Date: Sat, 19 Mar 2005 10:21:50 -0800
From: RC in Sacramento <sacwriter@hotmail.com>
Subject: Munchkin Chptr 18

This is a work of fiction. It depicts the often sexual relationship between
two young girls. If this offends you or if you're not old enough to be
reading this stuff, then get out NOW. If, however, you're where you want to
be, then enjoy.


			 MUNCHKIN
			 Chapter 18
			by Sacwriter

	Phil had a lunch date with Margie Dowd that day. They met at a
small Italian restaurant downtown that they had found they both had in
common, a little place with lots of dark wood paneling and candles in wine
bottles on the tables. There were checked tablecloths and overhead fans
that rotated slowly, and the air was redolent with the scent of baking
dough and parmesan cheese. The waiters wore starched shirts with bowties,
and had big white aprons around their waists, just like in the old movies
Phil used to watch when he was a kid. The only thing the atmosphere lacked
was a guy behind the counter tossing pizza dough in the air.
	At night the place was crowded, but at this time of day they still
had a choice of seating so they picked a private booth near the back. Phil
held Margie's jacket for her, as she sank down into her seat with a smile
and a grateful sigh. Fine lines of fatigue were etched at the corners of
her eyes, and he knew it was from the long hours she put in. Working for
child welfare was a tireless, thankless job, and there were times he knew
when Margie truly hated it. But she was also dedicated to the kids that it
put into her charge, and he knew she would never give up on them. He
understood this fundamental fact, and it was one of the things he loved the
most about her.
	After they had ordered and the waiter had poured their wine, he
watched as she took a large drink from her glass that half emptied it. With
a last reluctant glance at its inviting red contents she set it back on the
table and firmly pushed it away, obviously fighting the urge to get at
least a little bit smashed.
	"Oh, God, if I have to deal with one more stiff lipped, anal
retentive, hide-behind-the-rules-bureaucrat, I swear I am going to explode
all over the little weasel!"
	Phil hid a smile, and instead nodded in sympathetic understanding,
knowing better than to say a word at this point. He scooted over and
reached across the seat to lay one big hand on Margie's knee. With a
grateful look she twisted in her seat and leaned back. He heard the double
clump from under the table as she kicked her shoes off, then felt her legs
find their way into his lap. Which was, of course, the reason she had
picked a booth over a table in the first place.
	Phil started gently kneading the muscles in her calves, noting the
hard little knots in them that told him she had been on her feet way too
much. She groaned softly and closed her eyes. "Oh, you are much too good to
me," she murmured.
	"You want to talk about it?"
	"No. Yes. Battered woman and her three kids, all under ten years
old. Finally convinced her to not only leave the bastard, but to press
charges against him. So naturally now she's feeling weak and vulnerable,
worried about how she's going to take care of herself and her kids,
wondering where the hell the money's going to come from."
	"Let me guess. You've spent the entire day trying to squeeze some
funds out of the welfare system."
	"And running up against this snot nosed drone who cares more about
his paperwork than he does about people. I mean, for the love of God, she
had to feed her children cornflakes for dinner last night!"
	Phil let Margie go on like that for a few minutes more, nodding and
making sympathetic sounds at the appropriate places, knowing that was his
role right now. He had learned that his girlfriend just needed to vent her
frustrations like this every now and then, and he had long ago given up
offering to go back to the office with her and bend somebody's spine to
make them see reason. Besides, he had also learned that Margie Dowd was
more than capable of handling her own problems.
	"Okay, it seems like you tried to do things by the book and it
didn't work. So what did you finally end up doing?"
	She smiled, remembering. "You mean after wasting all morning
filling out forms and jumping through hoops, and then being told that it
would be at least another two weeks before he could cut her a check? I got
on the phone with his department supervisor and reminded her who it was
that got her a prime parking space right in front of her office when she
broke her foot skiing. I also mentioned that now that her leg was all
healed, it would be a shame if that parking space went to somebody
else. Then I handed the phone over to the drone and let them work it out."
	Phil laughed, and began rubbing her feet, a sign of his
appreciation for her cleverness. He grinned at the look of pure contentment
she shot him, and felt again the sense of wonder at what she had brought
into his life.
	 It was hard to put into words. Hell, make that impossible! He sure
couldn't explain it to his kids, despite the way the girls had tried
grilling him on the subject. It wasn't fireworks, or a bolt of lightning,
or any of the other euphemisms that people used to describe falling in
love. In fact, the closest he could come to naming their relationship
was... comfortable. He and Margie fit together, like a single object that
had been broken into two pieces, and finally reformed into one whole.
	It hadn't been that way with his late wife Lupe, at least not in
the beginning. When he first laid eyes on the future mother of his
children, now that's when he'd seen the skyrockets and felt the lightning
strike. Yeah, just like in the movies. But over the years those wild
feelings had mellowed, not lessened exactly, but become more distilled. And
in the end they had ended up in the same place that he and Margie had
started.
	He didn't compare her and Lupe often, they were just too different
on so many levels. Both were strong women, but where Lupe had the quiet,
enduring strength of the immovable object, Margie was the irresistible
force. More like a force of nature. They had different tastes, different
personalities, and came from completely different backgrounds. And yet if
they had ever met, he had no doubt they would have been the best of
friends. Because in the end, they were just too much alike not to be.
			* * *
	"You know, I truly believe that there are no problems in this
miserable old world, that can't be made at least a little bit better by the
careful application of a plate of manicotti in red sauce."
	Phil grinned, enjoying the look of pure bliss on Margie's face as
she ate. Maybe there were men who actually liked that anorexic basketball
player look that passed for beautiful these days. But as for him, give him
soft curves and wide, womanly hips any day.
	 "You've been awfully quiet since we sat down. I feel like I've
been monopolizing the conversation" Margie put in, her raised eyebrow
making the statement an open ended question. Phil nodded, taking a drink of
wine as he composed his thoughts.
	"I figured you might want to wind down a little before I started
dumping things on you."
	"And I appreciate it, love. I think you're right, I did need to get
that idiocy out of my system, before I started yelling and throwing things
at the waiters. But I'm fine now, and eager to hear what's been happening
in your life. So tell me, what's the newest on the kids?"
	"Oh, well. Let's see. George just picked up another clunker he
plans on rebuilding. This one's a T-Bird, so he's pretty jazzed about
it. Bobby just put in the papers to attend some sort of architecture clinic
this summer. Oh, and Johnny had to get some frets re-glued on Lady Rosa, so
he hasn't been able to play for a couple of days. It was driving him nuts,
but he's got it back now, so tonight he'll probably—oww!"
	Margie had dipped a finger into some tomato sauce and flicked it at
him. By pure luck it had hit him in the eye, which had caused his outburst.
	"Serves you right for teasing. Now get to the real stuff,
Cameron. What's been happening with Joe and the girls?"
	Phil grinned, wiping his eye with a napkin, and then proceeded to
bring Margie up to date. He had told her over the phone about the vandalism
at Joe's house, but nothing since. Now he related the fight with Ray Nestor
and Joe's victory over the larger boy, and of how he and the girls had
handled his subsequent dislocated shoulder. His obvious pleasure in the
three of them showed in the relish with which he told the story, which made
Margie smile in turn. He went on to tell about the late night mission he
had witnessed, and speculated on what he thought they had done.
	"So you think they made a, what did you call it? Retaliatory
strike, against this Harper boy?"
	"Uh huh. My money's on the kid's car. They wouldn't do anything to
his house, that would bring his parents in on it. And that only leaves his
locker at school, and I know damned well they're not going to trespass and
damage school property."
	Margie clucked her tongue, looking closely at him across the
table. "You know, it almost sounds as if you approve of this act of major
vandalism. In fact, I'd say you're actually proud of those three."
	Phil gave her a mysterious smile, then took a bite of his chicken
Lasagna. He wasn't stalling for time, he was just trying to find the right
words to explain a complicated subject. When he found them, his tone turned
serious.
	"Okay, yes, I am proud of the way the girls are handling this
situation. I think they're going the extra mile here to help their friend,
but I also think they're showing a lot of restraint, doing only what needs
to be done to protect Joe, but at the same time not going overboard. Marge,
do you really understand what it is we're trying to do for this kid?"
	She frowned, a dimple appearing between her brows. "I had thought
that you were trying to teach him how to fight. And to keep him safe from
this Gary Harper until he learns how to defend himself."
	"Well, you're wrong. There's no way he can defend himself. Not
against these guys, anyway."
	Margie raised her eyebrows and stared at him, obviously
surprised. He waited patiently, until she finally nodded at him.
	"Go on."
	"Look, Joe is a scrappy kid. He'd grit his teeth and ignore a lot
of crap from punks like them at school, but whenever someone actually laid
a hand on him, he'd always fight back, even if he knew it'd only make
things worse. That's the reason he wasn't picked on a lot more than he
was. It just wasn't worth it to these guys, having a victim that might
actually get in a shot or two takes all the fun out of it."
	"Which is why you've been teaching him how to fight. And it's been
working, Phil. This boy yesterday...?"
	"Yeah, Joe kicked his ass, and very publicly, too. He's gotten
himself a reputation now, and with a few more lessons I think he could
acquit himself well against any single person in that school. But it's not
going to be enough against Harper and his two bottom feeders.
	"Look, the kid's got all the heart in the world, but he's still a
shrimp. He's seventeen years old, and he's not even five feet tall, for
chrissakes. It would take years of training to make him a match for three
opponents at the same time, and they're not going to wait for him to get
there. So while me and the boys are teaching him how to fight, the girls
are doing their best to teach Harper to keep his hands off of their
friend."
	"And they're doing this by vandalizing his car?"
	"Yes. After he did the exact same thing to Joe's house, remember?
To his home. That's an incredibly personal violation, so the kids had to do
something equally personal to him. He knows that if he touches Joe, he'll
get his ass kicked. And now he knows that anything else he does to Joe will
also come back on him. Cause and effect, Margie. That's the only thing guys
like these understand."
	"Alright, I'll take your word for it, Phil. You seem to know a lot
about the way bullies think. But it just seems so, I don't know,
petty. Beneath them."
	Phil shrugged, thinking about a childhood in East L.A. Gang
Bangers, wannabes, and crack addicts on every corner. Yeah, you could say
he knew something about punks and bullies.
	"Okay, I know it looks like they're sinking down to his level, but
it's the only thing that'll make him back off and leave the poor kid
alone. And please don't say that we could always go to the police or
complain to his teachers. We both know they can't do anything without
proof. And Joe is still too traumatized to even talk about almost getting
raped in that bathroom last week, never mind pressing charges."
	Margie took in a slow breath and lay down her fork. "I never told
you about that, Phil."
	"And neither did the girls. You've all been very careful to respect
his rights on this subject. But I'm not an idiot, Marge, and I've spent the
last five months living with an abuse victim. I know that haunted look. It
wasn't that much of a stretch, not after that first night."
	Her lips twisted at the corner wryly. She picked up her glass and
raised it in a toast. "You've got a very sharp eye, Mr. Cameron. And a
close mouth, which is very important in these kinds of situations. Joe is
doing a lot better, but he's still very fragile, you know. On some subjects
you still have to handle him with kid gloves."
	"Yeah, I know. We had the whole family going to a therapist when
Becka first got here, just so we'd know what to expect. No pressure, no
judging. None of us are going to push the kid, we'll wait for him to open
up on his own."
	"Good. And I know at times it may not sound like it, Phil, but I do
have the utmost confidence in you and the girls. Despite the rather, um,
unusual social dynamic, I really think your family is one of the most
stable and loving ones I've ever met. I know that Joe is in good hands with
you and your family."
	" `Unusual social dynamic', huh? Is that another way of saying that
the girls are both gay?"
	"Oh, much more than that." Margie's voice slowed to a playful
drawl, as she picked up a breadstick and slowly rolled it in the manicotti
sauce on her plate. She avoided his gaze, staring out at the increasing
noon time crowd in the restaurant, as she brought the red coated tip up to
equally red lips. Phil found his attention split between her words and that
breadstick, and the excruciatingly slow way that Margie was chewing on
it. There seemed to be a lot more tongue and lip action than the simple act
required. He watched, mesmerized, until she could continue the
conversation.
	"Just look at it, Phil. You accepted complete responsibility, both
legal and financial, for a girl you'd only known for what, two or three
weeks? Not only did you take in your teenage daughter's lesbian lover, but
then you adopted her, too. It is a very, very rare man who could have been
that understanding and generous."
	Phil shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with all the high
praise. And the subject matter was one that had always made him feel
somewhat uneasy, too.
	"Dammit, everybody keeps saying that. Talking like I'm some sort of
saint, acting like taking Becka in was such a hardship. Well, hell, it
wasn't! Like Johnny once said, Becka was the best thing to happen to this
family since Lupe passed."
	He frowned, fiddling with his wine glass, trying to find just the
right words. He knew Margie wasn't bothered hearing him talk about Lupe,
anymore than he minded her reminiscing about her late husband Hiram. But
this was looking at something he didn't normally even think about,
something he knew and accepted deep inside his bones, so deep that he had
never had to drag it out and examine it before.
	"I don't have to tell you about the big hole that was left inside
of us all when Lupe died, I know you felt the same when you lost Hiram. I
guess that for the next three and a half years we used building the house
to try filling in that hole. The house was Lupe's big dream, and I think
that to us getting it built was some sort of tribute to her. To her
memory. But then it was all done and we moved in, but the hole was still
there."
	"And then Becka came along and filled it." She said the words
softly, reaching across the table to lightly touch his hand. He paused,
turned his palm upwards to wrap his fingers around hers and squeezed
gently. When he answered her his voice was starting to hoarsen with
emotion.
	"Yeah. Yeah, she sure did. We all fell in love with her. Johnny
sure as hell hit it right on the nail with that."
	"And the sexual relationship between her and Gia? How do you handle
that?"
	Phil snorted, shaking his head in dry amusement that she knew was
directed mostly at himself.
	"Okay, you've got me there. I still get a little uncomfortable at
times thinking about that, seeing them kissing and cuddling and stuff. Not
to mention that time I caught them making out on the couch! I had to go
back to the therapist for that one. It's embarrassing. But you know what
makes it all alright?
	"It's that, that `thing' they do. That spooky psychic thing, where
they seem to read each other's minds. I've seen Becka pick up the phone
before it rings, already knowing that it's Gia calling for her. And I once
saw Gia grab her wrist and cry out while we were fixing dinner, at the
exact same time Becka burned herself on a muffler back at the shop.
	"I know what that's like. Lupe and I used to be inside each other's
heads like that, but it wasn't until we'd been married for at least ten
years. So uncomfortable or not, there's no way I can doubt that those two
are in love, or that they belong together. And no way am I going to buck
that."
	He was shaking his head at the wonder of it all, and Margie felt
something well up inside of her. It was a warm emotion, something that
started in her chest and spread out, filling her and making her eyes
mist. Sometimes it hit her like that, the almost overwhelming realization
of just how much she was coming to love him.
	"Phil Cameron, you are a very unique and special man," she said
suddenly, impulsively. He looked at her, one eyebrow quirking upwards in
surprise, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
	"Is that right?"
	"Just thinking about it makes me hot."
	Now both eyebrows were raised, making her laugh at the expression
on his face. She picked up another breadstick and did her little oral trick
again, but this time she looked him directly in the eye while doing it. A
sheen of sweat broke out on Phil's forehead, as she gave him a look that
was now all promise and no tease.
			* * *
	For Joe, that morning at school was a series of constantly changing
highs and lows. When Becka or Gia could, they escorted him to and from his
classes, and at that time what he felt was good. Knowing he was safe with
them he could indulge himself by wallowing in last night's triumph, and
feel again that rush of pride and self confidence. But when they couldn't
be there to cover his back, the enormity of what they had done began to
gnaw at him, stealing away that hard won core of belief a tiny piece at a
time. He found himself practicing every trick of survival and avoidance he
had perfected over the last three years, staying away from his locker,
traveling only in crowds, taking alternate routes to his classes that kept
him from being alone. He was constantly scanning the hallways for Harper,
Ingles, or Hooker, but never caught so much as a glimpse of them. By the
time lunch period had come around, the scent of his own sweat had grown
rank in his nose.
	"Yo, Dude! We over here!" Standing up and waving at him was Milo, a
huge grin pasted across his face. Joe saw his friend was seated with the
rest of the D&D Kings, and quickly wormed his way there through the crowded
cafeteria. But he stopped, startled, when he saw who else was sitting
there. Justine and Kelly. And Sammie Waters.
	He blinked, then noticed for the first time how the Kings were
fairly hopping in their seats, and almost burst out laughing. They had
girls sitting at their table, and two of them were cheerleaders! Joe could
almost see the waves of puppy dog ecstasy radiating off of them.
	He could understand the way they were feeling, though. When Sammie
pulled out a chair next to hers he kind of felt like wagging his own
tail. He plopped down in the proffered seat and set his bagged lunch on the
table and grinned at her, feeling the knot at the back of his neck dissolve
like ice in August.
	"Hey."
	"Hey yourself," she smiled back in greeting, and he thought he saw
a twinkle that set something fluttering in his belly. With pretended
nonchalance he nodded at the other two girls, who had returned to an
animated conversation with the Kings. If you could call it a
conversation. Justine and Kelly were espousing enthusiastically and at high
speed about the latest gossip going around Roosevelt, while his friends
were smiling and nodding, and making just enough appropriate comments at
all the right places. As usual, he thought, the D&D Kings had a firm grasp
of how to play the game.
	"So where are the sisters at?" he asked, looking around. He didn't
think the question was particularly funny, so he looked at Sammie curiously
when she covered her mouth and started to giggle.
	"What?"
	"Becka, umm, Becka's in line to get chili dogs. She's getting two
trays because Gia's going to be late. She got sent to the principals'
office."
	Joe felt his eyes widen. "Gia? What, what happened?"
	"Her last class was Advanced American Government, and Kenny Swenson
had the same class, so he told us all about it. She and Mrs. Stickley got
into this big argument in front of everybody, something about old English
common law, versus the Code of Hamurabi. The Stick finally had enough, and
sent her to the office for disrupting the class. But it sounds like the
real reason was because Gia pulled out her text book and proved the old bat
was wrong. She should have known not to challenge our girl on anything
about the law. Gia wants to be a lawyer, you know."
	"Yeah, that sounds like her, alright," Joe grinned. "She told me
she and Becka were going to USC next year."
	"That's right, the both of them. Gia's already got a lock on a
scholarship, she's been an A student since, like, her whole life. And if
Becka doesn't get an art scholarship there it doesn't really matter. She
inherits all that money when she turns eighteen, so she can afford to go
anyplace she wants to."
	Joe blinked, surprised. Inherit what money? Didn't Milo tell him
that Becka was an orphan when the Camerons adopted her, and her step father
had been some sort of drug dealer that she sent to prison? So what...? But
Sammie had already passed the subject by and was chattering on about
something else, so he dropped it. It was a lot more fun talking to her,
rather than speculating on Becka's family business.
	And it was fun being with Sammie Waters. She was smart, and funny,
with a sardonic sense of humor that matched his own, and he liked watching
her when she talked. She had a habit of looking at you out of the corner of
one eye when she was making one of her wry observations, sometimes peaking
through an errant lock of hair. Her long hair wasn't just brown, he saw, it
was actually several colors all blended into one, with shades of red and
wheat and honey, making highlights that seemed to dance in the sunlight
when you looked closely. Her lips were full and pink, even without
lipstick, and bow shaped. They covered teeth that were as white and shiny
as wet pearls. He imagined how soft they would be, how they would taste if
he were ever to—
	"FAGGOT!"
	The moment shattered like a mirror, as Joe felt the blow on the
back of his head that sent him snapping forward in his seat. Bright bursts
of light blinded him for several precious seconds, preventing him from
reacting. He blinked, and found the hulking figure of Ron Hooker looming
over him. His big knuckled hand was on the back of Joe's neck, squeezing,
putting pressure on his shoulders and forcing his face down toward the
table. Other than the blood that was suddenly pounding in his ears, the
whole table had gone silent, to be broken by the sound of Matt Ingles'
inane giggle.
	Hooker stuck his mouth right up to Joe's ear and hissed into it,
his voice heavy with menace. "You stupid little fuck. Gary had to take the
day off to get his wheels repainted. That means a whole fucking day when we
don't do any business. So you owe me and Matt, fag. So how you gonna pay us
back, huh? Maybe I should take it out of your fucking hide, huh? Huh, fag?"
	"Damn you, Ronnie, you leave him alone!" he heard Sammie snap, and
felt a flash of pure shame. To have this happen now, in front of his
friends, in front of her...
	Joe struggled, but it was no use, Hooker was too strong and had all
the leverage on his side. He felt like he was burning, with a heat that was
a building pressure. Once again emotions were roiling inside of him, and
yet none of them was fear, not this time. Maybe he was still afraid of Gary
Harper, but that bastard wasn't here. Harper was some kind of evil, but
Ingles and Hooker were just two assholes who couldn't tie their own shoes
without someone to show them how. They were big, and they were vicious, but
they couldn't make him quake in his sneakers the way that Harper could. Joe
felt no fear.
	He felt rage.

	Milo had popped up out of his chair and was bouncing on the balls
of his feet, powered by a burst of pre-combat adrenaline. Harper's two apes
had appeared out of nowhere, and the blond dude with the `Evil Dead II'
T-shirt was already trying to grind Joe's face into the table before they'd
even known they was there. The other dude, the one who giggled and liked to
dress like some sort of white gangsta wannabe, was standing to the side and
smirking at then, daring him and the rest of the table to try and
interfere. Milo thought the damn fool looked ridiculous, with his muscle
shirt and his baggy pants hanging almost off his hips and showing off his
drawers. Who'd he think he was, anyway, Eminem? That look hadn't been cool
for five years, and it had never looked good on this rat faced fool.
	Milo was still dancing around, ready to go to the aid of his
friend. But when he tried to step up that fucking poser just straight armed
him in the chest, almost knocking him off his feet.
	"Stay outta this, geek." His little pig eyes were glinting as he
said it, and although Milo sure as shit wasn't afraid of a beating, he also
knew that he wouldn't do his friend any good lying on the ground spitting
up blood, either.
	Joe looked helpless. Hooker had caught him good, and as long as he
stood above him like that he had him pinned. Milo could see his short sized
friend already struggling just to keep his nose from becoming part of the
Formica.
	The Kings still sat where they had been, looking undecided, and
Milo figured he couldn't count on them. They was a great bunch to have on
your side for a game of Quake or Grande Turismo, but they weren't worth
shit if it came to a real fight. Come to think of it, neither was he.
	But Joe's new girlfriend was something else, man. She was spitting
and growling at Hooker like a wet cat, and her two friends was giving him
some major mouth, too. Milo suddenly felt shamed, seeing these three girls
defending his amigo, while he stood there and watched like a freaking
whipped dog. Hell with it.
	"Shit, man, look what she's doing to `em!" he cried, pointing. And
when like the fool he was Ingles whirled around to see, Milo darted
forward, grabbed those stupid baggy pants, and pulled them down around his
ankles.
	Ingles squawked and tried to move, only to get his feet tangled
up. He stumbled and fell forward, catching himself with his hands, but
before he could right himself a pudgy hand reached out and clamped onto the
back of is neck in a copy of the same hold that Ingles' partner was using
on Joe. Artie Julian, the King-of-the-Kings, held him steady in that
position while he shouted, "Go for the field goal, Milo!"
	Milo grinned, took a step forward and kicked Ingles' upraised
buttocks hard, sending him sprawling forward across the floor and into the
back of Ronnie Hookers' leg.
	"Dude, I have always wanted to do that!" Milo shouted, pumping his
fist into the air and whooping like a Knicks fan at tip off.

	Joe could hear Sammie and the girls yelling at Hooker, and could
hear him spitting threats and curses right back at them, although the
pounding at the base of his skull kept him from knowing the exact words. He
gritted his teeth and strained against the table, and instantly felt it
when his captor jerked and his grip suddenly loosened. Instantly Joe shot
his fist straight up and swept his arm backwards, knocking Hookers' arm
away and freeing himself. At the same time he made a fist with his other
hand, with the thumb rigid and extended, as if he were going to press a
button. And then he twisted in his seat and jammed that thumb right into
Ron Hookers' throat, just like Becka had taught him.
	Hooker reeled back, choking, but Milo didn't give him any time to
recover. Instead he snatched Sammie's tray from the table and slammed its
contents into Hookers' face. Food, napkins, and a twenty ounce fountain
soda drenched the other boy, and just for good measure Joe hit him with the
tray a couple times more. When Hooker tried to backpedal away, Joe leaped
to his feet with a roar and sprang on him, bearing him to the ground under
a flurry of wild punches. He felt nothing but the white hot rush, knew only
the need to pound and hurt and rend the object of his rage.
	A heavy weight suddenly slammed into Joe, knocking the wind from
his lungs and bearing him down. Another weight hit, and then another,
smashing him down. A red darkness began to form at the corner of his eyes,
even as he tried to throw one last punch into Ronnie Hookers' face.
			* * *
	Principal John Garrett looked out at the battered group of students
assembled before him, sighed, and thought about taking an aspirin for the
headache he knew he was about to have. There were so many of them that they
had completely crowded him out of his office, and so for the first time in
his career he had had to move this into the teachers' lounge. He looked at
the crowd of youthful, somewhat battered faces before him, and silently
counted. Twelve. Twelve students, all involved in the same altercation in
the cafeteria. It seemed that the vice principal's description of the
incident hadn't been so far from the truth after all. He had called it a
riot.
	Garrett shook his head, and silently counted the months until his
retirement.
	The expressions on the faces before him, as much as the way they
had grouped themselves, separated the errant students into three distinct
groups. Hooker and Ingles, long time trouble makers who had been before him
many times before, were looking even more sullen than they usually
did. Also considerably more bruised. Ron Hooker had a bloody nose and what
would most likely be at least one black eye by tomorrow morning, and from
the way Matt Ingles kept poking his finger into his mouth he probably had a
loose tooth as well. Not to mention the painful way he kept shifting in his
chair.
	The second group, by far the largest, consisted of four of his top
students, two cheerleaders, and the editor of the student paper. And also a
small boy who he had never seen before, around whom the others seemed to
have instinctively clustered in a protective manner. Their expressions were
defiant, and not in the least bit cowed at being brought before him like
this. Even without their past records to go by, the differing attitudes
between the two groups would have told him who was at fault here.
	Garrett looked at the final two students facing him and wasn't sure
if he was surprised by their presence or not. Becka Jackson had been before
him many times in the past four years, mostly for fighting and disruptive
behavior, although that had tapered off greatly this last year since her
adoption into the Cameron family. She was a celebrity now at Roosevelt
High, and along with her newly adopted sister Gia they were two of the few
openly gay students here (and Garrett didn't care to look too closely at
that relationship!) They had both been in his office before, but that had
usually been for championing some cause of for defending another student
from the likes of people like Mr. Hooker and Mr. Ingles. They were here,
and yet the surprising thing was that they seemed to be the only ones who
weren't involved in the actual fighting.
	They also seemed to be extremely amused by the whole situation.
	"We didn't do nothin', we were just talking to the guy," Matt
Ingles was whining again, which set most of the second group into a furious
shouting match. Garrett winced, then picked up the text book he had brought
and slammed it down on the table, a technique for getting attention that he
had developed years ago. As usual it worked, and for the moment at least
blessed silence fell on the crowded room.
	"Thank you," he said, sarcastically. "And I'm afraid, Mr. Ingles,
that the weight of evidence is against you. It's obvious that you and
Mr. Hooker tried your usual strong arm tactics against Mr., ahh, Mr. Munson
here. Only you were foolish enough to do it in front of his friends. In my
opinion, you both got exactly what you deserved.
	"But I am still puzzled about you two, Miss Cameron and Miss
Jackson. I know you weren't involved, Gia, because you were with me at the
time. So what exactly are you doing here?"
	The petite girl, whose looks he knew were very deceptive, shrugged
and cast her wide, innocent eyes on him. "Mr. Garrett, I saw my beloved
sister here, and all of our friends being brought into the office. I mean,
where else would I go? Besides, you didn't tell me I couldn't." She stared
at him with the confidence of someone whose logic was unassailable. Garrett
snorted and turned to the other girl.
	"And you, Miss Jackson? I understand that you weren't even involved
in the fight. So why are you here today?"
	"Hey, Mr. Garrett, I'm a witness. Well, sort of."
	"Sort of. And just what did you `sort of' witness, Becka? Did you
see the altercation between Misters Munson, Hooker and Ingles that started
that little free-for-all?"
	Becka looked embarrassed at that. "Umm, no. I was in line for chili
dogs. But I heard all the noise, and I looked up in time to see the fight."
	"I see. From clear across the room you saw the fight. And just how
much of it did you see?"
	"Well, I saw everybody dog piling on top of each other in front of
our tables. And I heard Kenny here shouting `Viromir! Viromir!' at the top
of his lungs."
	Kenny Washburn swelled his sallow little chest and said, proudly,
"That's my D&D characters' battle cry. He's a hill barbarian, and a
bandit."
	Garrett had to close his eyes for a moment, even as Becka
continued.
	"Yeah, anyway. Everybody was throwing themselves on top of the dog
pile. Art, Milo, even Sammie here. And then Justine," she paused, grinning
at the red haired girl in the second group. " Justine climbs up on the
table, takes two running steps, and swan dives on top of the pile! Way to
go, Wonder Woman!"
	She and the cheerleader paused to exchange high fives. Forty seven
months, Garrett thought, fighting the headache that was now definitely
here. Forty seven months until retirement.
	"That will be enough, Miss Jackson. Apparently you have nothing to
add to this inquiry, and are along for the same reason that your sister
is. Which means that you have no valid excuse for missing class this
period, a fact we will discuss as soon as I am finished here. Now as for
the rest of you...
	"It appears Mr. Hooker and Mr. Ingles first started the
altercation, and that the actions of Mr. Munson and his friends were in the
form of self defense. However, since there where teachers present and you
therefore had the option of calling on them for help, you all own some
share of the responsibility here. Everyone but Joe, that is, who was
immobilized and did not have that option. The rest of you will therefore be
joining us for detention every night after school for the rest of the
week."
	There was an immediate outburst of protest from the second group,
which Garrett ignored. But Hooker and Ingles were all too obviously
smirking, which he most definitely wasn't going to let pass.
	"But Mr. Hooker and Mr. Ingles, you instigated this little mess in
the first place. You will therefore be reporting to detention not only this
week, but all of next week, too." The two miscreants started to protest, at
which Garrett leaned forward and asked, "Two weeks, gentlemen. Would you
care to try for three? I thought not. Now, Mr. Munson you seem to be
favoring your arm. Do you need to see the nurse?"
	"Uh, nossir. I sprained it the other day, and I think the fight
just made it worse. I'll be fine by tomorrow."
	"I see. Do you want to go home, then? I could call one of your
parents to come pick you up. You probably need to change your shirt,
anyway." The boys' shirt was pretty badly torn, and in fact it had only one
button remaining.
	"Um, my parents are dead, sir. I live with my Aunt Mattie, and
she's out of town this week. I'm staying with Becka and Gia's family right
now."
	"I could drive him home, Mr. Garrett. I've only got study hall this
period. `Course, you'd have to write me an excuse for missing class." Becka
was grinning at him, the kind of grin that inevitably made him feel very
old and tired.
	Forty seven months.

(continued)