you talked to Nina?" she asked delicately.
"She won't talk to me," I answered. "But life goes on, doesn't it?"
"What did you guys fight about anyway?" she asked.
"It's kinda personal, Mom," I explained. "But don't worry. I'm coping."
She gave me a sideways smile. As I started up the stairs she suddenly called me back.
"I almost forgot," she told me. "Anita called and asked if you could put up her storm windows this week sometime when she gets home. Winter's coming soon you know."
"Sure," I answered. There had been a time, about a week ago, when the news that Anita had called, asking me to do something for her would have caused a stir in my nether regions. But now, nothing. Sex was still the furthest thing from my mind. "I'll do it tomorrow afternoon."
She beamed at me. "It so sweet of you, Bill," she commented. "Helping Anita out even with your busy schedule. You're turning out all right."
"I hope so," I said as I headed upstairs, realizing that for the first time in forever I was looking at a trip to Anita's as a chore.
________________________________________
I sensed no thawing of feelings from Nina the next day so I did not attempt to talk to her. At lunch she sat alone again at her table. Mike joined me at mine, pointing at her.
"Why's she sitting over there?" he asked, not bothering to finish chewing his food first.
"She's pissed off at me," I told him.
"How come?"
"It's personal."
He stared at me for a moment and then, in the way of Mike, dismissed the subject. "You ridin' the bus today?"
"Yep," I answered, wondering if he was going to start questioning me about Julie now.
Instead he gave me a sour look. "I'll be with you," he said.
"Yeah?" I asked. "How come?"
"Bug's broke. The fuckin oil pump took a shit on me. Have to wait till my dad gets paid again before I can get it fixed."
I commiserated with him for a minute and then our talk turned to other subjects. After lunch we boarded the bus and found seats together. Nina, not even looking at us, found a seat by herself near the front.
My stop came before his so I bid him farewell and exited through the door along with the other ROP members assigned to the trauma center. As I headed for the main doors I saw Julie's car parked in the parking lot. I felt my nerves tense up as I anticipated having to work with her. After all, we worked with scalpels and other sharp instruments.
But as it turned out my fears were groundless. She had already talked to the supervisor and had requested a change of work partner for personal reasons. My new partner was Brett Jackson, one of the other guys in the class. Julie was working with another girl in a section across the room from me. Brett asked a few questions regarding the transfer but I gave him no answers. Eventually he gave up. Julie and I stayed far apart and she did not try to cut my heart out with an un-sterile scalpel. It seemed that particular crisis was passed.
When I rode home that day Nina sat away from me once more. But I also noticed the fact that Mike was not on the bus. He should have been picked up before me. Where was he? Had he found another ride home? For some reason his absence filled me with the same sense of dread I'd felt when I read Tracy's letter. When the bus dropped me off at school and Nina hopped into her Mom's car and I started home, the sensation was still with me. What had happened to Mike?
________________________________________
In the old days, before I'd become Anita's lover, she'd always had me over to do whatever work she required done in the afternoon shortly after I came home from school. Since the first time we were intimate with each other however it became a rule that we planned my work in the late afternoon, timed so she could feed me dinner and then put her kids to bed in time for us to retire to her bedroom, the confines of which I knew as well as my own. As I headed over at five o'clock that day I still felt like sex was the last thing in the world I wanted to participate in. I also knew that Anita would be expecting it. Beyond that my mind refused to consider anything.
She gave me a saucy smile for greeting, a smile I knew meant that she was exceedingly horny and in need of my talents. I sighed and went to work.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon I had all of her storm windows up (knowing in the back of my mind that I would soon be required to put up Mom and Dad's storm windows too). I entered the house to let her know I was done, intending to tell her that I was going to skip dinner that night and just head home. But as I made my way to the kitchen I smelled the familiar aroma of her burgundy beef stroganoff, a dish that she knew was one of my favorites and that she often prepared for me. I also knew that quite a bit of preparation time went into the construction of this meal and I found myself without the heart to turn it down. Besides, I rationalized, Mom, knowing I would be eating at Anita's would have prepared only enough dinner for Dad and herself.
"Do you want to take a shower before dinner?" she asked me as she started the finishing touches on her meal.
"Sure," I said, without enthusiasm.
As I scrubbed myself in her shower, washing the sweat of my exertions down her drain I heard the click of the shower door behind me followed by a rush of cold air against my wet skin. Startled, I turned around to see Anita, completely naked, stepping into the shower with me.
"Anita?" I said, alarmed as she shut the door and pushed her body into mine. "What are you doing?"
She grinned. "I'm feeling a little dirty tonight," she told me, running her hands over my soapy chest.
"But the kids," I protested. "They're still awake."
"They're watching TV," she said, grabbing the bar of soap from my hand. "Don't worry about them."
She began sliding the bar of soap over my wet skin, running it up and down between my lower abdomen and my shoulders, leaving white, foamy streaks on my flesh. Her large breasts were touching my arm as she did this, pushing their weight into me.
"Anita," I started again. "This is a bad idea."
"A bad idea?" she asked, letting the bar slide down onto my thighs and across my balls.
"Yes. We shouldn't..."
"Why don't you let me," she said, dropping the soap to the ground, "decide what is and isn't a bad idea."
"But..."
"Oh dear," she said with mock concern, "I've dropped the soap. Perhaps I should go retrieve it."
"Anita..." I began again but she wasn't listening. She slowly dropped to her knees on the floor of the shower and took my wilted cock into her mouth. "Anita..." I pleaded, trying to resist her.
It was useless. Anita knew how to suck a cock. Though I'd sworn only minutes before that sex was the last thing on my mind it took only a moment of her teasing, sucking mouth slurping at my meat before I started to stiffen.
"Mmmmmm," she moaned, pulling her mouth free for an instant. "I love to feel it get hard in my mouth." She dove back down on me.
She sucked me until I was as hard as a diamond and resting my arm on the top of the shower to keep from falling down. She then began to move her head up and down, sucking and licking and jacking with her hands. Water ran across her face as she sucked, adding it's own tickles to the experience. Just as my hips started to gyrate back and forth, she pulled her mouth from me and stood up, trailing her tongue up my body as she went. She licked across my nipples, onto my neck, and finally to my mouth where she plunged her tongue inside.
Libido is both the gift and the curse of the young. She had succeeded in driving thoughts of Nina and Beirut and Tracy and Mike from my head. She'd succeeded in transferring control of me to the other head. I put my arms around her and pulled her soft body to mine, letting my hands drop down to her ass cheeks which I began squeezing.
She broke the kiss and stood back a little, out of the spray of the warm water. She reached into her shower caddy and removed a bottle of baby oil. It was the baby oil I knew, that was responsible for the silky, sensuous softness of her skin. She put it on herself every time she bathed. I'd watched her do it plenty of times.
"Here," she said throatily, handing me the bottle. "Put it on me."
"Okay," I agreed, popping open the cap.

I turned the bottle upside down and dumped a large quantity over the top of her breasts. The clear oil ran over them, between them, and around the sides of them, spilling onto her belly. I set the bottle down and put my hands on her, starting at the top and rubbing the oil into her skin. My hands and fingers glided over her breasts, squishing them in and out of my grasp, making them slippery and almost frictionless. Her nipples stood out proudly and I took a moment to give each one a quick suck, tasting the bitterness of the oil on my tongue as my hands continued to her stomach.
When her entire belly and flank were slippery I grabbed the bottle once more and then went to my knees before her. Her swollen, dripping pussy was right before my eyes but I ignored it for the time being dumping some oil on each of her upper thighs. I began to massage her legs, starting at the top and working my way down to her feet, rubbing and caressing them until they were as slippery as her torso.
I then dumped some oil into the palm of my hand and cupped her pussy, squishing the oil into her lips. She sighed as I touched her there and I began to rub the oil in, feeling her lips swell further, feeling her slick clit rubbing against me. I slid two fingers into her body. They penetrated the slick passage with ease. Her experienced muscles gripped at me. I began to plunge the fingers in and out while I leaned forward and took her slippery, rigid clit into my mouth and began sucking it.

[whiskynaam]

"Ohhhhh," Anita moaned, her hands coming to the back of my head.
When she came, her legs trembled so badly that I feared she was going to fall on me. Somehow she kept her balance, riding through the tremors I gave her.
I stood up, my dick straining out before me, with the intention of sinking into that slippery channel and taking her standing up while her oil-slickened body slid against mine. But Anita had other plans.
"I still need oil on my back," she told me.
Dutifully I picked up the bottle while she turned herself around. I poured a quantity onto her shoulder blades and it tracked a course down towards her ass. I massaged the oil into her skin, working my way lower once more until my hand was probing between the cheeks of her ass. I dumped more oil, getting her good and slippery in the valley, running my hand in and out. Anita really liked it when her ass was played with and I could hear her heavy breathing as I paid her attention there.
She stepped backward a step and bent over, exposing her crotch and ass to me.
"You know what I want," she breathed, her hand going up to her pussy where it began to rub.
"I think I do," I told her, pouring a little more oil into my hands and then dropping the bottle to the floor.
I put my oily hands back between her ass cheeks and touched the bud of her anus with my index finger. I pushed forward and the digit slid into her back passage, lubing the way as her hot tunnel squeezed me. I probed in and out for a minute and then added a second finger. Anita moaned her approval.
"C'mon!" she commanded. "Do it!"
I pulled my fingers from her and grasped my cock in one hand. With the other hand I spread her slippery cheeks apart. I moved forward, putting the head against her slick asshole. I probed forward once, feeling the orifice grip at me and then I pushed into her, sliding deep into her ass in one fluid motion.
"Yesssss!" Anita groaned and I had to agree with her. Her passage was tight and slick.
I dropped my hands to her hips and began to move in and out of her, feeling her gripping and releasing, hearing her excited moans over the patter of the water. Her hand began to move faster between her legs and her hips began to move backward against me as I moved forward.
She came again and the erratic spasming of her ass around my cock brought my own orgasm forward. With Anita giving me obscene encouragement, I blasted my load deep into her bowels.
After coming she quickly rinsed herself off and got out of the shower, leaving me to give myself another once-over with the soap, particularly in my crotch. As I cleaned my body I gave silent thanks for Anita. She'd given me just what I needed and I felt better, calmer than I had before coming over. I was pleased to find that I had come quite nicely without having to think of Nina at all. In fact she'd hardly entered my mind.
________________________________________
Dinner was up to it's usual standards, which was excellent, and by the time it was over and the kids were in bed I was ready for another session. So was Anita. We went to her bedroom and spent about an hour pleasuring each other in the conventional fashion.
After this, as we were lying together on her bed, sweat drying on our bodies, my seed dribbling from between her thighs and puddling on her comforter, I stared at the ceiling, letting my thoughts flow. Beside me, Anita was in a semi-stupor, drifting towards a full-fledged sleep. She often drifted off after we were done, leaving me to shower and find my way out alone. I'd always taken this as a sign that I'd done a good job.
I thought of Anita, thinking back on our relationship together since that first time I'd come over pleading for her help with a girlfriend problem, engineering her seduction of me. Since then we'd never gone a week without finding ourselves in each other's arms, in each other's body. As far as physical pleasure went she still remained the best. I wondered if, when she met the man she would marry, she would constantly compare him to me? Or would she maybe teach him some of my techniques? This thought actually amused me, making me chuckle for perhaps the first time during that miserable week. Anita teaching her new boyfriend and future husband some of the things she'd learned from a teenager.
I yawned and stretched, preparing to hop out of her bed and head for the shower when a thought from left field suddenly struck me. I froze in mid-stretch, coming fully awake, turning me head and looking at my bed-partner who was just about to give in to the final submersion of sleep.
Anita was already supposed to be dating the man who would marry her! She was supposed to have met him before Tracy graduated from high school. I remembered that clearly from my previous life. He'd been at her side at Tracy's funeral! By the time I went off to college she was supposed to have married him and moved away. But she was doing none of that. She had no boyfriend. The closest thing she had was... me.
What had happened? Why hadn't she started dating him? Why wasn't she falling into her previous pattern as Beirut and Nina were doing? I tried as hard as I could to rationalize a reason for the absence of the boyfriend but only one explanation held water. I had interfered with that by starting a relationship of my own with her.
What had been his name? I thought, trying to remember back over a considerable span of years. Something with a J in it was all I could come up with at first. The name danced for a while on the tip of my tongue until finally I was able to snag it. The last name continued to elude me but a first name was all I needed.
"Anita?" I said, shaking her gently until her eyes opened a little. She stared up at me blearily.
"Whu... ?" she grumbled.
"Do you know anybody named Jack?" I asked her.
"Huh?" she said, waking up a little more now.
"Jack," I repeated. "Do you know anyone named Jack?"
"My ex-father-in-law's name is Jack," she said. "Do you mean him?"
"No." I shook my head. "Any other ones?"
She thought for a second. "Well there's Jack Valentine at work."
Bingo! Once she told me the last name it came back to me. Her future married name was supposed to be Anita Valentine.
"Why would you ask that?" she wanted to know.
"Tell me about Jack Valentine," I prodded her.
She gave me a puzzled look for a second but, like Tracy and Nina, she was well used to the occasional strange question or statement from me. "He transferred to my department about a year ago," she finally said. "He's divorced and kind of good looking. He asked me out a few times last year but finally he gave up when I kept turning him down. He's dating some tramp from accounting now. Word has it their relationship isn't going so well."
"Why," I asked cautiously, "did you turn him down when he asked you out?"
She looked at me strangely and then smiled. "Why would I want to go out with some pinhead when I have you?" she asked. "You take care of all of my needs. Well, most of them anyway."
"Anita," I said, thinking as quickly as I could about how I was going to phrase this. If I'd learned nothing else from my experience with Julie it was to treat a woman during a conversation like this as you would an unexploded bomb. "Don't you think that, well, maybe you should occasionally go out with guys your own age?"
"Why?" she asked softly.
Why? "Uh... well, you know, because you might want to uh, develop a relationship with a man and maybe, you know, get married again someday."
"I would like to get married again someday," she told me, scooting a little closer to me. "And I do have a relationship with a guy going. You."
"But Anita," I said, "I'm only seventeen years old. I'm in high school. I'll be going off to college next year."
"I know," she responded, slapping playfully at me with her hand. "And once you're eighteen years old we won't have to keep our relationship a secret anymore. We'll be free."
"Free?" I said, looking at her like a rabbit in a set of headlights.
"Yes," she said. "I figure I can go with you wherever you go to college. I can get a job practically anywhere with my skills. We can rent a house while you get your degree. The only hard thing is going to be telling your parents about us." She shook her head sadly while I stared with my mouth agape. "That's certainly not going to be fun."
"No," I muttered slowly, numbly, "it wouldn't be fun at all, would it?"
She leaned over and kissed my nose with a quick peck. "But don't worry," she assured me. "It'll work out. Love will find a way. Why don't you go take your shower now? You don't want to make your parents suspicious do you?"
"No," I said. "That wouldn't do at all."
I was deeply troubled once again as I walked home and headed upstairs that evening. I brushed by my mother before she had a chance to get a good look at my face and see my emotions there. As I crawled under my covers and shut off my light I found myself actually grateful for my fight with Julie. It was thoughts of her that had kept me from telling Anita then and there that I had no intention of marrying her or having her follow me to college. In fact I never intended to sleep with her again. But I had to think carefully first about how I was going to break that news to her. It was clear that I was in the process of screwing up her life but good. Instinctive moves to correct this action might not necessarily be the best ones. The situation would need to be reflected upon first.
As I was reflecting I fell asleep. When I woke up a whole new day was beginning.

[whiskynaam]

I half expected Mike to show up at my house in order to walk to school with me since his car was broken. When he didn't, I figured that one of his parents must have given him a ride. I didn't see him during the classroom portion of the day at all but that was hardly unusual. During lunch period, when I still didn't see him I was forced to conclude that he wasn't there. The conclusion was confirmed when I boarded the bus for ROP and he wasn't there either.
Where was he? I wondered worriedly. Was he sick? Had he maybe taken ill during his shift the previous day? Although that nicely explained why he hadn't been on the bus yesterday or today it didn't ring true. I had a premonition of more disaster brewing. A premonition that turned out to be correct.
Mike was supposed to come over to my house for a study session after school and when he didn't show up I called his house, noting that my hands were trembling a little as I dialed. He answered the phone on the second ring.
"Mike?" I asked. "What's up?"
"Nothin'," he told me sourly.
"Where were you today?" I asked him. "Didn't see you in school or at ROP."
There was a long pause. Finally he said, "I got in trouble yesterday, dude."
My heart started hammering in my chest as I heard his words. I forced myself to ask, "What kind of trouble?"
"The captain at the station caught me smoking a joint out behind the apparatus bay."
"What?" I asked slowly. "You were smoking a joint there?"
"Yeah," he answered. "I usually smoked them in the car on the way to the station but I didn't have my car. Figures he'd come out to have a smoke just when I was trying to take a few hits."
"And what happened?" I asked next.
"I got suspended for a week," he told me. "I also got kicked out of ROP. They're gonna give me three classes to replace it."
"Mike, Jesus," I said, unable to think of anything else.
"It's cool," he told me. "I didn't really like hangin out at the fuckin fire station anyway. And the captain was an asshole. Anyway I had a meeting with the counselor and my parents today and she said I should give the independent study a try."
"You're not gonna do it are you?" I asked quickly.
"Yeah," he told me. "I am. Fuck going to class for six hours every day."
"Mike," I said, "this isn't the end. You can still stay in school and graduate next year. You can still get on with the fire department after you graduate. You just have to tell them in the interview that you were a dumb kid and that..."
"Fuck that," Mike said angrily. "I'm going into independent study. We sent in the application today. Should be approved by next week."
"Mike," I pleaded, "we're almost halfway through the school year! You'll be done before you know it! Just hang in there for another few..."
"Fuck it!" he repeated. "I'm not staying in that fuckin shithole any longer than I have to. I shoulda gone into independent study in the first place. I'd of been done by now."
"But..."
"I gotta go," he said. "I'll see you around."
With a click he hung up the phone. Slowly I replaced mine in the holder.
I sat for the longest time, trying to think my way through all of the crap that had suddenly come down in the last week but I couldn't. There was too much of it and it was cluttering up my mind. I would no sooner start to think about one aspect when another would push it's way forward, demanding my attention.
I went upstairs to my room and opened up my nightstand drawer. I looked in the cutout section of my bible and found what I needed. I took it out and pocketed it carefully. When Dad got home I asked him if I could use his car for a few hours. He handed me the keys and asked if I would be home for dinner.
"Probably not," I told him, heading out the door.
I drove to the park near the falls; the location of many a kegger. No keggers were going on at the moment since it was daytime and no families were picnicking at the moment since it was October and the weather wasn't quite up for such things. I locked up Dad's car and walked to a trail that led down to the river near the top of the falls. I began hiking.
Twenty minutes later I was standing less than a hundred yards from where the water arced over the cliff. The roar of the falls was very loud and a fine mist from below drifted through the air, blown by the prevailing winds. I found myself a comfortable spot and sat down. I then reached into my pocket and pulled out the half joint that I'd extricated from my bible.
I'd noticed long before I'd been recycled that a little marijuana helped me think deeply about things. It helped keep my thoughts from being sidetracked into something else. Though I was aware of the irony of what I was doing, using the very substance that had brought Mike down in order to help come up with a solution to his problem, as well as the many others that I'd set in motion, I took out a lighter and lit the joint. As I smoked I stared at the falls, watching the water cascade over the edge to its collision with the lower river. The sight was mesmerizing, the sound nothing but white noise. By the time I'd finished the roach my mind was clear and I began trying to think things through.
Patterns. That was what it came down to. There were two separate time lines I was dealing with. What had happened in my first trip from 1982 to 1999 and what was happening in my second trip. When I'd first come over it had seemed so simple. Everything was new, everything was fresh. I had not really believed at all that I would have to worry about the way things had turned out in my first life. But now, after all the things that had happened, I was seeing definite patterns between the two time lines. Though some things had changed I was seeing a definite tendency for things, people especially, to drift into the patterns that had apparently been set for them. As for who or what had set those patterns, I knew not and I cared not. I was only concerned with the question of whether or not the patterns were tendencies or absolute.
Mike. In my previous life he'd gone to independent study and dropped out of school. He'd joined the Air Force a few years later and the few times I heard from him after that he'd seemed to like his job as missile technician in Wyoming. However when he was discovered to have marijuana in his system after a random drug test and given a choice between an Article 15 or a dishonorable discharge without criminal complaint, he chose the discharge. In this timeline I'd successfully steered him off of that path at it's beginning and onto a different one, that of a firefighter. I'd kept him in high school longer than he had been previously and I'd honestly thought that I'd changed his destiny. But then he was caught using marijuana at the fire station. He was thrown out of ROP and was now planning to re-enter independent study. He'd steered himself right back into the other path with only two days worth of effort. Was he now committed to that path? Was there no way for me to steer him back again? Was it pointless to even try?
Nina. In her previous life she'd been taunted and ignored throughout her school years, eventually turning into a bitter, though highly educated person. It would be readily apparent to every person who dealt with her on a regular basis in my first life that she suffered from a raging inferiority complex. She was driven by the desire to appear smarter, better, faster, more competent, more everything, than everyone else around her. She was driven by this desire because deep inside she would always be the butt of everyone's jokes and would always feel she was inferior to everyone. The facade she would put up to convince herself and others to the contrary would often be brutal to those it touched. But in this timeline I'd steered her off of that path. I'd befriended her and, with the help of others, showed her that she really was a good person. For the longest time it seemed she could not fall into her original pattern. And then yours truly, in my idiocy, jerked her heart out of her chest and stomped on it. Now she was back to eating alone in the cafeteria, back to being uncommunicative with everyone. She was on her way to college and medical school next year. In the nineties would she show up in the emergency room in Spokane once again with the same chip on her shoulder, the same attitude? Although the trip took a different pathway than before it sure seemed to me she was heading for the same place.
Tracy. This was the problem that concerned me more than anything else. In the previous time line a football player named David Mitchell had gotten drunk one night and driven my sister into the Spokane River, killing her. I'd prevented that from occurring, true enough, but it was disquieting to me that the Camero had still crashed into the river, that Lisa Sanchez had still been killed in the accident, and that Barbie Langston, who had taken Tracy's place in the car, had not been killed. And now Tracy was dating a baseball player named Darren Maxwell. Was it coincidence that he had the same initials? Was fate simply waiting for another chance to claim Tracy, whose demise was already written in some celestial book somewhere? If so, was there anything I could do about it? Was there anything she could do about it
?
And that brought me to the troubling problem of Anita. She, for a change of pace, had deviated way off of the path that she'd taken before. She had not gone out with the man that she was going to marry in the previous timeline and had instead fallen in love with me after I'd initiated an affair with her. She had called her intended a 'pinhead' in fact. Why was Anita different? Or was she?

[whiskynaam]

I stared at the falls and ran all these things through my mind, one by one. Mike, Anita, Tracy, myself, Beirut, trying to determine if there were any absolutes, any hard, fast rules to this thing. I stayed there for a long time, staring and thinking, thinking and staring, watching the water rush by in the river.
Was fate, I wondered, like that river? A liquid stream rushing along towards a fixed destination. All of the billions of drops of water in that river were destined to end up, eventually, in the ocean. You could take a few drops out and move them back upstream a few feet or a few miles but they would still end up passing by the same point again, they would still end up in the ocean. A few drops would occasionally splash out of the stream for a while, seeming to free themselves of the current but they would eventually be brought right back into the flow. That was their destiny. That was their fate.
But was it possible for a few drops to occasionally escape that river, to find a new path? Sometimes it was. They could be taken away clinging to the bathing suit of a child or scooped up by a motorist whose vehicle had overheated and deposited into a radiator. They could be lapped away from the river by a deer or a coyote or a bear or even a stray dog. Though most of the drops were fated to continue on their way to the Pacific Ocean; it was possible for some to escape, wasn't it?
When I finally left I was soaked from the mist, shivering, probably on the verge of hypothermia, and I had a bitch of a headache.
But I felt better all the same.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Ok. will update more when i have the time. keep reading! the best is yet to come!!

[Cage73]

*clap clap*

keep it coming!!

WHere'd u get the source?

[thamkngw]

wow. i am your fan man. keep it up.

[Landlord]

Again I must say.....impressive. your stories robbed me of 2 hours of sleep. Keep it going.

[DunoWatTodo]

great.... i'm sleeping at 6am coz of ur story =p

[hunter89]

Damn you bro whiskynaam...... I didn't read your story for one day, and I spend my whole morning reading it until I can't complete my job.....

Keep coming !!!! A very good science-sex ficition story!!!

[whiskynaam]

I awoke in a better mood the next morning even though nothing had really changed. Everything was falling or had fallen down around me and it was time to start picking up the pieces. I was determined to take action, to strike back at fate. During my mind session the day before I'd realized that both Anita and myself were walking examples that fate could be changed. It may not be easy to do, but it was possible. If things did not improve, or if they got worse from my interference, at least I'd be able to say that I'd tried.
After breakfast I went to our den and dug through my dad's filing cabinet. After a minute of rummaging I came up with the letter that Tracy had sent us. I opened it up and scanned through it until I found the section I wanted.
"I have a job now," I read, "working at the campus book store as a clerk. I have to..." I scanned further, skipping over the brief description of her job duties. "I work 5:00 to closing at 8:00, Monday through Friday. It's fun I suppose. At least the money will help..."
5:00 to 8:00 Tracy would be in the UC Berkeley bookstore. I memorized that information and then put the letter back.
A few minutes later I was bundling up and preparing for the long walk to school. As I stepped outside the house I was grateful to see it was not raining. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun was so bright it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to it. It was a beautiful fall morning. Or so it appeared.
My happiness at the appearance of the sun quickly deflated when I felt the wind. It was blowing about twenty miles an hour, sending leaves and other debris parading down the street. The moving air was icy and cold, feeling as if it had just came off a glacier. My exposed cheeks immediately reddened and my eyes began to tear. With a sigh I pulled my hood tight, lowered my face, and moved out. This walking to school shit was getting old fast. One way or another, I swore to myself, I was not going to do it much longer.
My first stop upon arriving at school was the administration building. I walked into the main lobby area where two secretaries were working behind a counter. Both were banging away on IBM typewriters. Two student volunteers, both girls, one of whom had once been to my room to 'study', were doing some filing. The one I'd had relations with in the past was the only person in the room to pay my entrance any attention. She gave me a sly smile and then went back to what she was doing.
I walked up to the counter and stood politely for a few seconds. The nearest secretary continued to type, not even glancing my way, although there was no way she could have failed to notice my presence.
"Excuse me?" I finally said.
"You can't use the phone in here," she said impatiently, without even looking up or moving her hands from the typewriter keys. "There's a payphone outside. If you don't have a dime, you're going to have to borrow one from somewhere else. We're not a bank."
"I'm not here to use the phone," I said.
"Then what do you want?" she asked, continuing to type away.
"I need to see Mrs. Compleigh," I told her, referring to one of the school counselors, the one who had pushed Mike into independent study.
Her hands still blurring across her IBM, she asked, "Do you have an appointment?"
"No," I replied, "but it's kind of an emergency. I need to..."
"You'll have to schedule an appointment with her if you want to talk to her," she replied tersely. She returned her full attention to her work.
"This is an emergency," I tried again. "I need to see her now."
She gave a hiss of disgust and pushed herself away from her desk. She turned to me, her eyes full of contempt. "Look, young man," she said, projecting all of the petty authority she possessed towards me. "Our counselors are busy people and I can't just go sending kids in to them any time some student asks. Now if you could just..."
"Now wait a minute," I interrupted, using my adult voice, a voice I rarely employed anymore. It worked it's magic. She, as well as the other secretary and the two volunteers all stopped and stared at me. Concentrating my attention on the one I'd been speaking to I asked, "What is your name?"
"My name?" she asked, the first tinges of actual anger appearing in her tone.
"Yes," I said. "You know, what they call you?"
"Now you listen to me young man..." she started, but weakly. She seemed cowed by the bold way I was speaking to her. Her expression reminded me a little of how Richie had looked when he'd realized he'd bitten off a little more than he could chew.
"Your name?" I demanded, sharpening my tone a little.
"Mrs. Wilks," she finally said. "Now I really..."
"Well, Mrs. Wilks," I said, "when I went through orientation for this school it was explained to me that the school counselors existed to assist me in times of need. That they were student advocates. I was told I could talk to them at any time during the school day. Any time. Are you telling me now that that was a lie?"
"Well no," she stammered, "you can talk to them any time if there is some sort of, well, problem. It's just that for routine matters like what you're..."
"Routine matters?" I asked, exasperated. "I believe I told you twice that this was an emergency. Emergency is not a synonym for routine. Emergency means a pressing matter, a problem, something that requires immediate address by qualified people. I would like to see Mrs. Compleigh for this problem that I have. Is she here?"
"Well, yes she is," Mrs. Wilks said, looking quite dazed now.
"Good," I said. "We're getting somewhere. Would you please tell her that a student has a problem and would like to see her?"
"Uh... well, what is your name?" she asked.
I told her.
"Okay." She nodded weakly, jotting it down. "And what do you need to talk to her about?"
I looked around, seeing that our audience was raptly awaiting my answer for that one.
"That is most definitely none of your business."
She opened her mouth, seemed about to say something, and then perhaps thought better of it. She stood up and headed through a door, closing it behind her. The other three occupants of the room continued to stare at me for a moment. The two student volunteers were hiding smirks of amusement at the exchange they'd just witnessed. Finally they reluctantly went back to work.
Mrs. Wilks returned a few minutes later. She gave me a nervous look and said, "Mrs. Compleigh will see you in just a minute."
"Thank you," I said.
She didn't answer my thanks. She walked over to a large filing cabinet and, using a key from a ring, opened up one of the drawers. She fingered through it for a few seconds and finally pulled a manila file from it. My eyes are pretty sharp, always would be, and I had no trouble seeing my name printed on the tab. She carried the file back through the door from which she'd come. She returned a minute later and sat back at her desk.
Another five minutes went by and the same door opened revealing Mrs. Compleigh. She was about forty or so, with long brown hair that was tied into a bun. She wore a plain brown dress and nylons. Her eyes held a cynical gaze as she appraised me.
"Billy?" she asked. "If you would come with me?"
I stood and pushed my way through the little barrier door and then followed her through the back door. We moved down a hallway past the principal's and assistant principal's office, both of which were empty, a copy machine, a coffee maker, and finally to a door with the counselor's name printed on it. She opened the door and led me into her office.
Her office was small and cramped with a cheap metal desk taking up a large portion of the room. Two small chairs sat before the desk. Her work area was cluttered with various papers and forms although my file was nowhere to be seen there. Framed pictures of two children, one a boy of about ten, the other a girl of about fourteen or so, sat on the desk flanking her penholder. On the wall behind the desk were two framed degrees from the University of Idaho. She had a bachelor's degree and a master's degree in public education with a minor in psychology. The air in the room smelled as if she regularly violated the school no smoking policy.
She worked her way behind her desk and waved me to a seat in one of the chairs. I sat.
"Well, Billy," she started, "Mrs. Wilks is a little upset by the way in which you talked to her. She says you were getting smart with her. Is that true?"
"Getting smart?" I asked contemplatively. "Why do teachers, counselors, and secretaries tell kids not to get smart? Isn't that what we are in school for?"
This produced a few stunned seconds of The Look. Finally she kind of shook her head, as if clearing her mind of my words. "We'll discuss Mrs. Wilks later perhaps," she said finally. "I understand you have some sort of emergency?"
"Yes," I confirmed.
"I hope it's nothing serious," she told me. "You're one of our better students here. In fact, if not for some poor grades your first year, you'd probably be in the running for valedictorian. So what kind of emergency does a bright young man like yourself have?"

[whiskynaam]

I awoke in a better mood the next morning even though nothing had really changed. Everything was falling or had fallen down around me and it was time to start picking up the pieces. I was determined to take action, to strike back at fate. During my mind session the day before I'd realized that both Anita and myself were walking examples that fate could be changed. It may not be easy to do, but it was possible. If things did not improve, or if they got worse from my interference, at least I'd be able to say that I'd tried.
After breakfast I went to our den and dug through my dad's filing cabinet. After a minute of rummaging I came up with the letter that Tracy had sent us. I opened it up and scanned through it until I found the section I wanted.
"I have a job now," I read, "working at the campus book store as a clerk. I have to..." I scanned further, skipping over the brief description of her job duties. "I work 5:00 to closing at 8:00, Monday through Friday. It's fun I suppose. At least the money will help..."
5:00 to 8:00 Tracy would be in the UC Berkeley bookstore. I memorized that information and then put the letter back.
A few minutes later I was bundling up and preparing for the long walk to school. As I stepped outside the house I was grateful to see it was not raining. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun was so bright it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to it. It was a beautiful fall morning. Or so it appeared.
My happiness at the appearance of the sun quickly deflated when I felt the wind. It was blowing about twenty miles an hour, sending leaves and other debris parading down the street. The moving air was icy and cold, feeling as if it had just came off a glacier. My exposed cheeks immediately reddened and my eyes began to tear. With a sigh I pulled my hood tight, lowered my face, and moved out. This walking to school shit was getting old fast. One way or another, I swore to myself, I was not going to do it much longer.
My first stop upon arriving at school was the administration building. I walked into the main lobby area where two secretaries were working behind a counter. Both were banging away on IBM typewriters. Two student volunteers, both girls, one of whom had once been to my room to 'study', were doing some filing. The one I'd had relations with in the past was the only person in the room to pay my entrance any attention. She gave me a sly smile and then went back to what she was doing.
I walked up to the counter and stood politely for a few seconds. The nearest secretary continued to type, not even glancing my way, although there was no way she could have failed to notice my presence.
"Excuse me?" I finally said.
"You can't use the phone in here," she said impatiently, without even looking up or moving her hands from the typewriter keys. "There's a payphone outside. If you don't have a dime, you're going to have to borrow one from somewhere else. We're not a bank."
"I'm not here to use the phone," I said.
"Then what do you want?" she asked, continuing to type away.
"I need to see Mrs. Compleigh," I told her, referring to one of the school counselors, the one who had pushed Mike into independent study.
Her hands still blurring across her IBM, she asked, "Do you have an appointment?"
"No," I replied, "but it's kind of an emergency. I need to..."
"You'll have to schedule an appointment with her if you want to talk to her," she replied tersely. She returned her full attention to her work.
"This is an emergency," I tried again. "I need to see her now."
She gave a hiss of disgust and pushed herself away from her desk. She turned to me, her eyes full of contempt. "Look, young man," she said, projecting all of the petty authority she possessed towards me. "Our counselors are busy people and I can't just go sending kids in to them any time some student asks. Now if you could just..."
"Now wait a minute," I interrupted, using my adult voice, a voice I rarely employed anymore. It worked it's magic. She, as well as the other secretary and the two volunteers all stopped and stared at me. Concentrating my attention on the one I'd been speaking to I asked, "What is your name?"
"My name?" she asked, the first tinges of actual anger appearing in her tone.
"Yes," I said. "You know, what they call you?"
"Now you listen to me young man..." she started, but weakly. She seemed cowed by the bold way I was speaking to her. Her expression reminded me a little of how Richie had looked when he'd realized he'd bitten off a little more than he could chew.
"Your name?" I demanded, sharpening my tone a little.
"Mrs. Wilks," she finally said. "Now I really..."
"Well, Mrs. Wilks," I said, "when I went through orientation for this school it was explained to me that the school counselors existed to assist me in times of need. That they were student advocates. I was told I could talk to them at any time during the school day. Any time. Are you telling me now that that was a lie?"
"Well no," she stammered, "you can talk to them any time if there is some sort of, well, problem. It's just that for routine matters like what you're..."
"Routine matters?" I asked, exasperated. "I believe I told you twice that this was an emergency. Emergency is not a synonym for routine. Emergency means a pressing matter, a problem, something that requires immediate address by qualified people. I would like to see Mrs. Compleigh for this problem that I have. Is she here?"
"Well, yes she is," Mrs. Wilks said, looking quite dazed now.
"Good," I said. "We're getting somewhere. Would you please tell her that a student has a problem and would like to see her?"
"Uh... well, what is your name?" she asked.
I told her.
"Okay." She nodded weakly, jotting it down. "And what do you need to talk to her about?"
I looked around, seeing that our audience was raptly awaiting my answer for that one.
"That is most definitely none of your business."
She opened her mouth, seemed about to say something, and then perhaps thought better of it. She stood up and headed through a door, closing it behind her. The other three occupants of the room continued to stare at me for a moment. The two student volunteers were hiding smirks of amusement at the exchange they'd just witnessed. Finally they reluctantly went back to work.
Mrs. Wilks returned a few minutes later. She gave me a nervous look and said, "Mrs. Compleigh will see you in just a minute."
"Thank you," I said.
She didn't answer my thanks. She walked over to a large filing cabinet and, using a key from a ring, opened up one of the drawers. She fingered through it for a few seconds and finally pulled a manila file from it. My eyes are pretty sharp, always would be, and I had no trouble seeing my name printed on the tab. She carried the file back through the door from which she'd come. She returned a minute later and sat back at her desk.
Another five minutes went by and the same door opened revealing Mrs. Compleigh. She was about forty or so, with long brown hair that was tied into a bun. She wore a plain brown dress and nylons. Her eyes held a cynical gaze as she appraised me.
"Billy?" she asked. "If you would come with me?"
I stood and pushed my way through the little barrier door and then followed her through the back door. We moved down a hallway past the principal's and assistant principal's office, both of which were empty, a copy machine, a coffee maker, and finally to a door with the counselor's name printed on it. She opened the door and led me into her office.
Her office was small and cramped with a cheap metal desk taking up a large portion of the room. Two small chairs sat before the desk. Her work area was cluttered with various papers and forms although my file was nowhere to be seen there. Framed pictures of two children, one a boy of about ten, the other a girl of about fourteen or so, sat on the desk flanking her penholder. On the wall behind the desk were two framed degrees from the University of Idaho. She had a bachelor's degree and a master's degree in public education with a minor in psychology. The air in the room smelled as if she regularly violated the school no smoking policy.
She worked her way behind her desk and waved me to a seat in one of the chairs. I sat.
"Well, Billy," she started, "Mrs. Wilks is a little upset by the way in which you talked to her. She says you were getting smart with her. Is that true?"
"Getting smart?" I asked contemplatively. "Why do teachers, counselors, and secretaries tell kids not to get smart? Isn't that what we are in school for?"
This produced a few stunned seconds of The Look. Finally she kind of shook her head, as if clearing her mind of my words. "We'll discuss Mrs. Wilks later perhaps," she said finally. "I understand you have some sort of emergency?"
"Yes," I confirmed.
"I hope it's nothing serious," she told me. "You're one of our better students here. In fact, if not for some poor grades your first year, you'd probably be in the running for valedictorian. So what kind of emergency does a bright young man like yourself have?"

[whiskynaam]

I looked at her in disbelief for a moment. She had rattled off my school record with the intention of making me believe that she knew who I was and how I was doing in school off the top of her head. She was trying to give me the impression that she knew all of her students by name and could instantly recall their respective records. Her psychology or education classes had probably assured her that this was a good trick to instill trust. I dismissed this without comment only reluctantly.
"Well actually," I said, "I am not the one having the problem. I came here on behalf of Mike Meachen."
Her face clouded a bit. "Mike Meachen? I don't understand."
"Mike Meachen," I repeated. "Surely you remember him? You talked him and his parents into independent study?"
"I'm afraid," she told me firmly, "that what Mike Meachen and his parents discussed with me or decided to do is none of your business."
"Is that a fact?" I asked pointedly.
"Yes, it is," she replied, annoyed. "Now if that's all you wanted to discuss, I have a lot of work to do."
"If that's all?" I asked, switching to the adult voice again. "You encourage a student to drop out of school, to destroy his life, and you wonder if that's all I want to discuss? What kind of counselor are you anyway?"
"Now wait just a minute!" she said sharply, sitting up straighter and leaning over the desk towards me. "Mike is going to independent study. He is not dropping out. He is not destroying his life."
"Don't give me that crap," I told her, holding her hostile gaze. "You know as well as I do that no one graduates from independent study. It's a holding tank where you put kids that you think are going to drop out anyway so that when they do, it doesn't go on your statistics."
She actually paled a little as I said this, her eyes telling me she knew that what I was saying was true and that she was shocked that I'd come up with this information. She quickly composed herself however and began spouting the company line. "Billy, that is simply not true. Independent study is a program designed to help students like Mike when they are struggling..."
"You're quoting directly from the pamphlets, aren't you?" I interrupted. "The ones that the school district administration gave you when they instructed you to seek out likely drop-outs and steer them into this program. I'm sure they told you all kinds of things about how it was for the protection of the school, the protection of the students, the protection of the goddamn American way of life. But I can see in your eyes that you don't really believe all the bullshit you're spouting at me. You know what I'm saying is true. You probably wouldn't admit it under torture, but you know. Don't you?"
"I would appreciate you watching your language in here," she snapped, continuing to stare at me. "I refuse to have a discussion with a foul-mouthed child who comes into my office and..."
"Yes," I continued, "you know. And part of you probably hates it, don't you? Or at least maybe you did once. How long have you been doing this? Are you numb to it now? Do you sleep well at night after you send someone to oblivion? How many kids have you steered into this program, talking to their parents like you were a used-car salesman offering a Cadillac for a hundred bucks? How many kids that you steered into this thing might have been saved if you'd have done what your job was supposed to be and helped them?"
"I think I've heard just about enough from you," she told me. "Please ask Mrs. Wilks to supply you with an office pass since you're now late for first period."
I shook my head sadly at her. "No," I said softly but firmly. "I will not leave until I've had my say."
Her face reddened this time. "Young man!" she barked. "You will leave this office right this..."
"Are you afraid of me, Mrs. Compleigh?" I asked.
"No!" she lied. "I am simply tired of having my time wasted by listening to your paranoid delusions. You are a sixteen-year-old child. You've come to some strange conclusion in your mind and you think it's the truth. Well I'm nearly forty years old and I can tell you with authority that you don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about."
"I struck a few of your chords, didn't I?" I asked, smiling. "I told you a few things about yourself that you didn't really want to hear, didn't I? If you were wise, you would sit down and listen to me for a few minutes. As you pointed out, I'm much younger than you are and you probably don't think I have anything of value to tell you, right? Well someone much younger than me, in a manner of speaking anyway, once tried to tell me something. And I figured that since I was so much more mature that she couldn't possibly be right. Well, I was wrong and I ignored what she had to say, and the consequences of that are something that still haunts me, maybe always will. Do me and yourself a favor and hear me out?"
She looked downright nervous now but finally said, "Say what you need to say."
"Thank you," I replied. "You told me a minute ago that independent study was for students that are 'struggling' in school. Correct?"
"Yes," she said carefully.
"I don't agree with independent study," I said. "I think it's an atrocity. I think you counselors and administrators spend far too much time trying to cover up for poor students instead of trying to help them. Sure, you'd lose a bunch anyway but even if you could save just one, just a single one, wouldn't it be worth it?"
Before she could answer I continued. "But I've learned that you can't change the world. I'm not trying to do that. I'm just trying to change a little part of it. Sometimes I think you can do that. You told me that Mike Meachen was a struggling student. Did you even bother to check his record before you had him and his parents in here? Did you even bother to note that he is not struggling anymore before you cut him off at the knees? His grades have come way up since last year. He was on his way to an upper 3 average for the first time in his life. He might have even made a 4.0 for the year until you kicked him out of school."
"I didn't force anybody anywhere," she protested. "Mike and his parents wanted him to go to independent study."
"No, you didn't force them," I said. "You just brought them in here and waved it in front of their faces. 'Look, Mike, you only have to go to school twelve hours a week.' 'Look Mrs. and Mr. Meachen, your child can graduate in only a few months this way. If you don't do this, he might not graduate at all.' Isn't that pretty much the line you handed them? Did I hit upon any exact quotes there?"
She was staring at me with her mouth agape, her face telling me that was exactly what she'd said.
"But since you didn't bother checking his record first, you never noticed that he was going to graduate. Not through any efforts on your part I might add, but on mine. The first time you waved this crap in front of him I talked him out of it. I got him to study, I got him to bring his grades up and focus on a goal. Things that you are charged with doing. I did them for you. He was on his way to his goals and you steered him right into oblivion. Instead of helping him, you destroyed him."
"He was smoking grass," she said defensively. "At his ROP site. You can't expect me to overlook something like that can you?"
"No," I said, "I can't. He did something stupid; I'm not saying he didn't. He did something he needs to be punished for so that he learns not to do it again. But is this the answer? Sending him out of school? Destroying his life? He didn't kill anybody for God's sake, he smoked some pot. Jesus, haven't you ever smoked pot?"
"Certainly not!" she said, much too quickly.

[whiskynaam]

I looked at her in disbelief for a moment. She had rattled off my school record with the intention of making me believe that she knew who I was and how I was doing in school off the top of her head. She was trying to give me the impression that she knew all of her students by name and could instantly recall their respective records. Her psychology or education classes had probably assured her that this was a good trick to instill trust. I dismissed this without comment only reluctantly.
"Well actually," I said, "I am not the one having the problem. I came here on behalf of Mike Meachen."
Her face clouded a bit. "Mike Meachen? I don't understand."
"Mike Meachen," I repeated. "Surely you remember him? You talked him and his parents into independent study?"
"I'm afraid," she told me firmly, "that what Mike Meachen and his parents discussed with me or decided to do is none of your business."
"Is that a fact?" I asked pointedly.
"Yes, it is," she replied, annoyed. "Now if that's all you wanted to discuss, I have a lot of work to do."
"If that's all?" I asked, switching to the adult voice again. "You encourage a student to drop out of school, to destroy his life, and you wonder if that's all I want to discuss? What kind of counselor are you anyway?"
"Now wait just a minute!" she said sharply, sitting up straighter and leaning over the desk towards me. "Mike is going to independent study. He is not dropping out. He is not destroying his life."
"Don't give me that crap," I told her, holding her hostile gaze. "You know as well as I do that no one graduates from independent study. It's a holding tank where you put kids that you think are going to drop out anyway so that when they do, it doesn't go on your statistics."
She actually paled a little as I said this, her eyes telling me she knew that what I was saying was true and that she was shocked that I'd come up with this information. She quickly composed herself however and began spouting the company line. "Billy, that is simply not true. Independent study is a program designed to help students like Mike when they are struggling..."
"You're quoting directly from the pamphlets, aren't you?" I interrupted. "The ones that the school district administration gave you when they instructed you to seek out likely drop-outs and steer them into this program. I'm sure they told you all kinds of things about how it was for the protection of the school, the protection of the students, the protection of the goddamn American way of life. But I can see in your eyes that you don't really believe all the bullshit you're spouting at me. You know what I'm saying is true. You probably wouldn't admit it under torture, but you know. Don't you?"
"I would appreciate you watching your language in here," she snapped, continuing to stare at me. "I refuse to have a discussion with a foul-mouthed child who comes into my office and..."
"Yes," I continued, "you know. And part of you probably hates it, don't you? Or at least maybe you did once. How long have you been doing this? Are you numb to it now? Do you sleep well at night after you send someone to oblivion? How many kids have you steered into this program, talking to their parents like you were a used-car salesman offering a Cadillac for a hundred bucks? How many kids that you steered into this thing might have been saved if you'd have done what your job was supposed to be and helped them?"
"I think I've heard just about enough from you," she told me. "Please ask Mrs. Wilks to supply you with an office pass since you're now late for first period."
I shook my head sadly at her. "No," I said softly but firmly. "I will not leave until I've had my say."
Her face reddened this time. "Young man!" she barked. "You will leave this office right this..."
"Are you afraid of me, Mrs. Compleigh?" I asked.
"No!" she lied. "I am simply tired of having my time wasted by listening to your paranoid delusions. You are a sixteen-year-old child. You've come to some strange conclusion in your mind and you think it's the truth. Well I'm nearly forty years old and I can tell you with authority that you don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about."
"I struck a few of your chords, didn't I?" I asked, smiling. "I told you a few things about yourself that you didn't really want to hear, didn't I? If you were wise, you would sit down and listen to me for a few minutes. As you pointed out, I'm much younger than you are and you probably don't think I have anything of value to tell you, right? Well someone much younger than me, in a manner of speaking anyway, once tried to tell me something. And I figured that since I was so much more mature that she couldn't possibly be right. Well, I was wrong and I ignored what she had to say, and the consequences of that are something that still haunts me, maybe always will. Do me and yourself a favor and hear me out?"
She looked downright nervous now but finally said, "Say what you need to say."
"Thank you," I replied. "You told me a minute ago that independent study was for students that are 'struggling' in school. Correct?"
"Yes," she said carefully.
"I don't agree with independent study," I said. "I think it's an atrocity. I think you counselors and administrators spend far too much time trying to cover up for poor students instead of trying to help them. Sure, you'd lose a bunch anyway but even if you could save just one, just a single one, wouldn't it be worth it?"
Before she could answer I continued. "But I've learned that you can't change the world. I'm not trying to do that. I'm just trying to change a little part of it. Sometimes I think you can do that. You told me that Mike Meachen was a struggling student. Did you even bother to check his record before you had him and his parents in here? Did you even bother to note that he is not struggling anymore before you cut him off at the knees? His grades have come way up since last year. He was on his way to an upper 3 average for the first time in his life. He might have even made a 4.0 for the year until you kicked him out of school."
"I didn't force anybody anywhere," she protested. "Mike and his parents wanted him to go to independent study."
"No, you didn't force them," I said. "You just brought them in here and waved it in front of their faces. 'Look, Mike, you only have to go to school twelve hours a week.' 'Look Mrs. and Mr. Meachen, your child can graduate in only a few months this way. If you don't do this, he might not graduate at all.' Isn't that pretty much the line you handed them? Did I hit upon any exact quotes there?"
She was staring at me with her mouth agape, her face telling me that was exactly what she'd said.
"But since you didn't bother checking his record first, you never noticed that he was going to graduate. Not through any efforts on your part I might add, but on mine. The first time you waved this crap in front of him I talked him out of it. I got him to study, I got him to bring his grades up and focus on a goal. Things that you are charged with doing. I did them for you. He was on his way to his goals and you steered him right into oblivion. Instead of helping him, you destroyed him."
"He was smoking grass," she said defensively. "At his ROP site. You can't expect me to overlook something like that can you?"
"No," I said, "I can't. He did something stupid; I'm not saying he didn't. He did something he needs to be punished for so that he learns not to do it again. But is this the answer? Sending him out of school? Destroying his life? He didn't kill anybody for God's sake, he smoked some pot. Jesus, haven't you ever smoked pot?"
"Certainly not!" she said, much too quickly.

[whiskynaam]

"Right," I said, letting that drop. "And granted, he should not be doing it on his job site. But he's a seventeen-year-old kid. Seventeen year olds do stupid things. Maybe he's got a problem with pot, maybe not. But did you even bother trying to figure that out? To counsel him, counselor? No, you just steered him off into independent study because you've been told to do that with people like Mike.
"Try to think back to when you were in school, to when you decided that being a school counselor or an educator was what you wanted to do. Back before the realities of life shit all over your viewpoint. Didn't you, at one time, want to do this so you could help kids? Wasn't that a goal at some point in your past?"
She was looking me up and down in a manner I'd seen a few times before. My history teacher had looked at me this way when I'd asked her sensitive questions. Mrs. Crookshank had looked at me this way when I'd explained about underachievers to her. Dad had looked at me this way when I'd explained why I wanted to invest in latex. The cop who had taken the assault report had looked at me this way when I'd explained what I'd done. It was the look of a person who had thought they'd been speaking to a child but who'd suddenly realized that they were, for whatever reason, talking to an intelligent and insightful adult. It was a look of confusion and growing respect and fear mixed with awe. It was an extended version of The Look.
"Yes," she finally said. "It was."
"Have you abandoned that goal completely?" I asked next.
She licked her lips for a moment. "I hope not."
"Who wanted Mike out of ROP?" I asked her next. "Was it the fire department's idea or yours?"
"Mine," she admitted. "The fire department expressed concern about the incident and requested we have a talk with him. I was the one who recommended removal from ROP."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because it was..." She paused.
"Was what?"
"Easier," she said shamefully. "Our contract with them is delicate. It seemed the best solution to the problem was to remove Mike from the program so we didn't risk future enrollees."
I stared at her for a minute. "Easier," I finally said, snorting in disgust. "Has it ever occurred to you that you are educating the people who are going to be running the damn country in twenty or thirty years? The people who are going to be controlling your Medi-Care and Social Security payments? Do you really want them always choosing the path that is easier on them?"
She had no answer for that.
"Mrs. Compleigh," I pleaded, "can't you do something about this? Mike was trying to become a productive member of society. He was trying. He did something stupid that needs to be addressed. So address it. Talk to him about it. Let him know he did something stupid. Talk to the fire department and see if there's any way they can give him a second chance. If you do that, let me talk to Mike too. I believe I have some influence with him."
She smiled for the first time. "Billy, I believe you about that."
"If he screws up again than you can write him off as a loser and send him to independent study. But please, give him a second chance. Get his file out of the cabinet instead of mine this time. Read it. See how hard he's worked for this goal in the past year. He's trying. How about you do what your job title says and help him. Meet him half way. Please?"
She took a deep breath, her eyes softening. "You're a remarkable young man, Billy," she told me.
I shrugged, switching back to my teenager persona. "I try," I said.
"I'll do as you ask," she assured me.
________________________________________
Though she was no longer talking to me and though she no longer sat with me at lunchtime, Nina was still forced to sit next to me in the two classes we shared prior to ROP. We had picked our seats at the beginning of the semester and now we were committed to them, for better or for worse. She would typically spend each class period looking straight ahead as the teacher lectured, occasionally jotting down a note in her binder. She never looked at me or acknowledged my presence in any way.
That day was no different as I sat down for my second class of the day, and the first with her. While awaiting the rest of the class to file in and find their seats she simply stared at her notebook, ignoring the activity around her, ignoring me most of all. Had it only been a week before that we used to chat happily together during this portion of the class, discussing how our day had been until that point, what we were going to do later? It seemed like an eternity had passed since I'd last heard a kind word from her, had seen her smile.
At some point I'd stopped telling myself that I wanted our relationship to mend so Nina would not turn out to be a bitch later and started telling myself the truth; that I wanted our relationship to mend because I liked our relationship, because I enjoyed being with her. I'd never noticed before how eager I'd been for Nina to come over each day to study with me until she was no longer doing it. All of my brainstorming of the previous day had failed to produce a plan to make-up with her. I simply did not know what to do.
"Nina?" I chanced, leaning towards her a little and whispering.
She hesitated for a second, long enough to make me think that she was not even going to acknowledge my words, but finally she turned her face towards me. Her eyes were blank, revealing nothing of what was going on behind them.
"You heard what happened to Mike?" I asked her.
She nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's too bad."
"I went and saw Mrs. Compleigh today," I told her, thrilled to be even speaking to her. "I think I convinced her to let him back into ROP. He's getting another chance."
She nodded softly. "Good," she said. "I like Mike."
There was a long silence. Just as she started to turn her head back to her notebook I whispered, "I miss you."
She looked at my face for a second, her eyes still blank. Without saying anything she turned her attention back to her notebook. She said nothing.
"Nina?" I said.
She ignored me. Before I could try again the bell rang and the teacher called the class to order. He then began the day's lecture on the Principals of Chemistry.
________________________________________
All day I dreaded what I had to do when I got from school. When I finally arrived home my mind tried to find excuses to delay or even postpone the task at hand. There was homework to be done, housework to be done, deep thoughts to think, bodily functions to take care of. The rational part of me rejected these excuses one by one and finally I put my coat back on and headed out the door.
A short walk brought me to Anita's house. I made my way to her front door, almost left again, and finally, employing my willpower, I pushed her doorbell.
She was very pleased at my unexpected arrival. It showed in her face as she swung open the door. She was dressed in a pair of baggy sweat pants and a T-shirt. It was obvious that she had no bra on beneath.
"Hi, Billy," she beamed, standing aside to allow me entry. "Come on in. What a pleasant surprise."
Her children were sitting at the dining room table working on some learning books. An array of crayons and construction paper was spread out before them. They looked up, greeted me briefly, and then went back to what they were doing. Anita, once the door was closed, leaned forward and gave me a kiss on the mouth, probing outward with her tongue for just the briefest instant. She made a point to rub her unencumbered breasts against my chest.
"Anita," I hissed. "Your kids are right here!"
"Oh, you." She slapped at me playfully, breaking the embrace. "They're going to have to get used to us eventually anyway aren't they?"
"Uh..." I started.
"So what brings you over here today?" she asked me teasingly. "Need another shower?"
"No." I shook my head quickly, banishing the image of dumping oil all over her before it could give me an erection. As I mentioned before, my mind may have been in my thirties but my body was firmly entrenched in my teens. Testosterone was surging through my veins and calmly assuring another part of my body that it wouldn't really hurt to just take a quick shower with her before we had our talk. Just to mellow everyone out a little.
"Oh," Anita said knowingly, "you want to get dirty first. Give me a minute to set up a movie for the kids. That'll keep them distracted longer."

[whiskynaam]

"Anita," I said, "that's not why I came over here. I need to talk to you about something."
Perhaps catching the tone of my voice, she gave me a wary look. "What do you want to talk about?" she asked carefully.
"Can we sit down somewhere?" I asked her. "Somewhere private?" And somewhere without a lot of sharp objects, I did not add.
"Sure," she said. "Let's go to the bedroom."
I nodded. "Okay."
We went into her room and I grabbed a chair near her dresser. She gave me another concerned look as I did this. She sat down on the edge of the bed.
"What's wrong, Billy?" she asked me.
I breathed deeply and slowly let it out. "Anita," I told her, "I don't know how to tell you this but it needs to be said."
"Tell me what?"
"I suppose the best way is to just come out and say it," I said, looking at her face. "We need to end our relationship with each other."
"End..." she whispered, staring at me. Finally she gave a nervous giggle. "Billy, don't joke about things like that. It's not very..."
"Anita, I'm not joking. We have to stop seeing each other."
"You're not joking?" she asked softly.
"No." I shook my head. "I'm not."
She began to wring her hands together. "I don't understand, Billy," she told me. "Why would you say something like that? We're perfect together. We have a good thing going."
"That's just it, Anita," I explained. "We don't have a good thing going and we're not perfect together. I'm sixteen years old and you're twenty-eight. I'm a teenager in high school and you're a full-grown woman with kids."
"That doesn't matter!" she protested. "As long as two people love each other..."
"Anita," I interrupted gently, "I don't love you that way."
She stared at me for a second, the wounded expression on her face striking directly at my heart. God, how I hated doing this. "But you do," she told me. "You do love me."
"No," I said, shaking my head. "I don't. And I don't think you love me that way either."
"How can you say that?" she asked, raising her voice for the first time. Her eyes were now beginning to leak a little moisture down her cheeks. "After all we've done together, after all we've shared? How can you say that?"
"I'm sorry, Anita," I told her. "I'm sorry for what I'm telling you now and I'm sorry that I ever initiated our relationship in the first place. I shouldn't have done that."
"Yes!" she yelled. "You should have! What we have together is beautiful! You're not going to let a little age difference keep us apart are you? Billy, we're meant for each other!"
"No," I said firmly, raising my voice a little. "That's just it. We're not meant for each other. I'm a kid in high school, Anita. I should be dating girls my own age. You should be dating men your own age. While I've been having a relationship with you, you haven't been dating anyone or gone out anywhere. I'm screwing up your life, Anita. And it has to stop. Both of us need to move on."
"You're not screwing up my life!" she protested. "Is that what you're worried about? You've improved my life. I used be so lonely, Bill and then I found you. You're everything I want. Just because you're younger than me..."
"Anita," I interrupted, "I am screwing up your life. I never intended for what we had to be a permanent relationship. I was stupid and thought that there were no consequences to what you and I were doing. I figured, hey, here's a cool older woman for me to screw and she's willing to do it again and again. But there are consequences, Anita, there are. More than I imagined, more than you can imagine. We have to move on now, get back on track, don't you see that?"
"No," she told me. "You are the track that I want to be on. I do want a permanent relationship with you."
I sighed, not relishing what I had to say next. "But I don't want a permanent relationship with you."
More tears came down. "How can you say that?" she repeated.
"Because it's true," I said. "I don't love you. I'm sorry to have to say that and I know I'm an asshole. I entered into this thing without considering there might be emotional involvement. If I had known that I never would have started anything. I'm ashamed of myself, deeply ashamed that I took advantage of your loneliness, ashamed that I didn't see this sooner. I'm an asshole, Anita and I admit that freely. I'm trying to get better, trying not to be an asshole anymore. I don't like being an asshole. But before I can do that I have to be even more of an asshole and put an end to our relationship. Now, today."
She stood up and began to pace nervously, continuing to wring her hands. She chewed on her lip for a moment. "So you're saying that you want to see other people?" she asked. "To date others for a while to help strengthen the relationship?"
"No, Anita," I said. "That is not what I'm saying. I have been dating other people the entire time we've been seeing each other. There is nothing in this relationship to strengthen. I started it only for sex, don't you see that? And sex was all I ever wanted. I'm sorry. My behavior was horrid, worse than horrid. I had no right to do any of that, but unfortunately I did. I'm trying to change now and I can no longer continue to take advantage of you. We have to stop."
"I don't want to stop," she told me quietly, stopping her pacing and turning towards me.
"We have to, Anita."
"Maybe I don't mind being taken advantage of," she said, desperation in her voice. "Did you ever consider that? Maybe I want you to continue to take advantage of me if that's what you were doing. I can live with that, Billy."
"No," I said firmly, wondering how, in my supposed maturity, I'd managed to miss how deeply she'd felt about me all this time. God I was an idiot. "That won't work. I couldn't live with that. I couldn't keep doing that to you. Despite the way I've acted, I have a conscience. My conscience will not allow me to do that."
She let loose a sob. "Billy, we can't just stop!"
"We have to," I insisted.
She began crying freely now, her chest hitching up and down, tears coursing down, sobs pouring out of her mouth. I stood and put my arms around her, letting her put her head to my chest and cry on my shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Anita," I whispered to her. "I never meant for any of this to happen."
Her tears slowed down a little and suddenly her hand was around mine. Before I knew what was happening she'd pulled it under her shirt and placed it on her bare breast, allowing me to feel the familiar flesh. I tried to pull it out but she held it firmly with her hand.
"Anita," I said sharply, "let me go."
"Just one more time, Billy?" she pleaded, her free hand sliding down and tugging at the buttons on my jeans. "Just one more time?"
Again my teenaged body had ideas of its own. My teenaged body thought that one more time was a fine idea. Despite all that had just happened and had just been said, my dick stiffened up at the thought. My adult mind was appalled by this.