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Subject: {ASSM} Mat Twassel  "Mel Gibson's Love Child"
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<1st attachment, "Mel Gibson.txt" begin>

Mat Twassel  "Mel Gibson's Love Child"


  Note: The following story is a work of
  fiction. Names, characters, places, and
  incidents are the product of the author's
  imagination or are used fictitiously. 



Mel Gibson's Love Child
by Mat Twassel

  for Lorrin Murray 

=======================

First of all, it wasn't my idea to take the bottom 
bunk.  My mom and I got to the dorm room early, and 
she just made up the bed for me.  "Oh, good, Erin," 
she'd said, "you get the bottom.  Here, help me 
with the corners."  Then she rearranged the clothes 
I'd hung in my closet, tidied up my desk to be more 
efficient, and adjusted the position of the throw 
rug she'd gotten me as a going away present so that 
it was two inches closer to the bed. "Your bare 
footsies will thank me on those icy winter 
mornings," she said.   I knew better than to make a 
fuss.  The quicker it was done the sooner she'd be 
out of here, on her way home, and I'd be on my own 
at last.  College!  My real life about to begin.

But first we had to have lunch.  Mom drove us to an 
Olive Garden that we'd passed on the way in, and 
she even debated ordering us glasses of wine.  In 
the end we had Diet Cokes, and then she drove me 
back to campus and dropped me off in front of 
Keller Hall.  We hugged, and I promised to write 
her on the new dancing bear stationery she'd given 
me. "Be good," she said, and then she was gone 
without once mentioning condoms or safe sex, 
although I knew that had been preying on her mind 
the whole time.

I went up to my room, and my new roommate was 
unpacking stuff from a new suitcase.  "Hi, I'm 
Molly," she said, "Molly Wren." She was pretty in a 
waif-like way, thin, with dark, medium length hair 
and big brown eyes.  We  shook hands, and I felt so 
grown up. 

"I'm sorry about the bottom bunk," I told her.  "We 
can switch sometime if you want."

"That's okay," Molly said.  She was arranging a 
couple of photographs on her desk, small photos in 
plain metal frames."  One was of a young woman 
holding a little boy on her lap, the other of a man 
helping a little girl up onto a big white horse.

"Your family?" I asked.

"Uh-huh," she said, and she smoothed her finger 
across the top of one of the frames.

"Is that you getting on the horse?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.  "I think I was about nine then."

"Nice horse," I said.  "Big.  Do you ride much?"

"That was the only time."

"Oh," I said.  

Molly began hanging skirts and blouses in her 
closet.  There weren't many.  I got my laptop out 
of its case and plugged it in to charge up the 
battery.

"I think we're about the same size," I told Molly.  
"We can switch off stuff if you want."

"Sure," she said.

"And if you want to borrow my laptop or anything ..."

"I'm not real good with computers."

"I could show you," I offered.

Molly nodded.

I played mine-sweeper on my computer.  Molly sat at 
her desk and began to write a letter.

"You know your dad's kind of cute," I said.  "He 
looks a little like Mel Gibson."

"Yeah," Molly said.  

"I suppose you get told that all the time."

"The thing is ..."  She turned to look at me.  "The 
thing is my dad is Mel Gibson." 

She'd said it so simply and seriously that for a 
moment I thought she wasn't kidding. "He is?" I 
said.  "Your joking, right?" When I stood up and 
moved behind her to take a closer look at the 
little photograph, Molly covered up her letter with 
her arm.  "Wow, so your dad is really the real Mel 
Gibson?" I still couldn't tell if she was joking.  
"Did he just drop you off here?"

"No, I took a bus.  A bus and then a taxi cab."

"Oh," I said. "Long trip?"

"Pretty long. My butt is sore from sitting."

I sat back at my desk, and Molly smiled at me. I 
didn't know what to say.  I thought it was a sad, 
lonely smile. "Do you want to get something to 
eat?" I asked, even though I wasn't a bit hungry.  
"I don't think the cafeteria opens until tomorrow, 
but I noticed a little sandwich shop a few blocks 
from here, if you don't mind the walk."

"That would be okay," Molly said.

"At least it'll get you up off your butt."  I 
laughed, feeling quite grown up to be saying "butt" 
so casually. Molly's smile made me happy. She put 
the letter into her top desk drawer, and out we 
went.

It was on the walk back that I asked the question. 
"How come your name's not Gibson?"

"I'm a love child," Molly said.

"Oh," I said. We were passing the vacant lot just 
east of our dorm. I was trying to think of the 
right question to ask next when suddenly Molly 
stopped.  She bent down and started gathering up a 
tangled strand of cassette tape that was snagged on 
some weeds.

"What are you going to do with that?" I asked.

"I don't know," Molly said.

"It's not as if it's good for anything.  You can't 
salvage it."

"I know," Molly said. 

She left the tape, and the rest of the walk back to 
the dorms we were quiet.

That evening I studied the maps and orientation 
schedules for the next day while Molly worked on 
her letter.  I wanted to ask her who she was 
writing to, but I didn't.

"If you need some stamps, I have some," I said.  "I 
mean some extra stamps."

"That's okay," Molly said. "I have stamps."

"It looks like you're going to need quite a lot of 
them--with all those pages."

Molly smiled at me but didn't say anything.  A 
short time later she put her letter into an 
envelope, affixed the stamps, and left the room.  I 
thought she would be back soon, but she wasn't.  I 
played around on the computer for a while, and then 
I decided to go to bed.  The bathroom was down the 
hall, and I wasn't sure whether to lock the door of 
our room.  I was pretty sure Molly had her key, but 
what if she didn't? Should I leave the door 
unlocked?  I decided to lock the door, but in the 
bathroom I brushed my teeth extra quickly just in 
case. When I got back to the room Molly still 
wasn't there.  I changed into my pajamas and put my 
clothes away and played on the computer some more 
and thought about calling my mom.  Finally I got 
under the covers. Then I remembered that I hadn't 
locked the door.  Maybe I should.  If Molly didn't 
have her key she could knock.  And if the door were 
locked I'd be more likely to hear her when she got 
back even if she did have a key.  And I could touch 
myself--this might be the time to do it.  Lately 
I'd been touching myself before falling asleep.  
Not every night but almost every night.  If I were 
going to do that maybe I should lock the door.  But 
maybe if I locked the door Molly would think I was 
touching myself.  I lay there in the dark.  I 
didn't touch myself.  I wondered whether Molly ever 
did it, and I couldn't fall asleep for a long time, 
but finally I did fall asleep, and I didn't hear 
Molly come in, whenever that was.

When I awoke the next morning the sun was shining 
in the window and Molly was up, pulling on a pair 
of jeans.  I couldn't help notice that she wasn't 
wearing any underwear and her soft triangle of hair 
was small and dark and wild before it disappeared.  
"Breakfast?" she said, and she pulled a jersey over 
the bobble of her breasts, shook her hair, and 
looked at me.

"Oh. I'm not ready yet," I said.

"Okay," she said.  "I'll just go pee."

"I'd need to take a shower and stuff."

"Okay.  I guess I'll see you later then. Bye."  And 
she left.

I looked at the clock.  It wasn't even seven yet.  
I had to pee, too, but I didn't want to pass Molly 
in the hall, so I curled back up under the covers, 
and for some reason I thought of her sitting on the 
toilet, and I thought of her soft dark triangle, of 
a boy touching her there, his fingers probing, and 
my hand slipped beneath the waistband of my pajama 
bottoms.  I thought of a boy's fingers moving into 
Molly, and I thought what if she comes back while 
I'm doing this, but my fingers kept moving, and it 
didn't take long for the shivers to come.

I took a long slow shower. When I got back to the 
room Molly was sitting at her desk writing another 
letter.

"How was breakfast?" I asked.

"Breakfast, you know," she said and offered an 
apologetic shrug.

"Ah-ha," I answered, as if we had exchanged 
profound wisdom.  "Writing to your dad again, I 
see."  I hadn't meant to say that.  It just came 
out.

Molly turned to face me. Her face was red. "What 
makes you think I'm writing to my dad?" she said.  
She sounded hurt and a little angry.

"I don't know," I said, flustered.  "I mean are 
you?  I mean who are you writing to?"  I could feel 
the blush shooting along my skin, not just my face 
but my whole body.

Molly didn't answer.  Instead she bit her bottom 
lip and slipped the pages into the top drawer of 
her desk.

"I'm sorry," I said. 

"That's okay."

"It's just that ... I don't have a dad, either.  I 
mean, I don't have a dad."

Molly shook her head.  "Hey," she said, "maybe you 
could share mine sometime. In exchange for computer 
lessons or something."

"Okay," I said, having no idea what she meant.

"If you want breakfast you'd better hurry," Molly 
said.  "The fresh fruit was going real fast."

"Right," I said. "Like racy bananas?" 

Molly smiled and I wondered what was in her mind.  I 
got my purse and went down to breakfast.  When I 
got back to the room Molly wasn't there.  I picked 
up an empty notebook and was about to set off for 
the orientation meetings, but at the last second I 
sat at Molly's desk, tore a blank page from my 
notebook, and wrote: 

     You were right--the fruit was really 
     yummy yum yum.  

What a stupid note.  I crumpled it up and tossed it 
in my wastebasket.

The photos on Molly's desk stared at me. I wondered 
if Molly's brother was older or younger than Molly.  
I wondered if Mel Gibson was his dad, too.  I 
wondered if the man lifting the little girl onto 
the horse was really Mel Gibson. Even if it was Mel 
Gibson, that didn't mean he was her father.  I 
eased Molly's top drawer open, just enough to see 
if that letter she'd been writing was still there.  
It was, covered partly by a small soft tangle of 
cassette tape. Gently I brushed the tape to the 
side.  I could read part of what Molly had written:

     shoulders like snowshovels, a 
     cinderblock head and balls like 
     baby birds and when he 

Quickly I shut the drawer and hurried off to 
orientation.

I didn't get back to the room until nearly dinner 
time.  Molly was sitting at my desk working at my 
computer.  "Oh, hi," she said.  "I just thought I'd 
try a few things.  I don't think I messed anything 
up too bad."

"No problem," I said.

Molly closed the lid.  "Ooh, is it supposed to beep 
like that?"

"It's just a warning," I said.

"I should probably get my own computer," Molly 
said.

"It might be more convenient," I said.  "Then we 
could send each other e-mail."

"Why would we want to do that?"

"I was thinking of over the summer."

"Oh. Right. Over the summer."

"Anyway, you can use my computer.  It's fine."

"Or they have a bunch at the library.  I could use 
those."

"Right."

"You were right about our sizes, too," Molly said.  
"As you can see, this is your blouse."

"Hey, it looks good on you."

"It feels good, too."

But even as she was saying these words she was 
unbuttoning the shirt, taking it off, handing it to 
me. 

"Don't you want to wear it?" I asked.

"Not really," Molly said. "I just wanted to feel 
what it felt like." She handed me the blouse and 
smiled at me and I couldn't help but lower my eyes.

Small and bare and free, her breasts had tiny pink 
nipples much like mine but pointing up more.  I 
didn't want to stare, but I couldn't help it, and 
the blush shot through me again.

"Boobies," Molly said, and her grin grew wider. 
Then she turned and tugged her jersey from her top 
bunk and pulled it on.  "You know what's seriously 
good for boobies?"

"What?" I said.

"Come on," Molly said.  "I'll show you."

She led me down the stairs, flight after flight all 
the way to the basement, and then along the bright 
yellow corridor past one doorway which opened to a 
laundry room and another which contained a 
dilapidated ping pong table until we finally we 
reached the end of the hall.  "Ta da!" she said, 
gesturing through the last doorway.  "Work out 
room.  Weight machines galore."

The small room contained two treadmills in the 
center. Four weight machines sat against a mirrored 
wall at the rear. Otherwise the room was empty, no 
one but us.  We stepped in. The air seemed heavy. 
Molly strode over to one of the machines. "This is 
the one I wanted to show you," she said.  "Lat 
pulldowns.  They're great."  Molly patted the 
padded bench seat, and I sat. Overhead a bar 
connected to a cable which connected to some 
weights in front of me. "I usually do fifty 
pounds," Molly said, and she pushed a metal locking 
pin into a hole in the weight marked "50."  "Twenty 
reps, ten sets--and then some tummy stuff."

"What do I do?" I asked.

"Just grab the bar with your hands forward and sit 
down," Molly said.

I stood up and grabbed the bar.  Sitting down 
wasn't so easy.  "It's heavy," I complained. I 
could feel the strain. "Real heavy."

"You don't work out much, do you?" Molly said.

"I guess not."

"Okay, pull it down. Smooth and slow."

I tried to but I couldn't.  "It's too heavy."  My 
arms were quivering.

"Not even one?" Molly said.

"I'm trying," I said.

"Here, let me help."  I could feel Molly behind me, 
her body against my back.  She helped me lower the 
bar.  The pull was so strong.

"Now let it up," Molly said. "But slow.  Don't let 
it ... "

But I couldn't hold it.  The bar snapped upwards. I 
let go.  The weights clanked.

"... jerk," Molly said.

"I'm sorry."

"I don't mean you," Molly said.  "The motion should 
be slow and smooth, not quick and jerky."

"I didn't mean to," I said.

"You'll get there," Molly said.  "Let's try 
twenty."  She pushed the locking pin into the 
twenty pound weight.  I stood up and grabbed the 
bar and sat down.  The bar came down much more 
easily.

"Yes, this is nicer," I said, holding it at the 
bottom.

"Right," Molly said.  "Now let it up, smooth and 
easy.  Controlled."

I let it up.  I pulled it down again.

"Good," Molly said.  Our eyes met in the mirror.  
"Very good.  Keeping doing it.  As slow as you can 
without stopping.  Slow and smooth is best."

I moved the weight up and down. At first the pull 
was pleasant. Soon I was starting to feel the 
strain.

"You should feel it a little here," Molly said.  
She touched her hands lightly to my sides.  "Do you 
feel it?"

"Yes," I said.

She kept her hands there while I pulled.  I could 
feel her fingers firmer now just below the 
sidebands of my bra. I wasn't sure I could do too 
many more times, but I didn't want her to move her 
hands.

"Mm, you're doing it good now," Molly said. "I can 
feel the muscles work." She was grinning in the 
mirror. "Your boobie muscles." When she let go her 
hands brushed the sides of my breasts. Her touch 
sent shivers through my nipples straight to my 
center. The weight clanked down when I let go.

"Whew," I said.

"You've got to keep doing it," Molly said.  "Every 
other day.  Six sets of twenty. Switch your hands 
between each set."

"Right," I said. I got off the seat, and Molly 
adjusted the weight back to fifty.  Then she sat 
and started pulling down.  It looked so easy when 
she did it.  I stood behind her and watched her 
work.  "The key is to do low weights with lots of 
repetitions," she said. "Do it every other day-- 
alternate with running."

I wanted to feel her while she worked, to touch her 
like she had touched me, but I didn't know how to 
suggest it, and I didn't dare to just do it.

"Did your dad teach you this stuff?" I asked.

"Mm," Molly grunted. I wasn't sure if that meant 
yes or no.

"I bet your dad's really strong," I said. "Like in 
that movie the Sixth Sense in the basement with his 
kid where he lifts like three hundred million 
pounds. I really liked that."

Molly stopped pulling. Her eyes in the mirror 
locked on mine.

"What?" I said.

"That was Bruce Willis. In the scene you're talking 
about."

"Oh," I said.

"And it's not from The Sixth Sense it's from 
Unbreakable."

"Oh, yeah," I said. "Sorry.  Sometimes I get them a 
confused.  Bruce Willis and Mel Gibson.  I mean 
your dad."

"Right," she said.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean anything by it."

"It's okay," Molly said, getting off the seat. "But 
you're right about one thing. My dad really is 
strong. He can lift me easily.  Like I'm totally 
weightless. Next to sex, it's the closest thing to 
flying."

"Sex?" I started to say.  The word caught in my 
throat. "But you hardly weigh anything." 

"I wish," Molly said.  "I bet you can't lift me."

"I'm sure I can't."

"Go ahead and try."

"I can't lift you, Molly."  

"Try."

I put my hands on her sides a little below her 
armpits and tried to lift her.  Sure enough, I 
couldn't. Not even an inch.

"See?" I said.

"If you keep working out, I bet by the end of the 
semester you'd be able to."  And then Molly put her 
hands under my arms. I froze. The next thing I knew 
I was over her shoulder.

"How much do you weigh, one-ten, one-fifteen?" 

Before I could answer, Molly hoisted me all the way 
up.  I was over her head, way way up there, resting 
on her hands, one hand on my chest just below my 
breasts, one hand on my mound.  I was in the air, 
gliding around, but it was the press of her hands 
that made me shiver.  And then I was on the ground 
sprawled on top of Molly, and she was laughing. 

"Ready for a shower?" Molly said.  We were back in 
our room.  Did she mean that we'd take a shower 
together?  Molly grabbed her towel and left the 
room.  I wasn't sure what to do.  I wasn't sure 
what I wanted to do.  Eventually I took my towel 
and my shower bucket and went down the hall and 
into the bathroom.  I could hear the water running. 
The gentle splash and spatter. Steam billowed out 
from the opening of the nearest shower stall and 
drifted across the room. The long mirror was 
beginning to fog. I wanted to go into Molly's 
stall, I really did, but I wasn't brave enough.  I 
undressed and slipped past her stall, taking care 
not to look, and stepped into the adjoining stall 
and turned on the spray. Soon the water was warm 
and comforting. I soaped myself and thought about 
Molly doing the same.  I thought about Molly 
soaping me, about her fingers moving over my skin. 
I made the water hotter and harder and lathered 
more and more and then I made the water as hot as 
it would go but it wouldn't go hot enough.  When I 
turned it off the room was quiet.  I dried myself 
and scampered back to the room. Molly wasn't there.

Maybe she went to dinner, I thought.  I waited a 
while, and then I went to the cafeteria.  No sign 
of Molly. I got in line and scooped out a plate of 
salad and a slice of broiled fish. I sat by myself 
nibbling slowly and not tasting anything. After 
dinner I went for a walk.  Shirtless boys were 
playing Frisbee on the quad, their shoulders 
glistening in the last of the light.  Balls like 
baby birds, I thought, and I thought of Molly's 
soft dark nest.

When I got back to the room she had my computer on 
her lap.  "Hey," she said, "I think I'm getting the 
hang of this."

"You don't have to stop," I said.

"That's okay, I was just fooling around.  Unless 
you want to show me how e-mail works."

"You've never sent e-mail?"

"I guess I'm a virgin that way."

"It's really easy," I said. "You just plug this 
cable in here; that's to connect to the Internet. 
Then you just click here to open up the mail 
program and here to open up a blank letter.  Then 
you just type your letter in the box.  Easy, huh? 
Of course you need to get your own e-mail address. 
You probably already have one through the college. 
Didn't you get a letter about it over the summer?"

"I came here kind of last minute."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure you can get an address."

"So how does the letter know where to go?"

"You just type the person's address up in the 
little box on top.  Like if I want to send an e-
mail to my mom I just type 'Mom.' Of course my mom 
prefers real mail. She claims she doesn't really 
trust e-mail. But she has a computer for her work. 
Anyway, there's an address book that automatically 
converts to my mom's real e-mail address.  Then I 
just click on the send button."

"Neat," Molly said. "What kind of work does your 
mom do?"

"She runs a gift shop. Actually three of them.  
She's a part owner.  During the summer and after 
school I had to work there, too. I am so sick of 
the smell of candles. If I never set foot in a gift 
shop again it will be too soon."

Molly laughed.  "I kind of like candles," she said. 
"Did you have dinner yet?" 

"Yes, didn't you?"

"I guess I missed it," Molly said. "Cafeteria's 
probably closed now, huh?"

"We could go to that place down the road," I said.

"I thought you already ate?"

"If you wanted company or something."

"That's okay," Molly said. "I'll just find a 
granola bar or something."

I thought she was just going to the vending 
machines in the basement, but twenty minutes later 
Molly still wasn't back.  Probably she just went 
for a walk.  Or maybe she went to that diner after 
all. I imagined her sitting there all alone waiting 
for her food to come.  I imagined her sitting there 
with someone, laughing and talking.  Or maybe she 
was in the workout room again.  I decided to check 
it out.

Several people were doing laundry.  A guy and a 
girl were playing ping pong. Two people were in the 
workout room, a girl with really long hair striding 
on the treadmill, her hair swaying back and forth, 
and another girl on a machine I didn't know the 
name of.  The lat pulldown machine was empty.  The 
locking pin was still in the 50 pound weight.  I 
pulled it out, pleased with myself for somehow 
knowing to push the release button on the end. The 
metal rod was heavier than I thought it would be. 
Probably I could get a good workout just lifting 
it. I plugged it into the twenty pound weight, and 
it seemed to catch there.  That was nice. Something 
competent about the sound of it catching and 
locking.  I stood up and pulled down the bar. I 
pulled until my arms quivered and my muscles 
burned, not even counting, just breathing and 
pulling and thinking of Molly's hands on my 
breasts. Beads of sweat flew off my arms, so I 
closed my eyes and kept pulling, and at last I 
couldn't pull anymore and the weight clanked down 
hard. Maybe it was only two or three minutes, but 
it had seemed like hours.  I caught my breath and 
walked back up to the room. 

The lights were on and Molly was in bed. She was 
turned away facing the wall and she didn't say 
anything. Maybe she was asleep. I turned off the 
light and took off my clothes and hurried under my 
covers, not bothering with my pajamas, not 
bothering to brush my teeth. A wild and dissolute 
college kid after just one day, I said to myself. I 
was still a little sweaty, and the sheets felt good 
on my bare skin. I moved my hands between my legs.  
I shouldn't do this, I thought.  I'm a big girl now 
so I shouldn't do this.  Besides, Molly might hear. 
I listened for her breathing, for the rustle of her 
body turning in sleep, but I couldn't hear 
anything. I turned to my back, keeping my hands 
trapped between my legs, staring up at the bottom 
of Molly's bunk. Part of me wanted to hear Molly 
touching herself.  I willed her to do it. What 
would it sound like, the rub, the squeak, the soft 
sigh of her release? Do it. Do it. I heard some 
laughter from down the hall, a door closing in the 
distance, but inside our room all was quiet.

When I awoke the room was full of morning light, 
but Molly was gone. I showered and dressed and went 
down to breakfast.  No sign of her.  Not back at 
the room, either.  I got my backpack and walked to 
campus, to the bookstore.  It was jammed with kids 
buying their books and supplies. Half an hour later 
I'd located all the books for my classes.  So 
heavy.  So expensive. There were six cashiers, but 
the lines were long and slow.  

"They really rip you off when you sell them back," 
the boy in front of me said.  

"Right," I said, as if I knew all about it.

"Who've you got for Psych? Gardner?"

"I don't know," I said.

"I had Gardner. He's a wild man.  But pretty good."

"I might have him," I said.

"Yeah, he's wild," the boy said. "I might still 
have my notes. Let me know if you want to borrow 
them or something." 

I nodded.

"Where're you living?"

"Keller Hall," I said.

"Yeah, Keller," he said.  "If you need some help, 
like carrying your books back, I could ..."

"That's okay," I said.

"Right," he said, and he turned away.

Our line seemed to be stuck.  I noticed a section 
of sundries off in the corner past the racks of 
sweatshirts.  I was thinking about deodorant. The 
line wasn't moving at all. I went over to check out 
the sweatshirts. Maybe one with a hood.  Maybe I'd 
take up jogging to go along with the lat pulldowns. 
Molly would be so proud of the shape I was going to 
get in. We could go for long runs before class. On 
frosty mornings our breath would plume. A shelf 
next to the sweatshirts contained a selection of 
scented candles. Ugh, was my first reaction, but 
then I remembered that Molly said she liked 
candles.  Okay. Maybe a little one. The cappuccino 
candle smelled pretty good. Five or six inches 
tall, a couple of inches in diameter, a mild brown. 
Maybe Molly would like cappuccino. I put the candle 
in my backpack.

I was about to get back in line when I noticed the 
posters, a small row of them on a hanging display. 
I flipped through. Pacific surf and North Sea 
waves, Casablanca's kiss, Van Gogh's sunflowers, 
Albert Einstein, Julia Roberts, Groucho Marx, Mel 
Gibson. I stopped at Mel Gibson. A somber 
Braveheart pose, blue eyes under a gray sky. One 
cellophane wrapped tube was all they had left. I 
bought it.

Back at the room I stashed the poster and candle in 
my closet, arranged my new books on the shelf over 
my desk, and began a letter to my mom.

"So far so good," I started.  "But classes start 
tomorrow.  I bought all my books and stuff. My 
roommate's name is Molly, and she seems really 
nice. So far ..."

So far what?  "So far we've gotten along."  There.  
That ought to do it. I knew my mom would be 
disappointed, but at least it was something. I'd 
write more later. I addressed an envelope, stuck on 
a stamp, and set off for the mailbox.

On the stairway I met Molly coming up.  "Hey," she 
said.

"Just mailing a letter," I said, waving it.  "To my 
mom."

"Not risking the evils of e-mail?" Molly said.

"Right," I said, and we both laughed.

"Oh, there's something I should tell you," Molly 
said.

I waited.

"Not right now. When you get back to the room. It's 
no big deal."

"Okay," I said, and then she continued up the 
stairs and I continued down.

The mailbox was just outside Keller.  I opened the 
lid and slipped the letter through the slot.  The 
lid clanking shut reminded me of the weight 
machines. Molly would be so pleased when I told her 
about working out. I shrugged my shoulders against 
the slight soreness.  By now Molly's letter was 
already on its way to her dad.  Or whoever it was 
she'd sent it to. Maybe a boyfriend back home.  Or 
at some other school.  But if she'd had a boyfriend 
wouldn't she have a picture of him?  Next to sex, 
she'd said. A virgin that way, she'd said.  I 
shivered and hurried inside.

Molly was sitting on her bunk wearing only 
underwear and a loose top. Her legs dangled over 
the side.  No toenail paint, I noticed. We were 
alike that way, at least.  No pierced ears, either. 
That probably means she isn't pierced anywhere 
else. Probably.

I sat at my desk and swung my chair around and 
looked up at her. She had her legs up now, her arms 
around her knees, and her panties were pulled tight 
enough at her center that I could see the shape of 
her dent. She was biting her lower lip.

"You said you had something to tell me?"

"Oh, yeah," Molly said.  "Um, don't take this 
personal, okay?"

"Personal?"

"It's not about you.  It's just ... well, I think you 
should know that I've asked to change rooms."

"Change rooms?"

"Actually it'll probably be a different hall."

"How come?"

"Keller's all filled, I guess."

"I mean how come you want to change?"

"I just think we're sort of incompatible, you know?"

"Incompatible?"

"Like were not really made for each other."

Molly was swinging her legs again.

"That sounds pretty personal to me," I said. It was 
hard making the words come out.

"Yeah, but it's me, not you. That's what I meant. 
I'm the one who's not compatible."

"I think it takes two to be compatible," I said. I 
could feel the tears wanting to start. It wouldn't 
be long.

"That's what I mean," Molly said.  "It takes two."

"But I thought we were getting along fine," I said. 
My tummy felt so strange. So empty. The tears were 
close.  I tried not to blink. "And I like you." I 
blinked.  "I like you a lot."

"Yeah," said Molly.  "I know.  Maybe that's the 
problem."

"How is it a problem?" I tried to keep my voice 
from quivering.  I tried not to blink again.  If I 
blinked again the tears would come. I could feel 
them in my shoulders.

"I like you, too," Molly whispered.  "Maybe we like 
each other too much. Maybe we'd never get anything 
done, you know? Maybe we'd be ..."  She paused. "It's 
better this way.  This way you'll be alone." Her 
words were brighter now. Chirpy. Like bright little 
birds.  "You'll probably have the room to yourself. 
Think of it that way."

"Why?" I said.

"You know why."

"I don't ...  I don't want to be alone," I said. "I 
don't want to have a room to myself.  I've had a 
room to myself my whole life."  I turned away.  I 
turned away just in time. The tears streamed down. 
I shook. I tried to stop but I couldn't.

I heard Molly hop down. She was standing behind me. 
I was shaking and the tears were streaming and my 
tummy felt strange and empty.  Molly put her hands 
on my shoulders. "It'll be fine," she said.  
"You'll see. You'll find someone." She moved to my 
side and pulled my head against her. "Anyone would 
be better than me."

"I want you," I sobbed. "Please stay. Okay? Please, 
please stay. Please say you will."

"There, there," Molly said.  She was stroking my 
head, stroking my hair.  "I can't stay.  The thing 
is, the thing is I've already asked. It's already 
underway."

"When will you leave?"  I wiped my eyes and looked 
up at her?  "I even got you a little present.  A 
candle. You can't go before I give you the candle."

"That's sweet," Molly said. "Thank you. I don't 
know when I'll go.  Not tonight.  Maybe tomorrow or 
the next day. I don't know. I just thought you 
should know is all."  She stepped over to her desk.

"I don't understand," I said. I tried not to 
sniffle but I couldn't help it.  "When did you 
decide this?  When did you ..."

"There's something else," Molly said. "Something 
else I think you should know."

"What?"

"I think maybe I did something bad. Not on purpose.  
An accident."

"What?" I said.

"I was playing around with your computer," Molly 
said. "With your e-mail." She was biting her lower 
lip again.  "I was just trying some stuff, just 
playing around, and I think I might have ..." She was 
looking right at me.

"Might have what?" I said.

"Might have accidentally sent a letter to your 
mother."

"My mother?" I said. "A letter?"

"An e-mail letter. Or maybe I didn't. I'm not sure. 
I was just fooling around and it sort of just 
happened."

I opened up the computer. I opened up the mail-sent 
folder.


    Dear Mom,
    
    So far college is great. I've met this 
    really neat guy. He's got shoulders 
    like snowshovels and a cinderblock head 
    and balls like baby birds and when he 
    comes it's like cute little sneezes, 
    k'choo, k'choo, k'choo, and ropes of 
    yummy cum climb my greedy, quivering 
    cunt. After I calm down he slides me 
    up, moves me so I'm stradling his 
    mouth, and he licks me neat and clean. 
    "Such a bad girl," he scolds me, and he 
    licks me to oblivion and back, again and 
    again until I'm fully wilted. "Such a 
    bad bad girl," he says, swatting my 
    bottom. "After your nap I'm going to 
    spank you good and proper. I'm going 
    to spank you so hard on your sweet 
    little bottom that you'll almost come 
    from it, and when your ass is all red 
    and hot and drippy I'm going to fuck 
    you there, right in your tight and hot 
    little asshole. I'm going to fuck your 
    ass so deep and hard and sweet and 
    slow, and then you're going to suck me 
    clean and stiff again, and I'm going to 
    fuck you and fuck you until you can't 
    come anymore, until you're just a little 
    puddle of molten exstasy."  He's 
    napping now, my neat mister snowshovel 
    shoulder guy, and I can't wait for him 
    to wake up so we can start, so we can 
    start the fucking.
    
    Love,
    Erin
    
I sat there as if paralyzed.

"Was it sent?" Molly said.

"Yes," I answered. "It was sent."

"Is there any way you can, like, stop it?"

"No," I said, my voice small. "I don't think so."

"I'm sorry," Molly said.  "I'm really, really 
sorry. It was a mistake. A horrible mistake. I was 
just kind of ..."

"I know. You said. A mistake. It's okay." 

"It's okay? Won't your mother ...?"

"She'll know it's not from me," I said.  "My mom 
knows I know how to spell 'straddle' and 'ecstasy.' 
If she asks, I'll just tell her it must be a prank 
someone played. It'll confirm in her mind how 
insidious the Internet is."

"You think?"

"Probably.  Probably she won't say anything. Don't 
worry about it."  I took a deep breath.

"You're sure? I could write your mom another 
letter.  A real letter.  Telling her I did it. That 
you had nothing to do with it."

"No," I said. "I think everything's going to be 
fine." I closed the laptop's lid.

"Warning bing," Molly said, and she smiled.

"Right. Warning bing."

"Then you're not mad at me?" Molly said. "Are you 
still going to give me the candle?"

"Sure," I said. "I told you I hated candles."

Molly laughed.

"And what about you?" I said. "Are you still going 
to go?" 

"I have to," she said.

"Why? Could you just tell them that you changed 
your mind?"

"I told you, I just can't. But we'll probably still 
see each other sometimes. We can even send e-mail 
over the summer, if I get a computer."

"I guess," I said. "I guess I'd better go wash my 
face. Want to go to dinner?"

"Oh, yeah, I would," Molly said. "Except I kind of 
promised to meet someone."

"Oh," I said.

"Just someone," she said. "No big deal."

I turned away so Molly wouldn't see me cry.


After dinner, I read a few pages in some of my new 
books.  I played some mine-sweeper. I went for a 
walk and took a long shower and sat at my desk in 
my pajamas playing more mine-sweeper.

Molly came in near midnight.

"How was your dinner?" I asked.

"Pretty good," she said.

"Was it yummy yum yum?" I said.

"Okay," she said. 

"Good," I said. "I'm going to bed."

"Look," she said.

"What?"

"I don't know.  I think you're a nice girl.  It's 
just that ... I don't know. Maybe you could give me 
that candle now?  I think I'd like that. Okay?"

"Sure," I said.  I went to the closet and got the 
candle.  "Sorry it's not wrapped or anything."

"That's okay," Molly said.  "It smells good.  
Should we light it?"

"If you want," I said. "It's your candle."

"Let's light it." She set the candle on the center 
of her desk. "Do you have any matches?"

"No," I said.

"I'll get some from next door," Molly said. "Be 
right back."

She was only gone a moment, but by the time she got 
back I was under the covers.

"Okay, here goes," she said. I could hear the 
strike of the match.

"Make a wish," Molly said. "Wait, first let me turn 
off the light."

A few minutes later Molly was up in her bunk. The 
candle was burning. Just a small amber glow.

"Molly," I whispered.  "Molly, remember when you 
said we should take a shower?"

Molly didn't answer me.  Maybe my words were too 
soft.

Two hours later I was still awake and the candle 
was still burning. I crept out of bed and made my 
preparations. By the dim cappuccino candle light I 
climbed up to the edge of Molly's upper bunk. I had 
the roll of poster in one hand, cellophane wrapping 
removed, and I had four snug circles of scotch tape 
stuck lightly on my forearm. 

It was dark almost beyond shadowy up there--just 
the faintest glow from the candle light--but I 
could tell that Molly was turned away; she was 
facing the wall, curled up on her side, covers 
kicked off, her bottom bare.  I dared not breathe, 
so beautiful her bottom was. I simply stared.  Get 
to work, girl, I told myself, and starting at the 
far corner of the foot end, I taped the poster up 
so that Mel Gibson would be looking down at her--at 
least that was my plan.  I stuck the first circle 
of tape to the bottom edge of the poster, stretched 
my sore arms out over the bed, and with a bit of 
pressing managed to affix the far corner. Another 
circle and the bottom edge was finished.  The tube 
remained scrolled.  Keeping most of my weight on 
the edge of the frame, just my knees lightly on the 
mattress for balance, I reached up and rolled Mel 
Gibson along the ceiling, slowly, slowly, 
stretching him towards Molly's head, creeping along 
myself to keep pace with it, until at last the 
poster was out all the way. Reaching across Molly's 
body, I tried to fasten the far end. It was not 
easy pressing the poster in place. The angle was 
wrong; my arms were so sore; my balance so iffy; 
but the corner seemed to stick. The near side was 
easier. I stuck the tape on near the corner and 
pressed the poster firmly against the ceiling. 
Done. Too dark to tell if it was crooked or 
straight, but done. I could breathe again.

As if in synchrony, Molly sighed. I clenched myself 
still. A shiver of worry shot through me. My 
nipples tingled. My center itched. Maybe Molly was 
only feigning sleep. It was too dark to tell. Maybe 
it didn't really matter. I watched her.  I watched 
her sleep, and when an automobile passed along the 
road, a square of slow yellow light roamed the 
wall, glided upward, covered the curve of Molly's 
bottom and the long slow slope of her back, and then 
disappeared into a wedge of darkness.  I waited a 
little longer, perched there on the edge of Molly's 
bed, just about to go down, when a second car came 
along. Its square of light went slower, touching 
Molly's bottom, scraping it the way a lover's hand 
might. My breath stopped. The light lingered, then 
it stopped, too. Everything stopped. I could hear 
the car idling, a boy and a girl saying goodnight, 
I could hear my heart, and I kept my eyes fastened 
to Molly's bottom, until something, some little 
motion, made me look up. The corner of the poster--
it was coming loose. Shifting my weight the tiniest 
bit, I reached over Molly to fix it. Slow and 
steady I reached. I risked putting a knee onto the 
mattress. I reached more. Nearly there.  So near. I 
leaned. I leaned further. Then Molly rolled over, 
and somehow I was straddling her. 

"Daddy?" she said. 

Everything froze. "Molly," I whispered, "Molly, 
wait. I just need ..." But it was too late. Molly 
thrashed. Her hands pushed up and out. My breasts 
caught the brunt of her push. I went flying.

The fall was like coming, the first instant of 
going over, the shock and swoop, ecstasy and 
oblivion swallowing each other.  Less than a second 
it lasted, and then I hit. I hit hard and sudden 
and all at once, my back, my head, my bottom all 
landing on my mother's little rug. I heard the 
thud, but I didn't feel it. I didn't feel anything.  
"Oh," was all I could think. "Oh."  Then nothing.

Later. I don't know how much later, I woke up. I 
was still on my back, unable to move, unable to 
open my eyes, and my whole body felt sore and achy, 
fuzzy, tingling, like pins and needles everywhere 
from forehead to feet. In the far distance a dog 
was barking.  You can't be dead if you hear a dog 
barking, can you?  If you hear a dog barking you 
can't be dreaming. I tried to take stock. But how 
come I couldn't move? I lay still listening to the 
barking until at last it subsided, but the pins and 
needles wouldn't go away. Tiny waves of air nibbled 
at my skin, tasting me everywhere. I wanted to move 
but I couldn't. I wanted to scream but my mouth 
wouldn't work. Slowly, ever so slowly, my eyes 
flickered open, and smooth gray dawn seeped in. I 
remembered the fall. I shivered. Plumes of sky 
folded over me, gentle blue stars trying to 
twinkling through one last time before disappearing 
into daylight. I shivered again, but still I 
couldn't move. I looked down at the fuzzy shape of 
a sheet covering me. It seemed to be tucked up 
under my chin. I couldn't quite focus.  I closed my 
eyes and opened them again. Now I could see, I 
could see Mel Gibson's sad smile and his stern 
tenderness. I tried to lift my arms, to reach out 
to him, but I couldn't. The sheet was too heavy. 
Something was pinning me down. Something besides 
the sheet. Molly's leg.  Molly's arm. Molly's body. 
Molly. I wiggled against her weight and warmth, my 
middle nestling and nuzzling without actually 
moving. Molly, my mind whispered. My Molly, 
sleeping and breathing and stretching as she woke, 
and her leg moved over mine as she turned into me.  
"Good morning, love," she said, and under Father's 
benevolent gaze, she opened her mouth to mine. It 
was heaven.


=======================
Mel Gibson's Love Child
by Mat Twassel

  If you enjoyed this story, you may wish to 
  read other Mat Twassel stories. Many of
  them can be found at:

  http://members.aol.com/mmtwassel/index.html

  Comments, please write:  mmtwassel@aol.com





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