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Archive name: writer2.txt (Ff, ped, 1st)
Authors name: Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
Story title : Writer's Forum

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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2003.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
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Writers' Forum (FF, ped, 1st)
by Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
Revised 12/13/03

***

If you read Writers_Notebook, you'll see the ties. I 
rather enjoyed envisioning how things might seem to a 
teacher with different issues. 


ABOUT TEACHING: Public school teaching, many would say, 
is in itself an unreasonable expectation. School's a 
place where you work, not a place where you teach. 
That's self-defeatism, of course. We can indeed teach. 
At Capton Springs Sr. High, many of us do it quite 
well, thank you.

I'm Nora Vanderpool and this was my second year making 
a salary, much of which goes toward my Rambler. I want 
to quit paying interest before it reposes in the Nash 
graveyard. CSSH, I'm pleased to report, is working out 
for me. How things go once you're in the door 
determines success.

The teachers who've been here forever are the reason 
that I didn't bolt the first time the kids couldn't 
even hear me tap my desk. Don't tap harder; tap 
quieter, they advised. Results! Educational theory's 
changed in the last few years; it's more about 
psychology. Being an educator doesn't mean knowing it 
all, even with years of classroom experience. And, 
heaven knows, I don't believe everything some professor 
told me. Ed. D's have usually taught two years, outside 
guess, in a real school.

CSSH principal Parker Johnston is a solid guy. He's 
divorced (I'm single), hardworking, a bit square about 
District procedures, flexible enough to match our 
abilities to the pedagogical needs, accessible and at 
ease with students. Sometimes he'll eat in the 
cafeteria, not the faculty lounge. I'm sure it puts a 
squish on the chatter when he joins them, but you can 
tell the students enjoy passing inside views to Mr. J.

I've decorated my homeroom with travel posters of 
foreign lands, quotations (half by women), baby 
pictures of such famous people as John Glen, Astronaut, 
and Margaret Chase Smith, U.S. Senator. I've a say in 
what the school library acquires (we're weak in current 
writers). I've a broad list of District-approved 
fiction from which to choose.

There are, of course, teaching expectations that, while 
not unreasonable, are a bother. I didn't get my degree 
to earn my rotation as a hall monitor. But it's just a 
rotation.

Mr. Johnston wants CSSH to be more than classrooms. 
Last year, every faculty member got to lead an 
extracurricular activity -- lucky us! The coach types 
are covered automatically; it's all they know how to 
do, anyway. "Take ten laps" makes Sports Club not too 
demanding. The performing arts faculty has its niche. 
The kids take their private lessons and the teacher 
schedules a Music Club recital. For us English 
teachers, however, it's usually something like the 
Distribution Arts Club. You get to sell things!

The dregs of the possibilities lay before me. Pep Club? 
They learn school spirit and sports yells. I may be 
bottom dog, but I'm no sucker. Let's make it something 
worth doing.

Such as writing.

WRITERS' CLUB

My Writers' Club idea blindsided Mr. Johnston. Writing 
wouldn't be anything kids would want to do, he deemed, 
because they already take English. Mr. Johnston, you 
see, has his Masters in Ed Admin. Innate intelligence 
was drummed out in the process. Writing uses English; 
it isn't English, I explained. The Language Arts 
faculty understood.

My immediate challenge, of course, was membership. You 
can't have a club with just an advisor. But enrollment 
didn't prove to be too formidable. There are kids who 
aren't particularly athletic, who don't have some 
prodigious performance skill, who don't want to learn 
about "distribution", and who, once they see it might 
even be fun, are perfectly willing to use a pencil. 
(Pens are for final versions.)

A word in my classes, a sign on the hall board, and 
Writers' Club was born.

What I might have anticipated, had I paid attention, 
was how school divides by gender: girls do this; boys 
do that. Some might prefer to switch over, but there's 
that social pressure. When I was thirteen, I wanted to 
play the trombone. I signed up for the clarinet, 
though, because, "what girl would play the trombone?" 
My decision was wise, but my reason was wrong. A 
trombone weighs a ton and gets spitty.

So our first Writers' Club meeting saw one female 
teacher/advisor and eight female student/members. The 
boys were probably in the science room learning rocket 
launching. Janice Keller, science, will make the Rocket 
Club do library research, math about fuel/distance 
ratios and a graph of experimental performance. The 
Space Race is her ticket. Janice needs new microscopes. 
Presto! District provides. An unabridged dictionary for 
me? Maybe after June 30 if there are unspent funds in 
Line Item 32p.

The all girl aspect of our club wasn't bad. My idea 
about writing, established writers, novice writers 
notwithstanding, is that we learn through community. We 
each have parts of what it takes, but not the same 
parts. Girls are better at community.

We sat in a circle. I wasn't about to park them in 
rows, me the focus. This was a club, right? My 
introductory words were along these lines. We'd be 
working together. We'd have differing opinions, perhaps 
less than helpful comments at times. But at the end 
we'd be the better for it. Discovering what each of us 
does well is what we're about.

We took a few minutes to mention something written we'd 
enjoyed. If you don't read, you'll not do well at 
writing. I started off with a few comments about Jane 
Austen. None of the girls even knew who she was. I 
figured down the road we'd look at "The Three Sisters" 
to give them a little idea. Not all reading's easy, but 
then what good thing ever is?

We worked our way around the circle.

Jane, grade twelve to my surprise, said right off that 
she loved Agatha Christie. Why? Because the characters 
are such characters, even if you don't understand all 
the English stuff. The girl's right on, I decided. I 
didn't get into the difference between English and 
British. This Jane I'd always see walking with the same 
boy.

Nan liked Dr. Zhivago. Other heads nodded, probably 
more indicative of movie watching than reading, but 
it's a link. Nan was also a twelfth-grader, but one who 
could almost pass for a co-ed. She was some sort of 
Student Council functionary.

Rosemary's favorite was the autobiography of Helen 
Keller. I was impressed, as Helen Keller didn't write 
down for children. Her words transcend the generations. 
Rosemary was tall, quiet and thoughtful. Having her in 
my eleventh-grade advanced class every day, I knew what 
perfume she liked (April Dawn), with whom she hung out 
(lots of kids, no special boy). Once at my desk during 
a worksheet time, she put her hand on my shoulder while 
I explained the columns. I think I explained them 
twice. Rosemary was perhaps my favorite student.

Sylvia turned out to be a fan of Jean Stiler, an author 
new to me, but apparently known in the mystery 
paperback world. Sylvia liked how the main characters 
dealt with life. Sylvia, our third senior, was on the 
big-boned side. She had the thickest braids I'd ever 
seen.

Susan, a blonde junior, had a children's favorite, 
Madeleine L'Engle. We all knew the Newberry winner "A 
Wrinkle in Time", but Susan could rattle off another 
five. Susan was new to Capton Springs this year. Her 
neckline was straight cut, the type that falls outward 
when you lean. She'd throw her arm back a little 
further then necessary to push down her hair.

Sandra was finishing a library book about Amelia 
Earhart. Sandra hoped to do something like that some 
day. She thought Amelia may actually still be alive 
somewhere. Sandra was a sophomore who'd shown up from 
the notice I'd posted. That in itself said a lot. She 
was already tall, so maybe that helped. She wore braces 
with colored dots.

Heather said that Wilma Rudolph was the twentieth of 
twenty-two children and won three Olympic golds in 
Rome. Heather was the other sophomore, a cute cookie 
with her short hair and big eyes. I sensed that she 
wasn't that interested in school. At the same time, her 
banter suggested a quick mind. "Maybe the other twenty 
one just earned two."

Debbie, grade eleven, turned beet-red admitting that 
she loves every kind of romance. The others giggled and 
then, as one, spontaneously applauded. Debbie thought 
they were poking fun, but when she realized that they 
knew exactly what she was talking about, jumped up and 
danced around like a pixie. It must have been her pixie 
haircut and pubescent figure, since I've seen no 
accounts of pixie dancing. We were in an uproar! This 
might be an OK club.

We wrapped it up with a few decisions. Every club needs 
a President. Everyone agreed that it should be Nan, Nan 
being part of the everyone. We'd need refreshments. A 
signup sheet solved that.

We'd think till next week about what we might actually 
do. Assigned reading? Take turns reading excerpts we'd 
write? I volunteered that whatever the rest did, I'd do 
too. They thought that was as it should be.

I did have one idea. "Writers' Club" doesn't say much. 
Let's be something substantial, say, "Writers' Forum". 
Forum means that we, in fact, are writers, not just 
observers. We happen to be girls and, given what we've 
said, we like things by and about girls. So that's 
where we'll focus. It's not that we don't appreciate 
the other side, of course, but we can't cover it all. 
If a boy joins us, we won't say no, but we don't need 
to invite any. We all laughed, decision unanimous, and 
not because I was a teacher.

"Next week everybody come with an idea."

I shared the prospects with my colleague Janice. She 
knows kids. Over an egg salad sandwich she remarked, 
"That group's OK, the ones I know, anyway. A couple, 
anyway, go steady, always good to know."

"Go steady?"

"They're sexually experienced, Nora," picking up on 
things not taught in Secondary Ed Departments.

"How do you know?" I'd assumed it meant that they went 
out with just one guy.

"I just do." She just does. "Have them write an essay." 
She laughed at the thought.

"So how many in Rocket Club, you know, know their 
biology?" I wondered.

"Not that many, 'cause they spend too much time 
reading. I'll see what I can do experimentally."

"Come on, you're supposed to be mentoring me!"

WRITERS' FORUM

Only a couple of the girls had given thought to how we 
might run our Forum, but Heather brought cupcakes, so 
we could munch and bat around ideas. None of the girls 
wanted a big reading list. More to their liking was 
writing little things and see how they came out. I like 
the do-it approach myself, though I'd not vote against 
the reading.

I said I might chime in now and then about a point of 
style or vocabulary, if that was OK. "But I'll live 
with a little creative American grammar if you're into 
creative content. Just no 'it's' for 'its'. Deal?"

"Deal," in chorus, even if half of them didn't know the 
difference. I'd give them my little sheet of twenty-
eight common writing mistakes, the error embedded in 
the rule. Here's one: "A list should be parallel in 
structure, balanced in length, sequential in logic and 
inform the reader what exactly it is that you think 
you're trying to say." I'd work it in when they'd get 
it.

"And rewriting's how good prose gets better. It's not a 
punishment." We'll go slowly, I told myself. "Now 
there's one more thing that we should agree on, 
ladies." I should call them ladies, not girls. "It's 
this. A writer writes from her heart." I pressed my 
hand to mine. "And that means that you say things ways 
you might not otherwise. Do you see where I'm going?"

I had their attention. "You write from where you are. 
So do we sit on prose till we have it perfect? Would it 
be a Writers' Forum then? Call it Editors' Forum, 
maybe. Did we come here for that?

"We're working with drafts, if you get my point. Maybe 
it's something that shouldn't get around. So here's the 
deal. What's said in Forum stays in Forum. It's not 
keeping secrets; it's professionalism. It's not just 
because she's your friend; it's because you're both 
writers."

I looked around. Heads bobbed. Some say that I get 
passionate about this stuff.

Nan looked around too. "Hey, you guys, this is serious. 
Are we in on this? I am."

"I am too."

"Absolutely," and around the circle.

"And she'll be cool, too, about us," ruled Nan.

Enough preamble. "OK. Can I suggest two things for 
today, since we ought to do more than eat Heather's 
cupcakes? I love these sprinkles."

"First, down to the library and everybody choose what 
looks like a good book. Don't worry about getting it 
read."

We did that much.

"Now mix them up so you don't get yours. Your job is to 
read just one page in the middle, just one. Next week 
tell us how it caught you. If you want to read the 
whole book, fine, but just tell us how that first 
middle page alone came across. The word choice, the 
sentence length, whatever action happens just on that 
one page. We're not talking plot because you don't know 
it. We're talking about stringing words together. And 
don't just say that it's really good. Why so? Some of 
these books might not be that hot, just opening them in 
the middle. Make sense?"

It apparently did.

At our next Forum (M&M's for nourishment), we gave our 
one-page analyses. Most found that a good book can't 
start in the middle. A few girls found sentences that 
had some oomph, perhaps because the writer didn't 
employ the catchall verb or perhaps because the author 
used real-sounding dialog.

I signaled for attention by raising something special 
above my head. "Listen up! This is my Writer's 
Notebook, the other half of this teacher person. Here's 
where I stick ideas, good words, references to where I 
can look things up, items I might need when I sit down 
to write."

I proceeded to explain its parts. I've a section to jot 
down good phrases I come across. I won't let myself 
reuse a sentence, of course, but I may like the form.

I've another section for words that are new to me. If I 
don't write them, I'll forget.

A big part is for scratching out settings, dialogues, 
etc., material between outline and prose. You sometimes 
envision a snippet before you know how you'll fit it 
in. Park it here. A centerpiece can expand into a plot. 
If the middle is good because your creativity was 
cooking, your broader skill can work outward. At least 
it might.

I made the point that my Writer's Notebook is not my 
journal. If I'm upset about my grades, if I saw an old 
friend, I've got my diary.

You are your Notebook's reader. Exception: you become 
famous and die. The critics dissect it, seeking how 
your masterpiece evolved.

Sylvia chimed in, "Can we see yours, you know, to get 
ideas?"

"Miss Vanderpool just said it's just for the writer," 
observed Sandra.

TRUST

Eight girls and one teacher are not a natural 
agglomeration. We were (and always will be) nine 
entities. We didn't always mesh. The difference between 
being critical and offering criticism is attitude, not 
content.

Out first writing (never "homework") was three or four 
lines as you first awoke. "Anybody who shows up with 
her plan for the day is snowing us," I warned. "You're 
just waking."

Most girls had the spirit right. We're groggy, mixed 
into the dream world, lazy, poked by siblings in a 
couple of cases. The more astute realized that they 
wouldn't be thinking in sentences. They'd be weaving 
disjointed thoughts in semi-consciousness. Debbie even 
worked in a little humor: the alarm was the TV show 
buzzer for the grand prize you won. Then your eyes open 
and there's your brother borrowing your Walkman without 
permission.

No one but me would suggest word alternatives for 
another's contribution. What might they think? But 
within a couple of weeks, we were making comments that 
came across as intended. Split that sentence for even 
better emphasis. Avoid using that verb twice. As long 
as we didn't gang up, things flowed in increasingly 
good spirit. The older girls didn't claim superiority.

Call it "trust building". You take little steps, 
inconsequential actions, to dispel initial suspicions. 
Once you recognize that the other isn't out to get you, 
you'll weigh what's said less defensively. Perhaps your 
friend's idea might help, even.

By week six or seven, we were enjoying each other's 
short paragraphs, finding license to pursue our own 
styles. This is where I first noticed Rosemary's bent 
for the poetic. She'd pare down phrases in pursuit of 
subtle balance.

What one says about another's contribution says as much 
about the commentator. Jane saw things as if they were 
her own thoughts. Nan might opt for word twists, 
clinchers at sentence end. Sandra tended to 
overembellish. None of us expected to be agreed with 
all the time.

"You write, 'When the sun rose next morning.' Other 
verb possibilities?"

"I just mean it went up."

"What about 'ascend'?"

"Jesus ascended because it was a big thing, but the sun 
just rises."

"How about, 'as the sun climbed into the sky?'"

"My sun's just round. No arms or anything."

I like girls that defend their choices.

A potential new member might pop in. I suspect that she 
(and they always were) had lost interest in whatever 
club she'd been. We were welcoming, but we'd not get a 
second visit. Perhaps writing didn't seem a great 
improvement. I asked Mr. Johnston about it. He 
suggested that we fix our membership, just like CSSH 
sports clubs. If they didn't, the natural athletes 
stroll in at the end and bench the kids who've spent 
their afternoons doing the drills. The girls agreed.

WRITINGS

Our subjects included: Hollywood, pizzas, volleyball, 
grades, siblings, shyness, being the wrong size, 
everything. But out of eight girls, as any teacher will 
attest, there will be at least five whose minds drift 
toward boys. So in the subject list were making out, 
not making out, getting scoped by lewd creeps, getting 
ignored by the nice boys, very real parts of being 
pubescent. Set a story in the mountains and here comes 
a cute guy hiking down the trail.

We thus migrated toward girl topics. Following are 
excerpts, some rather explicit, starting with the 
seniors. Keep in mind that we weren't writing on this 
level till March or April. Openness takes time. Some of 
the girls have more talent, perhaps, but all have 
something to say. That's why I love teaching.

NAN

I list Nan first for a reason: she's Miss Take Charge 
who could run CSSH without Mr. Johnston. She'd keep 
things on schedule, delegate tasks, make decisions. 
She's confident.

Nan's fiction often related to siblings. In some 
writings, she'd carry on about being irritated, getting 
blamed for how her brother left the sink. The following 
tale, though, hinted at a darker side from the boy's 
perspective, a writing challenge for a girl. Needless 
to say, this was written after we knew each other.

"They were home alone. He wondered why she'd barged in 
and evicted him from the tub. Come here, she ordered. 
He reached for the towel, wanting to leave. He didn't 
understand why she kept it. He was the wet one.

"She put her right hand on his shoulder, pressing him 
against the wall. He didn't know why she was drying 
him. She dabbed, letting the back of her hand bounce 
against him. She gave him a little push, then another, 
right where she shouldn't. He couldn't stop her.

"She cradled him in her left hand and slipped his skin 
back and forth, just like he did in the tub. As in the 
soapsuds, he watched himself get bigger. He liked the 
way she touched him, he decided. His thingy was like 
guys her age, she said, pushing and pulling all the 
time.

"She made him follow her to her room. She let him wrap 
the towel around himself in the hall, but took it back 
in her room. Lay on your back, she said, and she would 
make his thingy feel happy.

"He wasn't sure why she undressed too. He hadn't known 
about her hair.

"It might be awhile till they got good, his sister 
said, but he'd learn. Why was she getting above him?"

Nan was red. The Forum was spellbound.

SYLVIA

Bust-wise, Sylvia would have me beat in a year or two. 
More than one of her writings dealt with tits. Here's 
what she did with a 200-word limit:

"It's called 'Spotlight'," she started off.

"It's hard, running spot for the talent show. The three 
Gibson Sisters were singing, not badly, but not well 
blocked. Robin's light-booth job was easier, just 
keeping an eye on the fixed equipment.

"As she swung to follow the left Gibson, Robin touched 
her back. She didn't have time to ask why. Then the 
bottom of her sweater. She kept her Gibson centered. 
Then up her backbone. Don't, she thought. Fingers 
worked her snap until it parted. Please don't, she 
begged inwardly.

Robin's hand climbed to her right shoulder to push her 
bra strap sideways. She stayed with the Gibson sister. 
Robin pushed the strap down the inside of her sleeve to 
the elbow and tugged at her arm. She had to let go of 
the spotlight handle and do all aiming with then other. 
Her freed wrist was drawn into her sleeve until the 
loose strap could be worked around. That done, she was 
allowed to resume her job.

"Her left arm followed. Strap over the shoulder, pushed 
to the elbow, hand pulled back until the strap passed. 
Freed again to broad spot the trio.

"Robin gave her bra back a few days later."

"Super," I gushed. "A guy steals her bra while she 
works."

A couple of girls exchanged glances and then affirmed 
the discussion. Rosemary seemed distracted; she may 
have had an exam ahead.

"Look at how much writing it takes to describe the 
something we do every day, like an undergarment," I 
reflected.

They broke up when Heather stonefaced, "Gee, we thought 
Drama got a new vibrating light, but couldn't 
understand why it stayed on Darla Gibson a minute and a 
half after the sisters sat down."

JANE

Some of Jane's background needn't be detailed. An older 
male family member hurt her deeply. He's out of the 
picture now, so CSSH doesn't call Family Services. 
Jane's built like a boy, so it's not as if he confused 
her with his wife.

I don't approve of everything students do, for sure. 
With Jane, though, she'd found a relationship that 
reduced the horror she associated with male intimacy. 
Her true love, and I accepted her literal meaning, was 
Scott. He's not as tall, but almost. He's a good 
student. She got to know him at Dairy Queen, where 
groups of boys run into groups of girls.

Here are excerpts from Jane's "Diary". Not her real 
one, but rather what I had them write as if others 
would read it. They could put in as much truth as they 
wished. Jane put in a lot..

"At the Dairy Queen, we each knew the other didn't 
really want to be running around in a gang. You can't 
really talk.

"It was funny how we liked the same records, but there 
was more to it. I started to like his records even 
before he played them.

"Other girls kiss all the time. I just wanted to wait.

"Scott didn't ask. I'm glad, because then I'd have to 
decide. He just pecked me, right there on the sidewalk.

"I'd choose outfits that came loose in the middle. 
Sometimes while I was choosing, I'd pretend that my 
hand was his.

"He'd never had sex, not like me, week after week back 
then. We talked about being in love, sharing 
everything. We just never said we were talking about 
going to bed.

"He made his room wonderful. Flowers from the garden! A 
Four Freshmen long-play. I told him he better mess 
things up before his parents got home so they wouldn't 
be suspicious.

"I didn't show him how. I just used my knees so he'd 
find the way naturally."

Jane didn't share these entries with the larger Forum. 
For her, love wasn't something to be confused with a 
mattress. She knew that I understood at least some of 
the distinction. The others knew that she and Scott 
slept together, just not of the intensity.

DEBBIE

Debbie liked to know the rules. "Miss Vanderpool? Can I 
use the 'F' word in what I write sometimes?" I think 
her topic was about canoeing.

"It's in the dictionary, but it's probably not the best 
word usually. There are other ways to say things."

"So no?"

"Let's just say that the characters who say it wouldn't 
be very educated. If you want them that way, use their 
voice. Not yours."

Debbie was also one for fact. One of the girls asked 
why Shakespeare is Elizabethan Theater.

"Virgin Heyday!" Heather smarted off.

"Why's that?" asked Debbie

"Because Queen Elizabeth was a virgin. It's in a book."

"No way. There's Prince Charles," Debbie's retort.

"Not the one now. The old-time one."

That's why authors study history, I advocated. Most 
kids just want to write about the present.

For a "5/6 format", give all but one of the who, what, 
why, where, when and how. The reader supplies the 
missing. Debbie's outline was as such:

What: Making love.

Where: In the teacher's classroom with the door locked 
and lights out.

When: Thursdays, spring of sophomore year. Her mom 
picked her up late and she was supposed to study in the 
library.

Why: They started off joking around during a makeup 
test. "Makeup" got said like "makeout". He found where 
she was ticklish. She let him push her bra up under her 
sweater. He said she was very mature."

How: Missionary style below the windows, but she'd get 
squished. She learned "on top" behind his desk.

Who: Reader's choice.

The girls didn't like this one much. They talked about 
it as if this wasn't the teacher's only special 
student. This girl needed to get with boys her own age, 
they ruled. Debbie said that was in the next chapter. I 
said that we don't write to make readers like it, but 
to have them believe it.

I didn't tell her, of course, but Debbie's story pushed 
my buttons for a different reason. Pornography is 
failed eroticism by definition. Debbie's tale, in 
outline form, anyway, shows zero motivation. It's cock 
in cunt (crudely designated to make my point). Why did 
this protagonist laugh at the makeup-makeout 
juxtaposition?

ROSEMARY

Rosemary's is an example of stringing short phrases for 
rapid action, "Little Helpings".

"How you leave the milk crate below your window.

"How you clear your collections from the sill.

"How you stuff your jeans against your door to muffle 
the sound.

"How you pretend to be asleep when I join you.

"How you provide an extra pillow.

"How your penlight illuminates our tent, my knees the 
poles.

"How you always tell me to hush.

"How I can't.

"How you help me crawl out the window."

Pure eroticism, as if she's chanting some primordial 
ritual. I pictured the nocturnal liaison, Rosemary 
stealing to her imaginary boyfriend's. She never said 
it was she, of course, but how can you separate the 
writer? Rosemary is perhaps five-feet, seven, wears her 
brunette hair in a flip, and, as you see, is poetic. 
Did I say about being tall before? When they're taller 
than you are, they seem your age.

I hope she gets beyond the erotic side. Of course I 
hope that. There was just that one time doing 
worksheets, and then there was a time the class 
gathered to hear my Victrola. (It turns out that it 
doesn't have amplification, thus the cone.) We had to 
press together and her little breasts were against me. 
I'm a woman, so it's nothing. Her right side crossed 
the back of my arm five times. I had the class listen 
again to make sure we got the words. She had on her 
little butterfly bra that day. Its crisscrossed front 
is so cute. I knew about that one from when she helped 
me paint my blackboard frame. I didn't want her to get 
paint on her cardigan, so she changed into an old T-
shirt by the bookshelf away from the door. I happened 
to be shelving books when she changed back.

Then there was the time my arm touched her at the 
project table. I didn't pull back, so as to not to 
embarrass her. I was just helping her staple reading 
lists. She was wearing her other pointy bra, not the 
one with straps that slid off her shoulder. You could 
tell the strap difference when she wore a sheer blouse. 
Girls can have pointed breasts, but beginner falsies 
can be sharp too. She didn't feel my arm and had a lot 
of stapling to do. I'd not have thought foam would be 
so firm. Well, maybe she did feel my arm, but at her 
age it wouldn't register.

On Valentine's Day she gave me a pink heart-shaped 
cookie, "love, Rosemary". Lots of kids give you little 
things, so it meant nothing. That was the week that she 
read "Little Helpings". I'd given her a quick hug when 
she finished, as a teacher might do. Her thin-strapped 
bra held her breasts high on her frame. I could see the 
lace when she sat beside me to show how she 
calligraphed the title. She just wore the four bras, 
all white, all so sweet. Sometimes I envision her bras 
when I'm putting on my own.

SUSAN

Write the same thing in each person. Pretend you get 
$100.00, but you pay $1.00 back for every word used. 
Susan's was about a boy standing in front of a girl in 
the registration line.

"Third Person. As he turned to let another student 
pass, his arm bumped against her front. She started to 
step back, but didn't."

"Second Person. You were just waiting behind him to 
turn in your registration. It was just an accident, the 
way that he brushed you. But maybe it wasn't. You were 
curious which."

"First Person. I didn't even realize that she was right 
there, so when I stepped back, my elbow ran right into 
her tit. It was soft, really soft. And she leaned 
forward."

Susan blushed, but her voice hadn't faltered. The 
others shot smirks, one to another.

"Excellent, excellent. $19.00. All three persons. Which 
works? Maybe they all do."

Sandra ventured, "I like 'I' and the 'you' best. Just 
saying 'he' and 'she' seems kind of distant."

Rosemary concurred, "It's always better to put the 
reader in the story, like Miss Vanderpool says."

"My 'always' rules are more about spelling and 
punctuation, but Rosemary's right on about engaging the 
reader," I clarified.

"We want real stuff, right?" answered the budding 
author.

"So finish the story, emerging author," challenged Nan.

"I'm new, remember, so I need to meet the guys. If I'd 
known he was just a sophomore, I'd not have bothered. 
But as it turns out, he's a very big tenth grader."

My heavens! It's one thing to craft a written line. But 
on the fly! Girls appreciate brashness quickly 
delivered.

"So, as always, our question is, how's the reader 
supposed to react?" I asked.

"Get horny." I knew who the wag was, Heather. Everyone 
laughed at the truth of that. To think we were doing 
such writing in a public school! "Get horny," as if 
that were something you'd even say.

Sandra tended towards short pieces about casual 
intimacies, enough so as to make me a little 
uncomfortable, even. She was the one with the undone 
button, the shorter skirt. In the hall, you'd hear her 
laugh. She'd be one that Janice would say was "going 
steady".

SANDRA

"So here's what you need to know. At camp we always 
have this thing called 'Do it till Dawn'. The campers 
and the counselors both have it, but it's separate. 
Like you both know, but pretend you don't.

"We meet at 12:30, Thursday night. Each girls' cabin 
has its spot. Our place is what they call the Boat 
Park, where they pull the rowboats on the grass at 
night. The guy you're dating knows where. The boys' 
cabins get all mixed up, but the girls stay together, 
that way.

"There's grass between the boats. You each get your 
place. You sit up for a while and do things like wave 
at each other, but then he pulls you under, we say. 
Well, actually, maybe you pull him; it doesn't matter. 
So here's what I wrote. Listen up!

"The stars magnify the sound of cold water lapping on 
the shore. Looking upward, hulls your walls on either 
side, heaven seems close. You're in your pedal pushers 
and Captain Midnight sweatshirt."

She added an aside. "'Cause it's midnight."

"If it's just to show casual attire, no need to 
explain," I suggested.

Sandra continued, "Whispers, snaps, zippers. Muted 
cries of exhortation, exertion and ecstasy mingle with 
the night."

Sandra paused again. "See how I got three 'ex' words 
there. The Thesaurus."

"How about exaggeration?" from the back.

Sandra read on. "The rocking sounds of boy on girl 
merge with the waves. Your cabinmates one rowboat to 
starboard and one rowboat to port come with you at the 
exact same moment!" Sandra smiled, braces flashing. 
She'd read well.

"I read 'rocking sounds' in a book. Anybody can borrow 
it if you don't show it around," Sandra volunteered.

"There could be a big comet in the sky." One of them 
was putting us on, I hoped.

"Sandra, you're just in tenth." The way they ragged 
her, she knew they loved every word of it.

"Well, so it was my first year there, but they said 
it's always that way. If you're not going out, they can 
find you a date."

"So it's boat, boy-girl, boat, boy-girl, boat. That 
way?"

"That's exactly how I wrote it," a bit defensively.

"Just checking. I thought maybe you got in a boat. Then 
the bench where you oar would be in the way."

"We 'row' with 'oars'. We're taught all the boat words 
before we're allowed to row, but we still have to wear 
life preservers."

"Seriously, that part 'hulls your walls' is pretty 
cool."

"And you come at the same time. Get real!" from another 
heckler.

"Poetic license," I ruled. "Here's a thought. Make the 
last line first person. The reader will believe it's 
the author then."

"Well, they better." Again the flash of Sandra's 
braces.

HEATHER

Heather was a giggler who still talked about "playing" 
with her friends. She'd subscribe to the lingo soon 
enough. The last paragraph in one of her short stories, 
however, wasn't for giggles.

"She still hardly knew him. They'd been chatting about 
their schools, how unreasonable the teachers are. 
Suddenly the two were on the floor, him pinning her 
beneath. She tried to rise. He'd jerked her jersey up. 
She pushed at him. He'd unsnapped her shorts." Heather 
sat down. Story over.

"You can't stop there!" from the others.

"Sure she can," I ruled. "Let the reader run."

We agreed that one shouldn't stretch it out. 
Afterwards, she scribbled in her Writer's Notebook 
until the others left.

"Heather."

"Yes?"

"That was a powerful paragraph."

"How he didn't even ask, my first time ever."

"Oh, Lord!"

"It's fun now, I guess, even if I hardly have tits."

What should I do? "I'm here for you, you know. I 
can..."

"Thanks. It's OK to write about?"

"At least to sort things out. But..."

"Do you think the others shouldn't know about that 
time?"

"They don't need to know anything, but I think they'd 
understand."

"I want to write about the real me."

Heather's first writings were last-minute, never 
proofed, trash-canned upon completion. As she sensed 
that we were listening, however, her efforts 
increasingly reflected organization and revision. Like 
Jane's, Heather's more-difficult submissions were for 
my eyes alone. The others knew the nature. I noticed 
when she began saving her final versions.

Heather's materials, just like her flippant sidebar 
commentary, flirted with the irreverent. The funniest 
writers draw upon less than happy times.

At times, intimacy was scary. I was supposed to be 
their teacher, not confessor. But the fact was, they 
weren't confessing. They were documenting parts of 
themselves difficult to document. They wrote for 
themselves and each other, not their advisor. I was 
proud of my Forum, both as writers and as honest kids.

ME

The girls wanted my "boy story", maybe something set 
when I was about their age. Here's what I came up with: 
"Bus Ride".

They'd dropped the law, but the Negroes still sat at 
the back. She didn't think it odd that they did. She 
always sat in the middle when she rode Bus 34 to tap 
lessons. The right-hand side was better for seeing 
store windows.

Preston and Rusty were already in high school, but 
everybody knew everybody a little bit. Well, not the 
Negroes.

"Hi, babe." The two sat down, Rusty on her left, 
Preston behind. Preston had an acne problem for which 
he used flesh-toned cream. The box said flesh tone, 
that is.

"Want to go have a cig?"

"I don't smoke."

"We thought you were older. Like to swim? We go to the 
slough sometimes."

"My folks won't let me."

"Like the Roxie?"

"Sure."

"I didn't mean the movies." Rusty looked to Preston for 
approval and then returned to his target. "Know how to 
kiss?"

"Sure." She hoped somebody would take the seat across.

Rusty looked around. "How 'bout this?" and touched her 
tit.

"Don't."

He squeezed harder and grinned back at pimple-faced 
Parker.

"Please don't."

She looked to the back. Negroes rarely look up.

"Here's something you'll love." Rusty pushed her hand 
into his crotch. "Like it?"

"No." She didn't.

"Well it likes you," for his buddy. Then he added, "So 
I'm going to let go and you're going to leave it right 
there."

He let go. She didn't know what to do, so she kept her 
hand on him. She had heard about boners.

"Come on, babe, squeeze me good," perhaps a line he'd 
read from a dirty book he'd shoplifted.

She didn't do that, but her hand was still there.

"I'll miss my stop," she begged.

"You ride this bus every week?"

She started to cry and the two got off.

Her best friend Karla Lynn could tell from her eyes. 
Karla Lynn's brother was in high school too, a 
halfback. Rusty and Preston got the tar beat out of 
them. Rusty was severely kicked in the groin, according 
to the report. Rusty and Preston said it was too dark 
to identify the assailant.

The End

The girls were quiet for a moment. I should tell more 
about how the two got beat up. Rosemary said it made 
her sick, but that doesn't mean not to tell the story.

"Miss Vanderpool, that's you, right?"

"Maybe."

It was their welcome. I was a member now.

Forum had covered lots of ground, exhausting most of my 
pedantic agenda, encountering much more. We liked 
sharing; we liked writing.

Rosemary would help from time to time with my room-
brightening project. District does one color. If you 
want contrasting trim, they provide the paint. When 
she'd go way up the ladder, I'd steady it from behind. 
I could smell her April Dawn. Sometimes my breasts 
would touch her calves. She'd take my hand and smile 
while descending. One time while stepping down, 
Rosemary said that I shouldn't let those two boys get 
me down. In my bus story, I didn't say anything about 
now, but she seemed to know.

MY SPECIAL CASE

Bits and pieces of pubescent sexuality were on the 
Forum table. It was apparent how many of the girls had 
experiences, far more than Janice might think. Susan, 
Heather and Debbie admitted they "dated around". For 
the others, sex seemed more in the context of growing 
up, something special.

It was in spring, going around the circle, when Sandra 
noted that we shared the common bond of already being 
women. There was some joke about grade school girls vs. 
high school girls seeing a naked man. Someone else had 
some statistic. Sandra had a book about "first times" 
that she thought was "interesting". We should review 
it. "Interesting", such a vacant adjective.

Heather, a girl who'd seen a dark side of men, and thus 
could be direct, turned toward me. "Miss Vanderpool, I 
guess we sort of know about each other, at least a 
little bit. I mean," looking to her friends, "as much 
as they want us to know."

One or two nodded.

"Are you OK with all this?" Heather continued, "It's 
like for most of us, it just sort of happened, not like 
with someone we'll marry. You're older, maybe see it 
differently because you know better guys."

I hesitated. "I guess I'm older, but that doesn't mean 
I know that much. Maybe it's more common now, or 
something."

They looked at me. "You told us you got felt up," 
ventured Jane.

My look lacked the triumph of one ready to play a 
winning card. My look lacked the calculation of one 
hedging her bet. My look lacked the relief of one 
resigned to loss and thus freedom. My look was one of 
loneliness.

My look told them that I didn't have a story.

Sandra was the first to speak up. "Well I just did it 
at camp, so I'm pretty much one too. I hardly even knew 
the guy, anyway. Plus it never really lasted till 
dawn." She wanted to stand with me even more than to be 
like her older friends. Bless her.

Heather joined her, "I think it's cool. I'd be one too, 
but he kind of made me and I wasn't that smart 
afterwards."

Rosemary's eyes were large. "It makes you very 
precious."

I didn't want them gushing this stuff. "Well that's 
what I am. Just how it's worked out. Maybe that's why I 
like some things you write."

Sylvia grinned at me. "You're one of us anyway, Miss 
Vanderpool. The right time will come along and then you 
can show us your Writer's Notebook."

"It may not be as interesting, but you'll see flawless 
prose, I'll bet," I ended it without claiming the V 
word.

BOUNDARIES

Not having had sex isn't necessarily a liability. That 
these girls were experienced wasn't about me, anyway. 
I, like most of my college classmates, chose not to act 
cheaply. It wasn't a religious thing, though we were 
brought up where abstinence was a given. Our moms had 
reserved themselves till marriage. Most of our dads had 
been in the War, but that wasn't here.

Sex should be respected. If you don't respect your 
body, you don't respect yourself. There are, of course, 
other reasons for restraint: 1) pregnancy, 2) syphilis, 
3) discomfort, 4) reputation, 5) cheapening the 
experience, and 6) we all know it's probably wrong.

In college, we knew who'd crossed the line. For the 
most part, it was understandable. Some were engaged, or 
at least planned on being, and making love might 
guarantee the process. Some didn't exercise their 
choice wisely and consequently found themselves with 
expectations. Some just wanted to experience a man.

We being virgins didn't impede playing close to the 
boundary. Some let their boyfriend dry fuck, as they 
called it. They'd be still in underwear and he'd grind 
against her, sometimes getting her sticky. Some girls 
let their boyfriend finger them at the drive-in. Some 
girls would even pull on the boy's penis until he had 
an orgasm. A satisfied guy is usually nicer to you.

Going all the way was about the guy, not his penis, 
said the ones who did it. I had my doubts. I dated with 
my head. No goodnight kiss on first date. If things 
went right, we'd smooch by the third. If he respected 
limits, there was room for giggles. My breasts were 
trophies, not my vagina, though I'd not use that word.

Robert, for example, in college would take me to plays. 
We both liked the newer playwrights. I'd dress up and 
we'd go arm in arm. Entering the theater, you clutch 
your guy tight for everybody to see.

Afterwards we'd eat Italian. Robert would always walk 
to me the door. Our kisses were sweet, if brief. My 
breast would find his arm, just like when we'd go into 
the theater, but nobody could see. The key is that my 
breast found him, not the other way around.

We'd run our lips together while he trailed his 
fingertips over my sweater. I'd trap his hand when he 
dipped to ascend, though. I liked his preliminaries, 
but I didn't want to appear willing.

Later, my blouse would slip up if I'd chosen the top 
accordingly. He'd knead me through the lace of my 
brassiere. I told myself that my nipples weren't 
noticeable, but of course he could tell. My liking the 
idea, of course, made them more pronounced.

I wasn't about to sleep with Robert. He was far too 
opinionated about things he knew little about (e.g., 
Rodgers and Hammerstein) and too much the authority on 
things in which I had no interest (e.g., bebop). I 
wasn't about to spend myself for less than the guy that 
I'd be with forever. But it's fun getting the 
attention.

REVELATION

It was Susan, the one making serial gender-related 
mistakes, who moved us into a more serious verb form -- 
future tense. She'd been at a party where there was 
booze. What started out as arm wrestling ended up as 
intercourse with three, one whose name she didn't even 
remember. They wore no rubbers and she wasn't even sure 
if other kids didn't watch. They dumped her drunk in 
her yard. She'd written a reflection as if she was 
there. What Susan wrote left each of us thoughtful. I 
had misjudged her, thinking she took sex as a lark.

"And they want me to come to a party this weekend to 
get my panties back," Susan was crying, "and I said yes 
if I could be the dancer."

Maybe Rosemary had been harsh too, because she took 
Susan's hand. "Susan, you tell them that I'd already 
invited you to my birthday party. It'll be just a tiny 
party because it's a bit before the actual date, but 
we'll have fun."

"Susan, hun, we all end up wanting the wrong stuff 
sometimes," I added from my chair. "I know, I've..." I 
halted.

The class looked at me. "It's OK," I ended. But the 
Forum seemed to know it wasn't OK.

"Miss Vanderpool." It was Nan. "You remember about 
stuff staying in the Forum?" Of course. "Well it does."

I wasn't sure what she was talking about. "About you 
dating your friend, you know," she clarified.

Dating? I wasn't, even.

"Miss Vanderpool? It's OK. We promise." It was Nan 
again. She rose, then sat back down. "You and -- your 
friend. It's like some of us knew there was something. 
We weren't spying. You were telling us you were a 
virgin because you're our teacher. Like a teacher 
really tells students?"

I felt blank -- perfectly blank for the moment.

"So we talked about it, just us, right?" Nan turned 
toward the others, a serious lot. "And we decided, all 
of us, that it's part of our Forum deal."

I wasn't sure if I understood.

"You and him getting together." I didn't correct the 
objective form. Who was "him"? "We don't care and we 
won't even come back to the subject, ever."

"No, that's not true for me anyway, Miss Vanderpool," 
Sandra blurted. "I care. I really do, if you love each 
other. We want you to be happy."

"That's right," added Susan. Her voice broke.

"I just meant that we're with you, however. We do 
care," rejoined Nan.

"All of us," from the other side.

"But," declared Nan, "it's staying here."

What's staying here?

Nan stood, and with her, the others. One took my hand; 
another touched my hair. I didn't know who was who.

"You do do it, same as us?"

"Do it" means one thing to these girls.

"No." That part was easy.

The truth floored them. They'd easier have believed 
that I was Mrs. Rabbit.

"You don't? He's divorced and everything."

Then it hit me. Sex with my boss!

Rosemary entered in, "You two are grownups." She 
appended a weak smile.

"Really, I don't..."

"But we thought... "

Everyone was silent.

"I believe you, Miss Vanderpool."

"So do I."

I sniffled and squeezed whatever hands were in mine. 
"Thanks, girls. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" It was Heather, emphasis on the 
contraction. "Think about him, seeing you everyday, so 
pretty and everything."

There followed a horrified moment at the impudence, and 
then, just as abruptly, laughter. Nan hit her with her 
Life Magazine. More laughter, even me this time.

I stood up and pondered, as might a Supreme Court 
Justice. "I'm just a bit pokey."

I looked around the circle. "You see," I saw a way to 
end this, "I don't go to camp, I'd trip on the milk 
crate, I don't do lights, I'd mess it up standing in 
line, and I forget the rest."

We laughed and laughed, the better way to talk serious 
stuff.

Nan reminded me, "There's kyping his bath towel."

Lord!

Sandra turned my way. "You know how you said how a 
writer should name her characters to make them real 
people, even if she never puts it on paper?"

I nodded.

"Well, if you want to, you should name yours. Then it's 
real, something with breath, with..."

"With lips," Susan clinching camaraderie.

I couldn't run away. "I'm a writer like you girls. It 
starts with J." For some reason, I wanted to say the 
rest, but I didn't.

They of course knew it already, but one letter can seal 
a literary bond.

"Well, that's why we can't read her Writer's Notebook, 
right?"

"Exactly right," me again the teacher. "But the fact 
is, there are probably a lot more half-baked 
antagonists in yours. Who remembers what hamartia is? 
Debbie?"

"Hamartia: fatal flaw. H-A-M-A-R-T-I-A. Hamartia," in a 
show of academic triumph.

PARKER

It really didn't matter that the girls knew about my 
derailed love life. Such things never stay hidden. You 
just pray that they stay hidden from certain people.

For my whole first year, I'd hardly given Mr. Johnston 
a glance. Too busy. It was after I'd turned in second 
semester grades that Parker entered my life as more 
than a spot on the organizational chart.

Teachers can earn three summer days of extra pay 
revising curriculum guidelines. We grumble about 
guideline specifics all year, of course, but who takes 
on the big picture with six lesson plans due?

A few summer days repairing what some near-retiree 
dreamt in the District Curriculum Coordination Office 
is time well spent. I devoted more than my three paid 
days to the challenge. Free verse? What grade level? 
Memorization? Thornton Wilder? Should vocabulary be 
topical or stem words? Make education work.

Having just a dozen summer staff in the building makes 
it not a school atmosphere. Wear shorts. Go to the 
restroom when you need to pee. Schools function well 
when the students are away. Sad but true. Parker, of 
course, gets paid for eleven months. The thought didn't 
escape us that school might run even better without a 
Principal, but we'd not tell him.

Coffee time September to June is about school. What's 
happening with the contracts? The Social Studies slot? 
Who else has Samuel Cox in class? If you go to the 
dentist on an in-service day, you don't need a 
substitute. Does this count the same against your sick 
days?

In summer, we're real people. Coffee with friends, not 
colleagues. Same coffee machine, though. That's where 
Parker revealed his erstwhile career as a news reporter 
before figuring out that it's easier to teach than to 
do (thank you, George Bernard Shaw). The rest of us 
took it where it needed to go -- it's easier to 
principal than to teach. He tried to tell us about the 
heavy burden of budgeting. Less than convincing.

So Parker knew about writing more than annual reviews 
and goals. He had his BA in Journalism and did city 
beat in Tulsa. Then he got his Language Arts 
credential, just like me. Journalism majors, of course, 
don't have the classical foundation, and thus tend to 
be less rigorous teachers. A guy like Parker could do 
still better, so he went back to college and now has 
his own office. More power to him. I asked him if he 
still wrote.

"You read my memos?" looking around the lounge

"Next memo, I'll do a scathing review." I'm good at 
give and take.

"Same for your next lesson plan." He too, apparently.

So I ended up with another twelve days of salary 
augmentation doing summer paperwork. Nothing exciting, 
but a chance to see a bit more how educational 
machinery functions. My red marks were rarely brutal, 
but now and then I'd hit the nail squarely. Parker 
didn't mind when I'd pop in. The Principal's door was 
open. Rose was at the front desk.

But a mimeo-room interaction added a dynamic. Parker 
was on one side of the worktable, I on the other. 
Leaning forward to get my folders, my collar parted. 
Parker wasn't thinking about me, of that I'm sure, 
before he saw the hemisphere of white stitched cotton. 
I'm not well endowed, but they were bagged melons. I 
even have a little cleavage. I straightened promptly 
and Parker refocused on something behind me. These 
things happen.

When I delivered Annual Goals (Draft 3, "Not for 
Distribution") that afternoon, I was careful to stand 
straight. Parker looked everywhere but at my bust. Pure 
professionals, we went through a few alternative 
wordings. I made my preference known for the order of 
objectives.

But you can't Pink Pearl your mind. Why should you, 
even? It was just my bra he saw. Now sitting across 
Parker's desk, it seemed so silly. So what? Who knows 
what happened as I arose. Maybe it was coincidence. 
Maybe it was thinking about boobs. Maybe some less-
tamed side of me triumphed. Maybe it doesn't really 
matter.

"For example, don't split the grade-level assessment," 
I advised as I bent forward to underline a distant 
line. "They'll agree with this," pointing to a random 
item and dropping my shoulder, "but does it fit with 
the Strategic Plan?" I held my posture while Parker's 
glance wavered between the report and me.

It felt exciting, getting him to look. If there had not 
been one desk, I might have bumped them right into him.

"I'll make the changes," I volunteered as I turned 
toward the door. Rose had not a clue, which made it 
more adventurous.

Parker and my conversations, both report-related and 
broader-ranging chitchat, never altered. Rose saw 
neither more of me nor less. If I'd my top button 
undone, it was because it was summer.

I'd sit with my right arm on his desk. Twisted just a 
tad, a blouse's right panel folds outward. I avoided 
colored bras, figuring Rose might notice. Women do. I'm 
sure that Parker anticipated my attire. A girl needs 
some outlet now and then -- safe outlet.

I'd finished my editorial tasks and was hauling a 
Victrola when the touch occurred. Yes, I said Victrola, 
that old fashioned record player that the little dog 
listens to. This yard sale bargain would make my 
classroom a one-of-a-kind place. A stack of heavy 
records came with my purchase, so I figured we might 
see how pop lyrics change. The kids would like the old 
gadget. Parker was coming down the stairs as I was 
going up, embracing my conical contraption.

"Here; I'll help."

I knew my purchase was awkward, more so than did he. He 
lifted the wooden base before realizing that the top 
was affixed by balance alone. Preserving the latter 
required our mutual coordination, me not dropping my 
acquisition before he'd assumed control. For just a 
moment, the back of his hand was jammed firmly against 
my bosom.

At first he may have not have distinguished between me 
and machine. But my breast rode with him as he lifted 
and then my nipple slid down his knuckles.

Parker froze, ears pinkened. "Oh, Jeez, I'm sorry," he 
blurted.

"It's nothing," I automatically replied, hurrying to 
reclaim the teetering records. To fill the awkward 
pause I added, "Accident."

Parker, likewise rushing to preclude audible vacancy, 
offered, "You didn't drop anything, did you?" We would 
have known if I had.

He followed me to my classroom, bearing the Victrola 
like a baby. I showed him where to set it, chatting to 
ease his lingering embarrassment. What had transpired 
was disconcerting, but humorous as well. I grinned, 
"You never know when you'll save a Victrola, do you? 
Principals are good for something."

My nipples still showed. He'd forgotten to look 
elsewhere. Just thinking of it kept them erect muck of 
the afternoon.

The following day, I found a draft of a past edit, 
enough of an excuse to wave at Rose.

Parker looked up. "Never finished with this junk," as I 
carried the document to his side. "Is this the way you 
want it?" I leaned a breast into his shoulder, sliding 
up near his ear before retreating. "Let me know if it 
needs more work." I gave a big smile and escaped.

The students returned after Labor Day. He'd probably 
thought better of pursuing me. Given the risks, maybe 
he was right.

But in faculty meeting, he caught my eye and glanced 
toward the corner. He wanted me the last to leave. I 
busied myself for the few minutes it took to clear the 
room. Nothing transpired that summer that couldn't be 
explained as unintentional. A button. A brush. Nothing 
ever said.

"Nora," directly, "I think maybe we need to figure out 
what's going on. Can we meet somewhere private?" He 
blushed. "I mean not at school. Maybe Allmont Park?"

But all we'd done was meet at Allmont, front seat of my 
Rambler. The first time we talked about friendship and 
how it can get misconstrued. We met a week later, just 
to check in. I gave him a kiss when he left. The third 
time I scrunched against him while we talked about 
keeping things within bounds. There needs to be limits. 
We kissed again, tacitly staking a boundary.

I had friends who'd screwed up their careers, 
literally, getting involved with someone in their 
professional life. Something goes wrong in bed and 
something follows in your job review. I'd not risk my 
career. I think it was the same for Parker. District 
takes a dim view of administrator/teacher 
relationships.

We never went out because he never invited me. He was 
probably dating others anyway. We never kissed again. A 
few laughs, still. A squeeze behind him in the doorway. 
It's like girls can get with a boy cousin. To his 
credit, Parker didn't expect more. I'd not get this 
confessional published in "True Romance", proper names 
of course changed. They pay between $200 and $400 for a 
true story.

I suppose some kid saw something, though, probably just 
us chatting. If you believed every "Did you hear" 
whispered at their lockers, CSSH would be too much for 
Tolstoy, Twain and Tolkien. The girls opting for 
Writers' Club may have figured they'd have an amorous 
advisor. Disappointment of the inconsequential sort.

AWARDS

The girls had it all figured out. Clubs have an awards 
ceremony, a party, a field trip, something near year's 
end. I suggested tickets to a professional drama. 
Debbie offered her place for a barbecue; her dad loves 
to grill.

Heather had another idea. "We all deserve an award for 
literary improvement, something to look back on when we 
sell the movie rights." Everyone laughed. "We'll dress 
up and everything."

That beat going to a play. Awards Ceremony/Public 
Reading we'd call it.

"Can we invite Mr. J?" Eyes my way.

I smiled. They knew we were not together. "It's up to 
you ladies. Whatever we do, though, we're the ones who 
have to do it." I'd like Parker to see that writing 
works for high school students.

We'd do it on a Friday evening. Nan would check with 
the Office to make sure it works for Mr. Johnston. 
Year-end is event time. I'm sure the band concert was 
his least favorite: the same marches, clarinets strong 
and brass flat.

Group decisions take time with girls; we process 
things. We'd use the auditorium because readings are 
better from a stage. Swarming throngs might be absent, 
but Moms and Dads think everything's remarkable. 
They're generous with "And they did all of this in 
their little club!" sorts of affirmations.

We'd have refreshments. Sandra had learned pizza 
squares in Home Ec. The girls extorted $16.00 from the 
Office for expenses. Other clubs get help, they 
correctly noted. Writers' Forum wasn't asking for a 
school bus. We started with eight and were still eight. 
Pep Club started with about twenty-five and was down to 
the six cheerleaders.

Each girl would read a half page. I'd comment. When I 
reminded them that our guest of honor, the Principal, 
was a journalist too, they agreed that he could make 
remarks as well, only compliments, our unspoken 
contract.

Their drafts tended to be lengthy. "But this part is 
where I alliterate." With a bit of editing, we'd get it 
down to some kernels that, in my words, "will leave 
your parents wanting to hear more, their imaginations 
alight." Phrases appended "for clarification" turn 
clean paragraphs into cumbersome pontification. We 
pruned and pruned.

The parents would want front seats for photography. The 
two "critics" would sit in the back so the readers 
would remember to project.

Sandra discovered that Home Ec would be locked. Only 
the Cooking Club can use the oven. We'd use Debbie's 
yard for our "reception", after all. After the adults 
left, the girls could do an overnight. Debbie's 
brother, the wake-up Walkman-thief to us, would be 
elsewhere, she guaranteed.

"Miss Vanderpool, why don't you stay over too?"

"Me? Oh no, it would ruin it having a teacher there."

"No it wouldn't. You're a member. You think we just 
talk about Barbies?" challenged Debbie. "You'll love my 
room." She did a few Pixie dance steps for our 
edification.

Rosemary took my hand and pulled me a step toward them. 
"We really think you'll like being with us."

"Well, it's been years," I admitted.

"We do it all the time and wear our funnest pajamas," 
urged Sylvia. I could see Sylvia with a Dumbo pair.

"Are you sure?" I hoped my Sears nightgown would do. 
It's all I have.

The Awards Ceremony was splendid. We wore nice dresses. 
Rosemary, in off-white with string straps, was 
stunningly cute. I assisted with her necklace and she 
tied my scarf. In the first endeavor, her arm rested 
against the edge of my bust; in the second, her small 
bosom drew against my shoulder. My nipples marked my 
blouse like two buttons under a bedsheet. Rosemary 
grinned in what I took for performance anticipation.

Both now party pretty, Rosemary threw her arms around 
me with the exuberance of teen years. "I'm doing a 
reading!" Her breasts rode above mine as she imparted a 
lipstick kiss. She added, "It's so special, isn't it?"

I held her against me for a moment, but didn't let 
myself return the smooch. "You'll do great!" I assured 
as she skipped off to arrange the flowers on the 
podium.

Each girl read something brief, something approved. 
Parker and I, per instructions, sat in Row AG, 
clipboards in hand. Someone's boyfriend spotlit the 
reader, leaving things dim in AG. It was natural how 
his knee found mine as we confirmed the order of 
readers.

I didn't mind when his hand brushed my hose. If he 
could have written left-handed, I'd have let his right 
casually draw closer. At the end, just before the salon 
lights grew brighter, his near elbow was against me. It 
was our good behavior ceremony as well.

They'd decorated Debbie's yard. Above the crepe paper 
and balloons were pictures of writers. They'd 
sacrificed a deck of Authors. The cake was a "book" 
with each chapter a different layer. Sandra's pizza 
squares were as taught in Home Ec, mathematical and not 
too spicy. The girls abandoned their heels.

Parker, in the role he does so well, chatted with the 
moms about writing as a skill that mustn't be slighted. 
Secretaries will always be in demand. Thirty-three 
years for Rose; she holds the place together. Parker 
and the dads analyzed the pennant race. Did Sandy 
Koufax still have it in him?

Barefoot Rosemary hugged me from behind. "How'd I do?" 
but mixed back into the others before I could answer. I 
don't think she realized that her embrace, as quick as 
it took, was fully across my chest. I hope the girls 
with whom I was chatting associated my immediate and 
visible arousal with the evening's coolness. I wondered 
if Rosemary might need my help unfastening her 
necklace. Now might be an acceptable time to return her 
kiss with a "Nice reading", but I couldn't find her.

As I was slipping my second pizza square ("Do have 
another") into the hedge, Jane materialized beside me. 
"Miss Vanderpool, you're needed in the kitchen. Just 
follow me like we're going for Cokes or something." I'd 
no idea of what this was about as we circumnavigated 
the parents.

Nan was arranging spoons. "Quick, Miss Vanderpool. 
We'll say you ran back home to get your rollers." She 
pulled me into the hall and then through a door, 
Debbie's.

"Wait here. We'll keep people away till you're done. 
We're stopping Mr. J on his way out right now. Don't 
worry." Nan darted off, leaving me with Debbie's china 
doll collection.

Oh God! It was as clear as could be. They were trying 
to get Parker and me alone. They'd staged it, probably 
from making us critique together. Parker, don't come!

I tiptoed (wanting to hide) to the door and cracked it 
open. Nan was there, fiddling with her shoelace. "Not 
yet," looking toward the kitchen.

"You can't do this. Mr. Johnston's my boss," I 
explained.

"He likes you," Nan explained back.

"That's not the point."

"You need to make love." To Nan, this was simply a 
fact.

"Well he doesn't want to," I demurred, but he'd never 
really said, actually.

"Take your time deciding. You've got friends. Us," 
spoke the Forum President.

Surely Parker was already driving off.

"Miss Vanderpool?" Nan wondered.

"Yeah?"

"Can I bring you a Coke or anything?"

They'd let me out in a little bit. An end-of-year 
prank. Real jokers!

CANCELLATION

A bustle in the hall broke my cobweb of thoughts. An 
exchange of whispers and the door edged open. Sylvia 
slipped in with obvious glee. Behind her followed 
Heather, tugging the hand I most didn't want to see, 
Parker's. He seemed more confused than me, pulled by 
one grownup-dressed girl, pushed by another. Nan closed 
the door behind.

"Well, Mr. J, maybe this isn't exactly the award we 
told you about, but here we are."

Parker demanded, "Nora, what's going on?"

"I don't know." Maybe Parker was part of the joke.

"We're leaving, right girls?" interjected Nan. The 
three backed out, looking as if no one believed they'd 
make it this far.

"We'll keep the coast clear, Mr. J. I already told Miss 
Vanderpool," as the door clicked shut.

"Parker, it's some sort of joke," I offered.

He paused. "They, I mean the girls, don't know 
anything, right?"

I conceded, "Well, I guess they know something, maybe."

"You told them?"

"I didn't, really. I think they spied."

"There's no way to change grades, once District has 
them," he reflected.

"I don't think it's that." I resented the implication. 
They wouldn't ask that.

"So what's this all about?" He seemed truly perplexed.

"I think they want to us to get, you know,..." 
Actually, it was totally clear to me.

"Get involved? They're just kids," Parker puzzled.

"They think I'd be happier," I admitted.

"So they lock us in a room?"

"Maybe it's their way." My eyes noted that the bed was 
a twin with a baby blue spread.

"So they can tell everybody?" Parker asked.

"We have a deal in Writers' Forum."

"Writers' Forum?" Just another club to him.

I clarified, "You know, about not divulging things."

"How'd we get into this mess?"

"The Victrola." My reply seemed silly.

"Nora."

"What?"

Parker spoke slowly. "You know I would. It's not that."

"You're a guy," I noted

"Would you? With me, I mean."

"People want lots of stuff," I admitted.

"We know that. But do you want to?" He really didn't 
understand my loneliness.

"Parker, it's hare-brained. Debbie's parents will 
wonder why they're not getting on their night things." 
Then I reflected a bit more honestly, "Not like this, 
rushed and everything. The girls aren't the problem. 
They're probably listening, though."

Parker turned away. "I'm being stupid." At least he 
still respects me. Parker grimaced, went to the door 
and opened it before the girls could scamper.

"It's cool, kids," I heard Parker announce. "You're 
looking out for Miss Vanderpool. This just isn't how 
she wants it, OK?"

"Mr. J," it was Nan, "we didn't mean any harm. You 
know, we just wanted..."

"What you wanted was a good outcome, right? Good 
outcomes sometimes need to wait."

"Mr. J?" Nan again. "Miss Vanderpool's special to us."

"She's special to me too," Parker countered.

"So she deserves a good outcome, right?"

I heard Parker's exit, trying not to clomp his feet.

RECONSIDERATION

With Parker's retirement, all eight poured in from 
their assigned stations. We faced each other in 
silence. They'd heard Parker's closure.

I lashed out before apologies could be offered. "What 
must he think?"

Nobody wanted to respond. It was Susan who admitted 
that they hadn't realized it would be so complicated. 
It works for kids their age.

"Miss Vanderpool, we thought you wanted to. He's a nice 
man."

I started to cry. I did want to.

"Come on, you can sit down." Someone helped me.

"Did I object?" I asked. I wasn't sure.

"Well, you said," recalled Heather, halting with the 
implication that she'd eavesdropped, "that it shouldn't 
be in a rush, I think."

"Well it shouldn't. You guys know that."

"I think you were scared," suggested Sylvia, another 
doorgirl.

"I shouldn't be?"

"Sure you should be. I was," agreed Heather, and then 
giggled to prove she wasn't any more.

"So maybe you just weren't ready. We thought the 
auditorium might help," explained another.

I allowed myself a little admission, "He rubbed my 
leg." An exaggeration, I suppose, but not everything 
had gone wrong.

"We made it dark back there," Rosemary volunteered.

"Authors write the scenes," I agreed. A few laughed, 
but others remained concerned about the more recent 
failure.

"So, Miss Vanderpool, you didn't totally object?"

"Not after his hand ascended like floodwater." I 
managed a wane smile, recalling an insipid line from 
someone's early Forum fiction. They laughed, but 
returned to prolonged silence. Where was this going?

"So I'll just call him back." Nan, of course. "He'll 
not dick around like he doesn't know about what." They 
still wanted me to.

"No, don't," I automatically argued.

"We'll just see what he thinks," insisted the 
mastermind.

Debbie pondered possibilities. "We all could sneak out 
the window during. They could make love together in the 
backyard if we gave them some blankets. If Mom comes by 
to quiet us down, she won't notice an extra bod."

Nobody ventured further ideas. I felt totally 
ridiculous, my students scheming right in front of me. 
So maybe I might, but I'd decide. Them huddled outside 
while Parker made love to me? Hardly. Backyard is 
better, say behind the swing on the grass where a hedge 
blocks it from the driveway.

Nan wasn't for delay. "I'll go call. We don't want him 
to exhaust his capacity by himself." There was 
laughter, rather impudent, I thought. Did they talk 
that way about other staff? "We'll figure out the 
details before he comes." More laughter. I got it a few 
seconds later.

Then to me, "Miss Vanderpool, you're not on birth 
control, are you? Some girls get on it in advance." Nan 
looked around.

"Of course not," I primly replied.

"I'll tell him to bring something. No, no sense bossing 
a grownup. Jane's always armed, right? No little 
Scott." It was happening so fast and nobody was asking 
me anything.

Nan was soon back from the phone. "At first he said no 
to our 'little joke'. That's what he called it. We're 
totally going to protect our teacher, I said. I 
mentioned the School Board. I said 1:00, park up the 
block and meet me in the alley."

Rosemary asked Sylvia if she'd brought her penlight; 
Nan might need it. I didn't like the bit about the 
School Board. "Do you think I'd sleep with somebody 
being blackmailed?"

Nan had their answer. "He's hot for you. Sleep with you 
or lose his job. He's covered."

Heather's drama voice, "Oh girls, pray don't bid me so 
gently to deflower this fair damsel. Oh, but you deny 
me choice! I must, you demand, love as I have never 
loved before!" I smiled and they laughed.

Then to matters more practical. "Now Miss Vanderpool, 
the way we sleepover these days is like the spokes of a 
wheel. It's better for stories." Nan surveyed the 
space. "I guess in here, our wheel will be a little 
flat, but you get the idea."
That's how we did it in my day too, I noted.

Rosemary patted the empty spot beside her. "Yours goes 
here." It was lucky the way it had worked out, one 
space still being free.

Nan continued, "If it's a co-ed sleepover, you know, 
the boys go next to their dates. They have to sneak in, 
so we plan a route." She spotted Jane. "The paint's 
rubbed off the garden wall where Scott climbs over," in 
a conspiratorial voice.

"If you want to go to the bathroom to change, you can, 
since you're a teacher, but we just do it together 
usually, especially if we're dressed up."

Not that I was in their joking manner, but leaving to 
undress was ludicrous. These girls had been discussing 
me having intercourse. As we were still in Award's 
Ceremony attire, disrobing was by layer. Being close, I 
helped Rosemary slip out of her dress. She helped with 
the small buttons at my collar. Again our breasts 
brushed.

The girls showed off their dress-up underwear. Bindings 
discarded, little tits jiggled around the room. With 
women, I'd usually do my bra under my gown; every girl 
learns how. At Debbie's, a teacher's orbs didn't 
matter, though. They smiled when Rosemary helped me 
unhook. Sylvia had me comb out her hair. Each tine of 
her brush was knobbed, making it, "good for the scalp". 
I think that they liked me bouncing around inside my 
nightgown.

Panties came off too, exposing various degrees of fuzz. 
No one hurried. Jane was completely naked before she 
even started digging through her bag. Their undies 
tended to be briefs of various pastels. I always sleep 
in mine, the comfortable black variety.

ROSEMARY

Rosemary had worn her thin-strapped bra, the lacy one. 
I'd hoped she might, not that it matters, of course, 
but because I wanted all the girls to feel lovely so 
they'd read better. When she undid her hooks, back to 
me, then turned sideways smiling, her rosettes were 
smaller than I'd imagined. No, I hadn't even imagined; 
it was just an automatic assumption having seen her 
change tops by the bookshelf. As I now was nearby, she 
had me put the garment on her overnight bag. I folded 
it carefully. In eleventh grade I was C, not A. She was 
still topless as she arranged her pillow. Her twin 
knolls reminded me of the opposing encampments in 
capture-the-flag. I remembered childhood summer 
evenings, how we'd stealthily approach the enemy base 
and then recklessly dash toward the banner.

Running down the hall to brush my teeth, I didn't worry 
about Debbie's father seeing my nightgown. Moms lecture 
dads about sleepover protocol. In all the years, I 
never remember a dad in the hall. I do remember girls 
wearing their bras under their PJ's, just in case, for 
breakfast, though.

In my absence, Rosemary had traded her violet panties 
for Christmas red pajamas. I neatly laid her undies by 
her little bra. I'd be right here when she dresses 
tomorrow, I decided, and get them for her.

Once in my sleeping bag, it almost seemed like old 
times, especially the variants of ancient stories: the 
Valedictorian whose girdle splits when she eats one too 
many hors d'oeuvres at the Honors Banquet; the girl 
swimming nude and a beaver steals her clothes to build 
his dam. Flashlights illuminated our faces.

There was the obligatory discussion of boys. Who knows 
how to make out? Who's gone how far with whom? It 
didn't seem to matter that I knew the lads as semi-
bored students. The chatter bought me time to think 
about Parker. Would he, the girls knowing? Would I?

Part way through the tall tales, Rosemary scooted 
closer and put her hand on my back. I must have looked 
quizzical, perhaps even startled.

"I just know how tense you can get," she whispered.

"Rosemary, do you think I should?"

"Getting relaxed helps you decide." Rosemary kneaded my 
shoulders, then my back, unzipping my sleeping bag to 
better claim me. I let her do my hips and all the way 
down to my calves. My nightgown slipped against my 
skin. It did relax me. The fictional tales had stopped.

When my body was willingly supple, she rolled me over. 
I may have said something about her doing such a nice 
job. Several girls were close to us now, watching. 
Heather and Sandra were holding hands. Debbie was 
perched on Susan's lap, arm around her friend.

On her knees by now, Rosemary traced my collarbone, 
running her fingers downward. "So soft," as she touched 
my bust through the cotton. I breathed in and held. 
Hers was not the male abrasion of conquest; hers was 
the touch of oneness. She took protracted care with my 
distended nipples, sensing their pleading tenderness.

She undid her top buttons so I could watch her breasts, 
too tiny to sway, yet proud and commanding. "Mine too," 
as she guided my reach. I wondered if she knew I'd 
thought about them before. One barely filled my hand, 
its firmness pressed into my palm, her nipple as hard 
as a jellybean.

She massaged my stomach and thighs, wherever she 
touched coming alive. Is this what seduction must be 
like, I thought? It didn't occur to me to internalize 
the meaning.

I wanted my gown off so the oil of our skins could 
smooth us together. I wished I'd shed my underpants as 
did the others. At the end she stroked the cotton where 
none had ever touched, tracing an ellipse around my 
labia and circling the outer rim of my lubricating 
vulva like an ice skater. She drew three fingers up and 
down, one on the left, one on the right and one between 
my folds. Up and down. Up and down. Her intensity 
announced her hunger.

The Forum together watched my preparation, for that's 
what it was. My tiny erection was pronounced to the tip 
of her forefinger, if not to the eye. Several girls 
affirmed me by touch of hand when I began to roll my 
hips while Rosemary trilled my taut clitoris through 
the fabric of gown and panties.

The teacher was powerless; the student would bring her 
to climax. It was good to be masturbated, I decided. I 
knew to call it that from my lonely times. Until now, 
though, I hadn't liked the word. Forbidden things 
needn't always stay forbidden.

Do they so initiate of each novice, I wondered from 
afar? My orgasm drew near. Up, further up, dear 
Rosemary.

But Rosemary forbade me. "We're coming down now, Miss 
Vanderpool. You're so sweet, but for you it needs to be 
a man first. Otherwise, you might not understand. I'll 
kiss you, though, so you'll remember.""

I nodded and took communion that guys wouldn't 
understand. I'm not sure I do, either. Her caress was 
neither protracted nor hard, but it sucked something 
from within me.

"If he seems awkward, just think of us. I'll be 
thinking of us every minute," she added.

They all knew that Mr. J would do things they couldn't. 
Rosemary's touch was about the moment, the last hour of 
their Virgin Queen.

I'd made love with neither man nor woman. Certainly 
never with a girl. But as I realize now, making love is 
a way of sharing, not proving. Rosemary needed to prove 
nothing. I loved her; she loved me back. Had Rosemary 
not released me when she did, had she first possessed 
me carnally, I wonder how my life would now be 
different?

I sensed kisses. I heard Sylvia say something sweet to 
Jane about Scott. Nubian bodies darted about, sharing 
goodnight embraces, cupping one another's breasts. 
Silhouettes seemed to be one, then two, then one again, 
perhaps with a lithe arm or leg protruding in 
unexpected direction. A girl gasped until a hand 
stilled her.

These girls share intertwined passion, I realized. 
Eight girls (one having transferred only this year) 
from three grades weren't pre-selected. We had become 
as one through Forum.

I must have drifted off to sleep, arms around my 
Rosemary.

NEGOTIATION

Concerted whispers awakened me from a dream about 
swimming naked. Several were up, crouched by the 
window.

"Nan?"

"Let us in."

"Did he show up?"

"Give me a tug."

With a little help, Nan scrambled in.

"Come on, Mr. J. You need to tell us all together."

More scraping and a flustered Parker appeared. Nan had 
the penlight, but she left it off until someone drew 
the blinds.

Nan aimed the beam in his face. "You need to tell them 
what you told me, that you though it was just a joke 
and were playing along."

Parker looked around, but his was the only face 
illuminated.

"That's what I said. It was a joke was all. Don't 
worry, I'll forget about it."

Sylvia countered, "You think Miss Vanderpool will 
forget that you wanted sex?" This ambush was planned.

Parker must have though I'd left, answering, "She knew 
I was just playing along."

"So you don't want to honor her as a woman?" They'd 
been writing too much, I decided.

"Listen, this is really none of your business," he 
protested without ammunition.

"So how do you like my bedroom?" It was Debbie 
emphasizing the "bed".

"Let's just call this done, OK?" Parker realized that 
he shouldn't have let Nan bully him.

"We saw you feel her up in the auditorium." A lie from 
Susan, but Parker was on the defensive.

"Shine that light here," Jane's voice.

"So who do you want to have sex with, me or Miss 
Vanderpool?" Was Jane serious?

"You're a kid. You can't ask that!"

"Guess what's under her top?" Nan aimed her light while 
Jane tugged upward. She couldn't be for real!

"Don't!" barked Parker.

"Don't wake up my dad, you mean," from Debbie. "Your 
voice doesn't sound like ours."

Jane took a step toward Parker, her breasts small and 
unwavering. "So maybe not Miss Vanderpool because you 
like them bitesize?" her voice menacingly syrupy. I hid 
in my sleeping bag. Rosemary was again holding my hand.

"Let me go," pleaded Parker.

Jane knew she wasn't an option, but was enjoying her 
role. "It's really important Scott doesn't find out. 
It's not like Mr. J would replace him over the long 
run."

Nan retook control. "So tell us if you want to make 
love to Miss Vanderpool, if you were really joking."

Parker sensed the futility of denial. "Nora's my 
friend. I wouldn't want to hurt her."

"So yes? You'll take her like a virgin?"

No answer.

"So let's pretend that it's like before, that we just 
got you two together. You'd take her to bed?"

The light flashed back on his face. He'd lost control 
of this conversation. They were the writers and he was 
their character.

"After what you," he meant Nan specifically, "said 
about the Board, I don't have any choice." It was as if 
the girls had written his script.

"Righto. Miss Vanderpool, do you believe him?" They 
wanted him to know that I was present.

"She's not here!"

"Of course she is. It's a sleepover." I couldn't tell 
who smart talked.

I couldn't hide. "Parker, they're putting you on," I 
spoke out.

The ensnared victim turned in my direction, but the 
light stayed in his eyes. Rosemary and I fused 
ourselves into one larger being. It helped.

"God, I didn't mean..."

"Sure you did, Mr. J." Nan wasn't about to let plans 
deviate. "So we're expecting delivery."

"You can't just..." stammered Parker.

"She's our favorite teacher."

Shutting us in a room together seemed like something 
high school girls might set up, I suppose, but not this 
midnight belligerency. Nan lit my face peering out of 
our sleeping bag.

"So we delivered, Miss Vanderpool, right?" as if I'd 
been part of the planning. Rosemary squeezed me in 
excitement.

"Just let him go. He's learned his lesson," I declared 
with more certainty than I felt. What was the lesson? 
Why was I giving this order, anyway, evidence of 
participation?

"Oh no, it's way too late. He's said what he needs to 
do," ruled our leader.

"But he..." I argued

"He's going to make love to you. Not like the klutzes 
some of us go with. We think he'll be pretty good, 
anyway."

"Nan, I'm..."

"You're ready, aren't you? Rosemary's the best."

Nan turned the light back on Parker. "Miss Vanderpool's 
very pretty. We've never seen a principal naked, 
though. Let's light some candles."

Surely Parker wouldn't let a student talk that way. So 
I thought until one did.

CANDLES

Talking about us naked! No, not even that, talking 
about seeing us naked! I was just changing, panties 
still on. Did they think we'd undress where they could 
see?

Nan turned to Debbie. "Let's put your mattress down 
with us." Girls scurried to comply. Parker remained 
standing and I remained in my bag. When would this 
drama end?

"OK, guys?" Nan traced the mattress, now beside me, 
with her beam.

"Mr. J will now escort his date to their bed." Nan 
spoke as if she was asking for a chair to be relocated.

"You've made your point," was all that an overcome male 
could mumble. Parker, stand up to them, I thought.

"I guess maybe he wants me first!" Jane taunted. "I 
won't be as cute when I'm sixteen on December 2. You're 
all invited to my birthday party. Scott doesn't hear 
about this. Promise?"

"Cool it, Jane," ordered Nan. "This is special for Miss 
Vanderpool." Rosemary was again only holding my hand.

Nan stepped toward Parker. "Just go over there and talk 
with her. She's being left out."

Somebody pushed him in my direction. Maybe we'd escape 
out the window. Coming closer, he registered my 
companion. "I'm her friend," Rosemary announced, "her 
very close friend. Sit with us," indicating the 
mattress.

Achieving compliance, she extradited herself from our 
cocoon. I was the item of exchange. Rosemary's top was 
open, tiny areola candlelit. Display is a woman's tool. 
"So what you do is this," pulling his arm and putting 
his hand on my side. "Wake her up," as if I were 
sleeping. "Tell her you're ready.'"

She drew Parker's palm against my ribs. "Tell her it's 
time for bed. The mattress is more comfy than our 
sleeping bag." She smiled at the possessive and added, 
"For guys." She turned toward Parker, smile absent, 
repeating, "It's time for bed."

He had been at Nan's bidding. Now he was at Rosemary's. 
She touched my breast with his finger, "Say it, Mr. J."

"It's time for bed."

A guy can't protect you, I realized. Parker didn't mean 
what he'd said, of course. Sure, they got him to agree 
he wanted to sleep with me. Maybe he even meant it. But 
he couldn't mean a bed right here.

"It's time for bed," repeated Nan from behind him. 
"Miss Vanderpool, he wants to take you to bed."

Others rushed to dispel my presumed objections. "We 
locked the door and everything... It's soft, just not 
very big... Don't worry about the sheets... It was 
really a special year, our Forum and everything."

Nan resumed her role. "Mr. J, she wants to, but 
sometimes a girl doesn't want to exactly say it." 
That's not true! I don't want to, I thought. I mean 
maybe I do, but some other time.

"So invite her over where you can get her ready."

Parker kissed my cheek, just as in the Rambler. I knew 
that he was trying to say that he did indeed care about 
me, that he wouldn't do anything, that these girls 
didn't control us. It was over. I didn't have to. The 
evening was fine. Parker was fine. These girls were 
fine, just like before.

I hooked my hand on his shoulder to pull myself up. 
Parker, always so steady, was on his knees, tugging me 
with him. It was time to leave. My nightgown was 
enough, since I could hardly redress with him there. 
Parker had his vehicle somewhere.

Do I roll up my sleeping bag? Do I need anything? Does 
Parker want to leave by the door? My disorientation 
dissolved as quickly as it had descended. Do such 
thoughts even take real time? Parker pulled me forward, 
away. The girls watched.

Parker pulled me with him.

Parker pulled me with him to the mattress. The girls 
looked at their principal. The principal looked at 
their teacher. Their teacher looked at the girls. The 
girls had won.

"Parker, I mean, I don't..."

"If we don't go along, they'll tell the Board."

"We can't..."

"It's time for bed." Their exact line.

I couldn't fight. There weren't words within me.

"Nora, they're all with you. I'm just..." but he had no 
term for himself.

"Our helper," rushed Sandra, trying to supply the noun 
as we'd do in Forum.

"She's so ready," someone else added. Others hushed the 
speaker. This wasn't their script.

"We'll just sit," said Parker.

He and I did that.

"We can sit close," he invited.

I did that too. Parker took my chin and kissed me. At 
least that much felt right. When he reached around to 
hold me, I rested in his protection. It wasn't like 
Rosemary's cradling, but it was better than being 
alone. He laid me back.

The girls took his shoes and socks. I'd never touched 
my toes to his before. "You've got cold feet." Words 
about other things were hard to find. Nothing was apart 
from Forum eyes, but if they now moved or whispered, I 
don't know.

Parker was fully on top of me, still kissing. He was my 
shield. I didn't mind when he touched my gown. When he 
found my thigh, my gown interceded. I raised my hips to 
help, just as I had for Rosemary. Parker had never seen 
me as had Rosemary. I needed my breasts free.

Susan, in the girls' center, watched my eyes. There was 
intent in the wave of her hand: get out from under.

I rolled Parker off enough to tug my gown upward. A 
girl helped. I rolled above him, boobs bouncing. My 
head was next bouncing. Then my hips were bouncing. It 
was if my girls' drumbeat drove me on, but none held 
drumsticks. I was glad Debbie's mattress was where I 
couldn't fall. I could see the girls transfixed by my 
ascension.

I'd never touched the flesh of one before, not even as 
a kid playing Doctor, but I wanted to feel his penis. 
Even if we didn't make love, I wanted to. When I 
touched his hip, my girls understood. Touching a guy's 
hip must be universal, by their silent affirmations. 
None wanted to see the male organ shoved in me as a 
weapon; I needed to claim it.

But I knew enough to know that I didn't know. I knew 
where Susan sat, leaning forward like the rest. She 
twisted her head sidewise: roll off.

Parker was straddling me once more. But rather than 
pushing me fully down, he rose on his knees to afford 
space between us. I could intuit Susan: go for it. I 
undid his belt, snap and zipper.

Parker slipped off his trousers. Our attention went to 
his tented boxers. Why wasn't there a top sheet for us? 
Parker bore down with a vengeance, unflaggedly driving 
his arousal against my groin. What little I could see 
in downward glimpses was the severe angle of the 
cotton. My girls surely witnessed more, but Parker had 
no concern about them.

I wanted to be naked. Is there underpants etiquette? 
Who pulls whose down? Who first? Parker decided by 
shedding his between increasingly violent thrusts. He 
slammed down again. I felt the flesh (and bone, not 
really, but it seemed so at the time) of penis between 
my legs, pushing into my panties. He seemed too large. 
The girls behind him would have witnessed his testicles 
swinging. The girls at my head would have seen the 
underside of his head. I couldn't focus on more than 
the whiteness of his shaft against his black forest.

Susan was trying to tell me something, but I didn't 
want advice.

With Parker's primordial exertions, I knew it would 
hurt, though the girls promised otherwise. I was going 
to finish, not figure it out.

While I may have accepted Parker's veracity as a man's 
prerogative, my girls were alarmed. Their plan wasn't 
to get me reamed and semen splattered. Parker was 
trying to get his untamed erection into the leg of my 
panties. Apparently I was supposed to have taken them 
off myself. His ill-prepared target waited but an inch 
within the hem.

The furry territory around my pubic bone, the frontal 
frontier where Rosemary teased so lovingly was ready. 
My femininity where a penis fits wasn't prepared, but I 
had no choice. Fuck me how you want to.

VETO

A clap as sharp as a book slammed shut broke the 
gruntings of male dominance. Something wet and cold 
dripped from Parker's face. What the heck is this?

"God damn it, Mr. J! Are you some animal, a total shit 
head?" Nan's face was not an inch away. An A&W 
container, the kind shaped like a megaphone, was in her 
hand, top off. It was root beer dripping from his 
cheek. "She's a virgin." He vacantly stared back.

"We set this up to be right. You think we don't know 
how to fuck? Let some old guy be Mr. Stud? Fuck you!" 
Nan swore like a sergeant, but there were tears before 
she concluded.

"Come on, Miss Vanderpool. He's a shit head," I think 
from Susan.

I wasn't in condition to go anywhere. I needed to 
breathe, to discern what had happened.

Parker pulled himself off me, penis flaccid.

"So you want to say goodnight, Principal?" from 
somebody venomous.

"She's a virgin." He looked up, admitting what he 
surely knew. "It was my mistake, that I could do this. 
I'll not make it worse." It wouldn't go further, my 
rape.

"Asshole." Sylvia was livid. "You thought we'd like 
watching you root around? See this?" She wiggled her 
middle finger in his face. "We've got a better way than 
your puny pecker." She sat down.

"It's goddamn crooked, even!"

The girls were getting abusive. I had to say something. 
I didn't think it was puny or crooked. "It's not his 
fault. I mean, I'm lying there, everybody's telling him 
to do it, and he does. I mean about does. I'm still, 
you know..."

Something about still being a virgin hit somebody 
funny. She laughed and tried to swallow it. Another did 
the same. Silliness gets infectious when people don't 
know what else to do. Everybody was laughing but 
Parker. Even me. "Well you saw," I insisted. "I am till 
I'm not. I didn't get pregnant, right?" It wasn't 
supposed to be funny.

Parker was almost dressed, nobody paying him much 
notice.

"Mr. J," Nan conceded, "we aren't laughing at you."

Parker nodded, not understanding.

Almost as an afterthought, Nan added, "I didn't really 
mean to use the F word. It just sort of slipped out. 
Sorry about the root beer. It was handy." She passed 
him a towel.

"Sure," he replied, dabbing the remaining soda.

"Sorry about the S word, too." It had been Susan. "But 
I am serious about wanting clean sheets," in her best 
adult voice. "I mean having a clean slate." Somebody 
hit the braggart with a pillow.

"We know you'd be better if you took your time," 
someone else offered. They didn't hate the guy, at 
least.

Parker had never had his virility assessed, much less 
by pajamad girls. He'd survive. There would be a year 
with Debbie, Rosemary and Susan in the halls and, 
heaven help him, two with Sandra and Heather.

Susan would probably go ahead and lay him, I figured, 
but not seek advantage from the liaison. Promiscuity 
doesn't imply predation. I could see no defense on his 
part when she started on her buttons. She'd seduce him 
right behind Rose, just like I didn't. There may be 
disaster down the road, but not on my watch. Parker is 
just whom they chose.

It wasn't a disaster for me. My girls assumed the risk. 
You can more easily live with a failed seduction than 
you can with those who wish you ill. Shoot, if they 
hadn't liked me, they just would have enjoyed me 
getting raped. I get to just start over. I'd do Pep 
Club next year, maybe help write new chants.

"Another time, then?" One of them didn't want to give 
up on this fiasco.

"Nora wouldn't complain like you guys." Parker was 
striving to re-exert himself, as best he could, anyway. 
Good. My girls won't think him such a jerk if he ceases 
being so apologetic. It wasn't as if he couldn't have 
finished. Perhaps his punishment will simply be having 
girls around who saw his penis. Some guys don't mind 
the smirk.

"We wouldn't complain if you'd done your best." It was 
the same voice. Heather?

"Miss Vanderpool?" Nan didn't just chatter. A question 
would follow.

"Nan?"

"You still want to, right?"

"Sometime, sure." Maybe cuddle up with Rosemary for a 
start, I was thinking.

"With Mr. J, if we help him pay attention."

"Maybe someday." Rosemary was just sweeter.

"We can find a guy who's better. You enter a totally 
dark room and don't even know who the boy is. No 
jewelry or anything that might give you away. Hairnets, 
even, so you don't know each others' hairstyle." They 
were reverting to sleepover legend.

Heather decided that it's better if you already know 
each other, just not exactly which person. I'd never 
make love to an unknown male. Do kids these days do 
that sort of stuff? I'd rather have eight girls watch 
and the guy known than not know who was inside me. In 
my head I wanted sex. In my loins I wanted sex. But not 
so complicated.

I decided, then and there. It wasn't that complicated. 
"Parker's my friend. It should be with a friend." 
Rosemary had said it first should be a man friend.

Nab saw the opening. "We'll make this right, then?

"Right?" I asked.

"Shall we start over, now that he knows the rules?"

"You mean intercourse?" What else could she mean?

"Making it good for both of you. Making it good for all 
of us, actually," Nan assured. She didn't want to lose 
the initiative. Turning to the others, "Everybody who 
saw his hardon, raise your hand." Eight hands for the 
affirmative.

"You see it too, Miss Vanderpool?"

"I'm not sure."

"You must not have, then. It's hard if you don't have 
your head on a pillow."

I looked at Parker. He looked at me, then the Forum. 
Two or three in his line of vision had pajama buttons 
already undone. Heather cinched her nightdress to show 
her miniscule nipples. Rosemary was pretending to peer 
down the elastic of her bottoms where I'd hoped to 
venture. Parker was malleable.

Parker decided too. "It's not like it's something new."

Sandra did her best. "I guess some of you've seen lots. 
Mr. J's was my first grownup. I vote yes." She pulled 
back her shoulders to accentuate her AA's and giggled 
at the lack of effect. "Give 'um time."

Someone, still a bit irked, complained, "You'll see 
better-hung high school guys."

Debbie was Miss Assurance. "My folks don't even hear 
double dates, side by side when they think we're 
playing Risk. The boys like it when the girls hold 
hands, but we like it even more, right Heather? We play 
my transistor."

Susan returned us to the matter at hand. "The deal is, 
Mr. J, we set the pace. You just watch us. The 
codeword's 'finale'. We say that and then you do Miss 
Vanderpool like you like."

The "doing me" bit sounded demeaning. Susan explained, 
"At orgasm you want the guy in total charge."

"Oh, shit!" interjected Jane.

We all looked.

"I mean, Holy Smoke. I forgot about the rubber. Just a 
sec." She rummaged in her bag. "Scott's size, anyway. 
Good thing Mr. J fucked it up. I mean didn't fuck.  We 
don't want a maternity," she rationalized.

"We'll tell you when to put it on," Susan ruled. For my 
benefit, "Always check the guy just before. They'll say 
they're going to and forget.""

"You up for this?" Nan spoke to Parker. She smiled at 
the inference. "What are you going to do for our 
teacher?"

"I'm going to make love to Nora." He said it like a 
fact.

"No, we are going to. You're just the penis part."

Parker was silent.

"Say your job, Mr. J."

"Say what?"

"I'm your penis."

"I'm your penis," he replied.

"So that much is straight." The girls laughed.

PREPARATION

I was still just in my panties, though I'd pulled the 
sheet around.

"Miss Vanderpool, what say we fix you up in your Awards 
Ceremony dress? Mr. J liked the hose." Nan gave him a 
withering glance. "You're his date."

Nan pointed Parker to a corner. "Why don't you finish 
dressing over there, Sir. Miss Vanderpool is getting 
ready. She's quite stunning, you know." She thought a 
moment. "Don't watch."

Parker obeyed. Girls scurried in search of my outfit. 
When one held up my girdle, though, the foolishness hit 
them. "Jeez. They already were about nude. What's with 
putting it all on and taking it all off again?"

Sylvia noted that disrobing in seduction stories 
usually gets more write-up than the copulation. The 
others didn't see how that applied here.

"Miss Vanderpool, let's just get you back in your 
nightgown." Hands helped me, brushing over my front 
more than straightening required. It seemed like 
something friends would do.

"You just relax. We'll blow out the candles." They 
raised my gown to smooth my panties, adjusting the hems 
this way and that until all had done their share to 
make me lovingly comfortable.

Shadows on my left and right. Unknown fingers massaged 
my tingling skin. Unknown fingers arranged my hair. I 
hooked a heel on each side of the mattress so unknown 
fingers might trail over my warm softness at life's 
center.

A nubile body, long legged, bare bosomed, pressed 
beside me. How little distinguishes a horizontal female 
in the darkness. She kissed my cheek, guided me to her 
heartbeat and drew my hand downward into her feathery 
pubic wool.

My lover's trembling narrow tunnel fluttered open. Her 
hips alternated to draw me deeper into her moisture. 
Her trembles told me where touch was best. More and 
more firmly, more and more rapidly I entered and 
withdrew until her torso shuddered, pinching me inside 
her with each increasing surge. The girls stroking me 
quieted in turn to make the moment my secret lover's 
alone. Someone yet behind her cradled her chest. My 
hand was removed from her warmth and another assumed 
her guardianship.

I'll never know to whom I'd made love, a variant of 
that dark room legend. I'd not searched for a ring or a 
hairstyle. It was simply one of my girls.

"Can Rosemary be with me?" I begged, the fear of 
receiving replacing the joy of giving.

"I'm already here, sweet." Rosemary's form shadowed 
above. I realized that Rosemary had never left her 
touch to my knee. I'd do it even better for you, 
Rosemary, to show I love you, I promised myself, but 
the Forum retained my immediate destiny.

LONE CANDLE

I knew before I felt him that they'd brought Parker 
from his place of waiting. I'd been enveloped in the 
spirits of girls. A man just exudes physical presence.

Nan spoke from above my head, "Just one candle." The 
light illuminated Parker, his knees between mine. A 
girl behind held his shoulders. "Just stay there, Mr. 
J. Let's hold hands." His escorts pulled his hands away 
from his lap and lifted mine to him. He was again erect 
within his undershorts. I supposed they helped him, 
whether he needed it or not, just so they could say 
that they'd held the Principal's dick.

"See her pretty panties? Miss Vanderpool wants us to 
take off her gown first, though. We think her breasts 
are very lovely." He nodded. "When we touch them, we're 
very careful."

They lifted my head, pulled my gown away and laid me 
back. My breasts splayed. Nan's chin was on my 
collarbone to share my view of the man. Her arms hooked 
under my shoulders; her hands cradled my breasts 
together like sisters. "Candlelit ivory mounds with 
strawberry toppings," she observed. "We'll have these 
some day," she whispered, not for Parker to hear.

She saw Parker as I saw Parker, eagerly awaiting 
instruction. "Take off your pants," Nan ordered. Parker 
complied.

"Everybody look at his hair," Nan orchestrated. It now 
reminded me of a meadow. His penis loomed, poised for 
attack. Was I big enough, I wondered?

"It's your job to take hers off." Loosening them from 
my waist, I allowed his fingers to brush my curls.

"Slowly off," clarified Nan. He did so such that I was 
revealed in horizontal strips. He pulled my panties to 
my knees, then free.

"Look at her hair," Nan instructed. "It's very soft." 
All the girls complied. I looked too. Nan was in 
charge. My bush was much smaller than his.

"Mr. J," she said almost formally, "she wants you to 
make love to her now. Jane, you got something for him?"

Jane produced her item unwrapped. "Put it on, please."

In front of nine, Parker sheathed himself. His organ 
looked artificial, a shrink-wrapped sausage from the 
grocery. The fellow was more their prisoner than was I.

"Somebody check." Hands from both sides prodded his 
antiseptic containment for defects. They wanted to add 
some sort of jell.

"Oh, I'm so embarrassed having all these girl's hands 
around my throbbing love machine, much bigger than any 
they've seen before," I could imagine Parker 
rationalizing. He's nice, but not that smart, I 
concluded. Their goal, as I saw it, was probably to 
check off "felt my principal's penis" on their 
adolescent conquest scorecards. Nan was the last to 
relinquish her hold.

"Show us where you'll put your penis," said Nan.

He was looking at Nan, not me, as he leaned forward, 
bending his erection down until it touched my vagina.

Heather was herself. "Do it till dawn, what they say at 
Sandra's camp, anyway. If you amaze us, Mr. J, we'll 
make you stay. Actually, I don't want to be amazed. 
I've got soccer." Some jokers are a little too much.

I trembled. I knew it would hurt. Size alone foretold 
that. But I still wanted to make love with a man first. 
Rosemary's hand lingered on my knee.

"Hold it there until she nods."

I felt his pressure, felt Rosemary's presence and 
nodded.

"Now let her feel the head, just that."

Parker shoved ever so lightly. My softness moved with 
him. He shoved until my firmer flesh resisted. He 
shoved until I begin to part. Physically, it was 
pressure. Emotionally, it was invasion. Rosemary hadn't 
entered me so.

I locked onto Parker's eyes. Only as he wedged into me 
did I realize how it is to be opened by something very 
large. "Hold it 'til she relaxes." There's no way I 
could relax, of course, with his penis poking.

"Now come out and kiss." I didn't exactly want him 
further in, but I didn't want him out either. It hadn't 
hurt yet. I did want the kiss though.

After my caress, "Do it again." This time, his entrance 
seemed less invasive.

"Do it as long as she keeps pushing back. She'll tell 
how much she can take."

The ridge of Parker's penis penetrated past a ring of 
resistance. He felt rough.

"Pull back and push again." I begin to accommodate his 
repetitions, better sensing how we fit together. Nan 
squeezed my breasts all the while.

"Work it in." His progressive exertions were deeper and 
deeper. God, did it hurt now! Slicker than I'd been at 
first, I found where his push felt best. He used his 
knees for leverage. I used my butt. As Parker became 
less able to elevate himself, his torso drove against 
mine. Nan, sensing my hunger, retracted her hold so his 
chest could rasp mine. I tried to kiss him, but missed.

Parker was on me, in me. Other hands embraced my 
outflung arms, my feet, my knees, my forehead, any 
place to share contact. I reached to find my girls. I 
writhed within them, their lover willingly captive. My 
pre-coital juices flowed at last.

Rosemary was the hand on my knee always. I couldn't 
tell with which girl I'd made love, yet I knew the hand 
on my knee.

They drove their surrogate penis deeper within.

"Finale." The codeword significance had long ago left 
me. Perhaps Parker had lost its meaning also. My girls' 
spirit, however, released me physically and mentally. 
My toes were free. My wrists were free. Everything of 
me was free to couple with the penis.

I clasped his back. I locked my legs abound his thighs, 
anything I'd do to embrace his presence. Parker, as 
well, sensed liberation. He slammed me into the 
mattress to achieve the extra millimeter. He pulled at 
my shoulders. He splayed my thighs with his hips. His 
eyes were clenched while mine were teary.

My climax rolled from my groin up to my breasts, down 
to my knees, up to my face, down to my toes. I felt 
summer rain on my face. My girls say I almost bucked 
him off, but of that, I know nothing. They say I 
moaned, but not loudly. They say I even laughed.

Parker, of course, came as well. Sandra, an observant 
one, recovered his condom and announced that there was 
tons of sperm (I think she meant semen) inside. She 
later told me that there was blood on it as well, but 
all girls bleed the first time. Mothered by a tenth 
grader! I love these girls.

I was still nestled with Parker, my head on his chest, 
my knee tucked over his thigh to press his softened 
organ. Never having satisfied one, a relaxed penis was 
new to me. There was discussion about Parker's 
continued presence. All agreed that he'd fucked well, 
even if it took three tries. There are better verbs, 
but that's how they saw it. Should they send him home, 
mission accomplished? Guys sleepover for specific duty. 
So dismissive, I thought. I love these girls like 
sisters, but how can they be so petty?

I was truly one of the Forum now. But regarding my own 
body, it seems I was yet disenfranchised. Nobody asked 
me what should be done with the guy. After brief debate 
in which I was too contented (and sore) to contribute, 
they ruled he could stay awhile, but not fuck me again. 
If he tried any aggressive shit (their words), they 
seemed to have a plan that evoked a few rather rude 
smirks.

ENDINGS

My longest evening was ending. Final words remained.

Jane admitted to Parker, "Hey, Mr. J, I was 
bullshitting you about us going to bed. I've got my 
guy."

"You two be safe, OK?" Parker advised. "Talk to the 
nurse, both of you. If he loves you, he'll go."

"He will."

Sandra was thinking about camp, not that far off. She 
flashed her eyes at her principal. "You're probably 
sick of us kids after a year, but if not, you'd make a 
great camp director." She'd just pulled that out of the 
air, I decided. She announced that she hoped this year 
to get the cabin that uses the archery range.

"His quiver was full," Sylvia quoted from something, 
then showed me Rosemary's hand. "You guessed about the 
spotlight, right? A friend like this one will steal 
stuff right off your back."

Rosemary blushed. It was too dark to see, but I know 
she did.

"Maybe the milk crate was there because I'd washed the 
windows," Sylvia suggested in sotto voice. "You know, 
I'll bet Miss Vanderpool uses a milk crate to wash her 
windows too."

Rosemary caught my eye. The others smiled when I 
fluttered them back, just being silly, of course.

"Just girlie talk, Mr. J," Sylvia remembered our 
visitor. "Sometimes young women have little get-
togethers."

Someone chanted, "One a penny, two a penny," and others 
chorused, "Hot cross buns." Gales of laughter.

If I ask the Dairy Land driver, he'll leave me a box, I 
was deciding. My windowsill needs emptying anyway. Wait 
a moment! She can just come in my door. Perhaps I'd say 
something to Rosemary about stopping by sometime. I 
have a china tea set. I wasn't too sure how girls 
pursued friendships. Maybe they say, "So we can take a 
bubble bath together," or something more fun sounding.

Sylvia wanted me to understand. "Girls don't think 
there's only so much love to go around." She indicated 
someone's slipper beside my mattress. "Hey Rosemary, 
Debbie left her milk crate there beside Miss 
Vanderpool."

"Looks like a Dairy Land," I announced. The girls knew 
that I got the joke.

Susan made a contract. "Mr. J knows why I got 
transferred to Capton Springs. A clean slate. Just new 
pickings, though, the way it turned out. Mr. J won't 
worry too much about my extracurricular activities next 
year, will he? Then I'll be out of his hair. Fair 
enough, Mr. J?"

Parker nodded.

Susan looked reflective, "We're cool. You'd better slip 
me a key to the nurse's room, though. She's not there 
Tuesdays and Thursdays. I could lay on the cot for 
examinations."

Parker again nodded.

Susan grinned gleefully. "Just kidding. But I bet you 
would be a good doctor. I won't get stupid." She 
frowned toward Debbie.

Heather said tonight was totally better than how she 
began. Maybe it's best to start as a virgin all over 
again, a smart one this time. Forget the technicality, 
it's what you do with yourself from here on, she 
weighed. Forum showed her that she could write. Maybe 
she'll discover that she can do something like algebra.

Debbie asked, "Was my bed OK? People usually think so." 
She dodged a pillow, then said to no one in particular, 
"What I did was dead-end, wasn't it? He never gave a 
shit, just some tenth-grade tail last year. He found a 
new one this year, probably. Gave me a B+ when I earned 
a C+, like fucking's worth one gradepoint. Heather, I 
hear you." The two moved their bags together.

Jane didn't want bad feelings. "We wouldn't have really 
got you sacked if you'd refused. You're an OK 
principal."

Parker amazed me. "You guys think I believed that one? 
If I called your bluff..." He didn't finish before a 
pillow hit him square on.

In their various ways, all my girls acknowledged being 
part of what we'd done. All but Nan. She was curled on 
the hard plywood of Debbie's bed where the mattress 
goes. Susan sat nearby, but Nan was still alone.

I remembered the towel story. "Jane," I asked. "Do you 
have any more things?"

Jane looked older. "Miss Vanderpool, it's really best 
to leave it at one. The second night, three maybe," she 
flicked a smile, "but not tonight. Trust me."

"It's not about me. Put one in Mr. Johnston's pocket."

Susan understood without looking beside her. "I'll keep 
him occupied while you come talk."

"This isn't about you either," I told my date as I 
pulled on my gown, "but I liked it."

As she took my place, Susan was already cooing that 
since she was just temporary, she needed to use the 
time well. She needed warming while she got him 
dressed. My, and it hasn't been that long, even! By the 
way, Jane had put something in his pocket.

I went to the President. "Nan, honey. Your brother is 
too young for the 'finale' part, right?" She blinked to 
the affirmative. "You saw how a grown guy finishes." 
Blink. "You're tired of being the boss." Blink.

I faced my girls. "Debbie, you got that blanket?" She 
did.

"Well Nan's going to help Mr. Johnston find his way 
out."

I hugged our Forum President. "There's a grassy spot 
behind the swing." The embrace seemed teacher-to-
President formal, so I gave her a kiss, a real one, 
touching her breast.

Jane wiggled her finger at Parker's pocket until Nan 
mouthed OK. Nan looked a bit scared, but willingly so. 
My girls helped both out the window. Sylvia and Jane, 
wearing but panties, were surreptitiously snapping each 
other's elastic. I figured that they were helping 
Parker prepare for the grass. Private out there, a 
guy's way.

I gave Parker a kiss as he descended. The Forum thought 
that was nice, Romeo and Juliet backwards. They don't 
really learn the Classics anymore, I fear. Sylvia and 
Jane were still snapping each other's elastic, 
pretending to peek within.

The sheets were already off the mattress, perhaps 
related to virginity vanquished. It didn't matter, as 
Rosemary had already zippered our bags together. For 
exactly what I wasn't particular, other than we'd start 
with a kiss.

As my girls had already helped me get my gown off 
twice, I did it this time myself. "Hi there, Robin," I 
announced, gloriously naked before the Forum.

"Nora, I can call you Nora, right?" Rosemary let me in 
and we interlocked knobby knees. "When we're writing, 
if I didn't name my very special character, say just 
called her 'her', it would read flat."

Interjected our neighbor Sandra, "Hey, some of us are 
flat," emphasizing the next-to-last word. We giggled.

Susan answered from the same shadow, "Mr. J said that 
I'm School Nurse, so I'm checking out her flatness 
problem."

"No, dummy, you're the one who gets examined. You said 
so."

"So you'll be my nurse?" asked Susan in her most-
innocent voice.

"You'll need to hold very still for your pelvic," in 
Sandra's idea of spoken authority.

"As best I can, Ma'am."

"Or I'll have to take your temperature."

I was figuring out what made Forum tick. "And here you 
thought this was a milk crate," handing Rosemary the 
errant slipper, "but we all can see it's really a 
spotlight. Aim it on Susan and see if she sings."

I accepted the sweetest kiss while I purloined the red 
PJ's. Rosemary's lips were full and liquid. She wedged 
her leg to part my puffed flesh to the smoothness of 
her thigh. I don't know if she recognized that I was 
retuning her kiss, but indeed I was. My hip found the 
few downy curls above her secret valley.

The six ensured that Rosemary and I were comfortably 
cuddled before reclaiming their respective pairwise 
accommodations. All of us, I noticed, had thrown aside 
our covers.

A few minutes later, Susan complained loudly, "Hey, up 
in the light booth! Why's that vibrating light still on 
us? I don't mind, but Sandra gets stage fright. They do 
outdoor sports in that camp of hers, not performing 
arts." Oh my Lord, these girls! They never quit!

After all pillows flew her way, Susan ruled that she 
and Sandra got to keep them for a feather bed. I could 
get mine back, "it being her first overnight." Susan 
threw one to Rosemary who tucked it behind my head. "My 
sweetie," is another way to name your very special 
character.

Nan returned a little sore, but tearfully contented. 
Jane and Sylvia wanted her to join them to make it a 
graduating senior trio, but Nan just wanted to sleep.

Lights extinguished. Endearments digressed into muted 
murmurs, murmurs into rhythmic reciprocities, 
reciprocities into unabashed thrashing, thrashing into 
quieting endearments. The window illuminated Sylvia's 
braids bobbing above Jane. By their voices, Heather and 
Debbie were facing opposite ways, naughtily enjoying 
our knowing. We'd pause in our immediate fondnesses (as 
best we could, anyway) to share one another's release.

I did to Rosemary what I'd done for my secret lover; it 
was all I knew. Rosemary assured me that it felt very 
nice. We would get even better, but that's not why 
girls sleep together. I was the last of the Forum to 
come. Rosemary made it that way on purpose.

That morning we slept in -- slumber party rule 
inviolate. The rule about trading panties was new to 
me. I'd do it this once, anyway, even if Rosemary has 
no hips.

Going for breakfast, I noticed that we'd all put on 
bras under our PJ's.

THE END

****

Holly on the Web

Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to 
the server. My problem is that I've no systematic way 
to update the various servers. As literary errors (or 
just poor word usages) are made know to me, I'll repair 
that which is salvageable on 
http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick/. My website's not 
much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native 
language.

You can contact me via the site's message form, that 
HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR.

I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you 
didn't like it before, that much will remain the same. 
But if you did like it, an update might read a bit more 
cleanly.

Holly

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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 23