Date: Thu, 13 May 2004 22:16:39 -0700 (PDT) From: ben albrecht Subject: "Favorite Forgiveness" "Favorite Forgiveness" by GrandMoff This is a work of fiction, intended only for the enjoyment of readers. It contains sexual situations between an adult woman and an underage girl. (F/F, encounter) If you object to this, or if it is illegal for you to read this, please do not read it. Any resemblance between characters in this story and real people is coincidental. Cynthia Halstad had made one big mistake in her young life. She had told the entire truth, and it was totally socially unacceptable. She had been seven years old at the time, but two years later, she remembered the ordeal well enough to avoid repetition. She had been raised to always tell the truth. This time she would lie. "Not in the least," she responded indignantly. She had been so smooth. She didn't believe how easily and naturally she'd said the words. There were absolutely no giveaways. Her eyes remained in direct contact with her aunt's. "Good," Aunt Florie approved curtly. "I wouldn't have asked if not for your previous track record. Get ready for dinner now. Go on." "Wouldn't any track record be previous?" Cynthia barely kept to herself. "I'm a third your age and already I could put your intelligence to shame." She was indeed a very smart girl. She'd skipped the second and the fourth grades; fifth was painfully easy too. She'd likely skip sixth. This situation suited her just fine, since she had never liked school. Cynthia washed her hands and headed upstairs to the waiting family and supper. The family wasn't hers. It was now just another dull fact, but at one time, it had been terribly painful. She knew that some children had lost their own families, through divorce or death. But she had been sent away. Her family was perfectly-well, perfect. Forget the LY, they were perfect in their own eyes. One embarrassing action, that was all it had taken. She had been banished. Yes, she was a little bitter, but who wouldn't be after getting dumped in early childhood? Uncle Mark led the prayer and the group began talking and eating. Aunt Florie had already fed Cole, so she had pulled his crib close to the table and was actually eating with the family. Mark Jr., a lad of eight years, was noisy tonight. "I'm kind of tired of being a captain," the energetic boy bragged. "Ms. Harnish says that that's the only way it's fair, though. If Bobby and me were on the same team, we'd always win." "Well, who won today?" Uncle Mark asked. "Oh, my team did," Jr. quickly answered. "Good thing is that-" "-Don't talk with your mouth full, son," Uncle Mark chided. "We'll still be here to listen in ten minutes." He turned to April. "How was your day, darling?" "It was good, Daddy. We did finger paints, we counted to fifty, and we had a great story, too." "Excellent. What story was it?" "I think it was called, 'Rapunzel'," the lively girl told her father. "It was sad for a while but it ended so happy. And Rapunzel's hair must have been a lot like Cynthia's." April and Uncle Mark both smiled at that, but it was Aunt Florie's warning glare that Cynthia felt the most. She didn't have to see it; it was tangible. "Rapunzel's hair was much longer than mine," Cynthia told April. The sentence was meant to placate her paranoid aunt. Cynthia sometimes wondered why she tried to keep from threatening Aunt Florie. Her efforts never seemed to be enough. "You've got the longest hair I've ever seen," April countered. "The prettiest, too." "Why doesn't she shut up?" Cynthia thought while she fumbled for a good way to fend off this latest praise attack. "No, uh, but thanks for the compliment," she attempted lamely. "How was your school day, Cynthia?" Uncle Mark inquired. "It was okay. The sixth graders were reading Silas Marner and the seventh graders were starting with algebra. And we had a substitute again today." "Really? What happened to Mr. Shilling?" "I think his dad had a-an illness," Cynthia carefully replied. "Mr. Shilling may be gone for the rest of the week." "That's a shame," Uncle Mark said. "But you like the substitute, don't you? What did you say her name was?" "Sister Allison, and yes, I think she's a very good teacher. She wants me to enter my science project in a contest," Cynthia stated. "Sister Allison says that my demonstration of hydraulic power is sure to win." "That sounds like a great idea-" "-We've got plans that weekend, dear," Aunt Florie cut off her husband. "Oh, that's too bad." Cynthia did a great job of controlling herself. "What plans?" she wanted to scream at her aunt. "Admit it, you don't have any. Sure, you'll make some now." But she had learned the lesson of restraint in the past two years. Nine o'clock was Cynthia and Mark Jr.'s bedtime. After she'd been tucked in, she allowed herself a few tears of frustration. How long was she to be chastised for that one true statement she'd made two years ago? Would she be held down forever? Her mind began to wander, as it always did while she waited alone on the third floor of the house for sleep to give her a brief sanctuary from consciousness. How was her family doing right now? Was her brother a baseball star yet? Had her mother earned her master's degree? Had her father stopped smoking cigarettes? Did she really care? Were they her family anymore? Did they think of themselves as her family? She had to admit to herself that she had never forgiven them. Her father in particular had seemed almost eager to banish her. Or maybe exile was closer to the correct word. It didn't matter much whether she forgave them or not. Until they forgave her, they would not know the difference. Cynthia knew, of course, what she'd done to get booted. She just didn't understand why it was wrong, never had. She had done what her parents had always told her to do, hadn't she? From start to finish, she'd done everything the way she'd been raised to do it. She'd been in first grade at the time. That's when she'd first had this strange feeling. Was it infatuation or love? She'd been sure that it was the latter, then; two years later, she wasn't. But she'd acted on her impulses. She'd kissed this fourth-grade object of her affection. She hadn't cared whether anyone saw them and that had been her mistake. She was seen. And she had learned a very large amount about "proper human behavior" in a very short time. This was a Catholic school; of all the places to try something like this, there was nowhere less appropriate. Besides, little girls couldn't fall in love, not until they were older. "How much older?" she'd cried at one point. Anger and fear had been foremost in her mind, but she needed to hear this answer. "A lot older!" her dad had yelled back. "How old?" she had pressed. "Twelve? Fifteen? Sixty-one? How old should-" "-When you're old enough to find the right person," her mother had calmly but forcefully asserted. "Which you have definitely not this time." "That's right you haven't. Furthermore, the school you're going to is small. Since I want to be sure that this doesn't happen again, I'm going to put you in a different school. We aren't going to tell anyone but your uncle and aunt why you need the change of scenery. And if you want to save yourself a lot of extra trouble, you won't tell anyone either." She hadn't. She had to concede that point to her father. He was right on that score. People had looked at her so very strangely after the kiss that she'd been able to tell immediately whether they'd heard about it. If they had, it was like she was an alien or something. If they hadn't, she was a normal, cute, little girl. The only people who treated her differently now were her family and Aunt Florie. Even Uncle Mark didn't. Mark Jr. and April had at first, but they soon came to look on her as an older sister. And she tried to be one. How long did she have left, before she could return to her old house? Her old friends-what few there were-would they even remember her when she returned? She'd never made too many friends...not for long, anyway. She was always skipping grades and naturally not very outgoing, yet a stubborn girl. This combination didn't contribute to long relationships. At times like those, when she felt so alone, she cursed her efficient brain and hard-edged will. They made her special, and special people didn't often get treated normally. She didn't think of herself as any better than anyone else, but other people saw her straight A's and skipped grades. They felt threatened, nearly all of them did. Who knew how high a person with so much promise could go? She didn't want to go higher than any of them; she wanted to stay where they were. But she didn't understand how to convince them of that. "My lack of experience is my worst flaw," she told herself. "But I can't do anything about it. No one can grow faster than one year every twelve months. Some things require only time, and we humans are slaves to that, half in and half out of that dimension." Enough of the dismal thoughts. There would always be time for them. Cynthia decided to devote these last few waking moments of the day to the good, the positive. She'd made some friends over the last two years. She was one year younger than Toria, her favorite. Toria was in fourth grade now, but keenly intelligent. She'd skipped a grade too, so she knew what Cynthia had been through. And she'd promised to jump to sixth grade after this year, so that they could go through classes together, as they'd done last year. There was also Lucy. Lucy was Cynthia's age, and a very outgoing girl. She was much more athletic than Cynthia was; in fact, she was a prodigy. A different type of prodigy from Cynthia, that was all. The two were more alike than either had first realized. Cynthia had been subtly campaigning with Uncle Mark to get the chance to spend more time with Toria and Lucy. School was a mixed bag, but there really was more good than bad. She was kind of tired of getting instructed on things she knew. She'd always gotten the best marks, though her attention lapsed every so often. She'd also figured out how to exercise some creativity in the unbelievably restrictive art classes they had on Tuesdays and Fridays. That class was a bigger joke than the others were; yet if she worked variations into whatever they were making, the instructor was appreciative. Cynthia's regular teacher, Mr. Shilling, was a nice, mid-forties gentleman. He paid her some special attention, but not as much as her former teachers had. She liked that, particularly because he seemed to do so with her standing in the other children's eyes in mind. Yes, he was a good guy, yet Cynthia was hoping that he'd take his time about returning. She could feel sleep approaching. Her thoughts turned to Mr. Shilling's substitute, Sister Allison. Of the things that had been going right in her life, this was the one Cynthia's mind lingered on and relished. She'd never had a teacher who cared so obviously about her students. Sister Allison was every bit the proper Jesuit nun, but her energy was not restrained by her beliefs. Actually, her love and faith intensified her natural propensity to do the right thing. Cynthia didn't know all that much about Sister Allison. The substitute teacher was originally from Southern California. She'd earned her degree (with hard work) two years ago. She'd been offered a regular teaching spot in several nearby schools, but she'd turned them down for the chance to travel and meet thousands of children. The Church had allowed this because of her youth and inexperience. She'd come from a large family and she avoided most other questions about where she was from. To her, the past meant nothing. When she'd made that statement, Cynthia had been curious to the point of serious doubt. She'd asked Sister Allison why she felt that way. The nun's answer had been simple. "Thinking of something that has happened lends it a false sense of reality," Sister Allison had said. "The fact is that the things we recall most often are those that made us feel the most strongly. But by their nature, these memories are distorted right from the start and the more they're remembered, the more warped they become." Cynthia hadn't heard anything that had made that much sense in a long time. What else was there to Sister Allison? To Cynthia, she appeared to be about 167 cm or so. The habit made it tough to guess how much she might weigh, but Cynthia guessed 55-60 kg. With her stated hobbies of tennis and charity running, Sister Allison was probably very physically fit. Most of her hair was hidden as well, but what showed was fine, straight, and blacker than the darkest night. Her eyes were nearly as dark, and their shape hinted at a bit of eastern Asian somewhere in her ancestry. Her skin color backed this suggestion; it was a tan that wasn't very dark, yet extremely deep-so deep that she must have been born with at least some of that lively tone. There were some things that no one could tell about anyone. These were often the truly important things. Cynthia was trying to find out these things now, but she'd known Sister Allison for only three days. Was she courageous? She seemed to be. Was she open-minded? How much value did she place on what was reasonable? Did she like fun? "That last one is a tougher question than it seems," Cynthia reflected in her last moments before sleep. The question echoed interminably. Did she like fun? Morning was unwelcome for the girl, as always. Cynthia hated leaving her bed. But it was another school day, her alarm had rung, and she'd rather not have Aunt Florie on her case so early. She stumbled to her feet and started her day. There was nothing special about the upcoming day. It was just another school day, just like all the others before it and the thousands that would inevitably follow. Cynthia went through her first fifteen minutes of every school day like a zombie. Once she had brushed her teeth and had a cold shower-a habit her mother had introduced to her when she was just four-she felt much more like a human being. Time to concentrate on appearance. Cynthia always made an effort to look good, even though-or perhaps because-she was an intellectual. She didn't like the way people tended to judge each other at a glance and she tried not to participate in that activity. But since it was the way things went, she was quick to use it to her advantage. She was naturally a looker and she knew it. As for how she dressed, the situation was remarkably similar to her art class. The school's dress code was rigid, but the small variations she worked into the uniform were overlooked by some and admired by most. Her style had evolved gradually and included bright, semi-reflective shirts and skirts; conservative lipstick, rouge, and eye shadow; and one, two, or three accessories, never more. She was always careful to avoid overstatement. She'd turn heads today, as usual. She picked out a red, blue, and black plaid skirt that reached to eight cm above her knees. She matched it with a long-sleeved, light blue, translucent, button-down shirt. Next came the footwear-white socks that reached to just above her knees and shined black shoes with three-cm heels. Now the accessories, the items that would make or break the outfit. After some thought, she selected two light and dark grey marbled barrettes. Was that enough? There was one bracelet that her aunt never wore that might complete her look. She'd already grabbed it from Aunt Florie's room and now she considered it. It was exquisite, but it would be too large for her wrist and it seemed a tad too thick, like it might overpower her arm. What about her ankle, then? No, it needed to be against bare skin. How about a pair of earrings? "Heck with it," Cynthia muttered. This outfit was good enough. Cynthia noticed clouds approaching from the north as she waited at the bus stop. It might rain today-then again, it might not. On a school day, it almost didn't make a difference. If it was raining recess would be in the gym; if not, it would be out on the playground. She did prefer the playground. It was outside, closer to nature, and she adored nature. She heard a car honk and looked toward the noise. It was Uncle Mark, and he motioned her over to the window. "What's up, Uncle Mark?" she asked. "I remembered what you said yesterday, Cynthia. What happened to Mr. Shilling's father?" "He had a myocardial infarction during his angioplasty. The doctors don't think he's going to make it." "Heart attack during a surgical procedure? I'd have to agree-that doesn't sound good." Her uncle paused and looked gravely at her. "Why didn't you say it last night, though?" "I don't know. I guess because of Jr. and April." "You're a good girl, Cynthia, but you worry too much. And I'm going to be late. See you at dinner tonight, okay?" "Bye, Uncle Mark." The school bus appeared a few moments later. When she got to school, there were still twenty minutes left before the first bell would ring. Cynthia didn't have to look for Lucy today; the taller girl had already spotted her on the playground and was waving her over to where she stood with a small group of friends. "Cynthia! I've got something for you," Lucy exclaimed. She held out an envelope with Cynthia's name on it. Cynthia opened the envelope carefully and read the invitation inside. "Will you go?" Lucy asked. "You bet," Cynthia pronounced gladly. "What's the occasion?" "That's what we were just talking about. My dad got elected, so he's letting Abe and me have something we want. He wanted a big screen TV; I wanted to throw a great party." "And that's what it's going to be," a fourth-grader named Blessing added excitedly. "It's at the Hilton. A pool party at the Hilton!" The bell rang as the girls asked Lucy questions and made suggestions about the event. They were all excited, but it was time to go to class now. They split up reluctantly and headed to their various classrooms. Attention problems would be the order of the morning for most of the girls. Cynthia knew that she wouldn't be distracted. She'd be quite attentive. Sister Allison was teaching again today. Cynthia would be hanging on every word. The substitute was great at making normally mundane material interesting; but Cynthia listened more because of her hope that the young teacher would reveal more about herself during the lesson. She had a strategy prepared today, designed to draw information out of the teacher. It was a simple plan, but it might work anyway. She would casually ask questions that would possibly send this new instructor on tangents. A lot of people enjoyed telling stories about their own powerful experiences. During the first two classes, Cynthia began to wonder if her efforts were being consciously rebuffed. Sister Allison kept firmly on track with her teaching. The classes were lively and fun, but Cynthia didn't get any new insights. Recess would be after geography, the third class. Cynthia kept on watching for her chance, though. "Mexico's capital city is huge," Sister Allison was saying. "It has the largest population in the world. It's got its share of problems, but they can be dealt with, because so many people live there." "Sister Allison," a boy named Gregory began as he raised his hand, "I don't get it. Why would so many people make it easier to deal with problems? Don't they create problems?" "Some people see it that way," the nun replied. Cynthia saw an opportunity appearing in this conversation. "People make things happen Gregory; that's their nature. When they have no goals, they may make a lot of trouble. But when they can stand together against something destructive is when they're at their best." Cynthia raised her hand. "Yes, Cynthia?" "How do you know that?" the clever girl inquired. "It's not just something you've been told, is it?" "Of course not. I remember-" Success! Cynthia grinned and listened intently. "-when the captain of our basketball team broke her leg in a car accident. She would miss the rest of the year and we all knew it. So we sympathized with her and we visited her and we buckled down to work. Our practices were only slightly longer than they had been. We just tried harder. And we all improved. We played the rest of the season with only one more loss. When it was over, our captain told us that we were better without her. But we told her that the opposite was true. We couldn't have done it without her." "She's a very sociable person," Cynthia realized. "Sister Allison believes that people are inherently good. I'll do my best to live up to that." A few minutes later, the class was dismissed for recess. The children began to sift themselves into their usual groups. Cynthia looked around for Lucy and Toria. She had no trouble locating them and ran over to the group they were with. There was a little bit of talk about the impending party but soon they were playing tag on the jungle gym. Cynthia wasn't very fast, so she stayed near "gool," the pole that could protect a player from being it. Only one person at a time could use gool, so Cynthia would still have to be quick and alert. They were playing chain tag today. In this variation of the game, the person who was it would stay it after she tagged another person; so the number of people who were it would grow until the last person was caught. Then that person would start the game again as the only person who was it. For that reason, Cynthia did her best to avoid being the last person caught. Today she was too sly for her own good. Her newest tactic was to stay near at least one other girl and play the odds. When just she and Elsa, a fourth-grader, remained, Elsa was closer to the faster students. She was tagged mere instants before Cynthia. The resourceful girl was not chagrined today. She felt quick, able to do more than she normally could. Besides, her cunning and the lack of experience the others had at eluding her would work to her advantage. "I'll show them how easy it is to get away from me," she anticipated. The chase began. The jungle gym and the small rubber courtyard it stood on were pretty confined spaces. All else was out of bounds. Cynthia was charged today-she moved fluidly and precisely. Her quickness amazed her. The speedy Lucy was her first victim and soon the chain had many links. "Just a couple left," Cynthia realized. "I'm actually impressing them today." She jumped for the rungs of one of the many ladders. She began to scramble up to the top. She felt the resisting pressure a fraction of a second before she felt the pain. She yelped in protest but held onto the steel cylinders and lowered her injured leg slowly. Toria rushed over to her. "Cynthia! Oh no, Cynthia, you're bleeding." She helped Cynthia down the two remaining rungs of the ladder and supported her friend as she stood cautiously, trying to see how much damage had been done to her thigh. "Ow," the hurt girl finally stated. Her tone was to flat and objective that she and Toria both giggled. "They're getting Sister Allison right now," Toria said after a moment. "Let's go toward the building." "Just a second," Cynthia stalled. She took a look at the ladder she'd been climbing. "There it is," she winced. "That bolt? Yeah, it must have been," the older girl concurred. "How did it back itself out that far?" "Cynthia, are you all right?" Cynthia turned her head and saw Sister Allison. "Yes, I'm okay. It's just a scratch, Sister." "I'm going to have to take a look at it," the nun said gently. She addressed the playing children. "Everyone stay away from the jungle gym until a teacher tells you it's okay." The substitute turned back to the two girls before her. "I've got her, Toria. Thank you for helping out. She'll be okay." Cynthia leaned on the nun's arm and allowed herself to be led back into the schoolhouse. Down the empty hall they slowly proceeded, until they reached the female locker room doors. Sister Allison held one of the heavy doors and still supported Cynthia without any trouble. She guided the girl to the nearest bench. "Does it hurt really badly?" Sister Allison's deep brown eyes held Cynthia's gaze fast. For a second, the girl couldn't even concentrate well enough to understand the question. Hurt? Badly? "Um." Cynthia tried to find an answer. "Yes, Sister, it hurts...kind of badly." "I'm going to get the first aid kit. Stay put." The nun turned away and started toward the coaches' office. A lightning storm of emotions and ideas raged in Cynthia's mind. Risks. Compulsions. No such thing as infinity-just now. Amazement and curiosity. Concern. Desire. Love. Pain? Loss. Love? Love! Sister Allison returned. She opened the first aid kit and set it on the blue tile floor. She knelt in front of Cynthia. "Be brave. Let me see the injury, please." They both examined the cut in earnest for the first time. It was a shallow laceration on the girl's left inner thigh. It started about ten cm above her knee and shot a perfectly straight line upward for about eight or nine cm. "Nasty, but I don't think you'll need stitches. I'm going to have to clean it. This may sting, but I have to do it. Do you understand?" Cynthia shifted and nodded. The nun applied hydrogen peroxide as smoothly as she could. Cynthia felt no additional pain, just the cool, damp cotton application pad. She shifted back a bit more on the bench. "You're quite a trooper, you know that? I'm going to put on a bandage now. Hang in there." The young teacher quickly cut a piece of gauze to size and secured the lower end of the bandage. Cynthia gasped slightly. "Oh! Did that hurt?" "No," Cynthia stammered. The concerned substitute glanced up at her student. The girl's eyes were closed and her expression was unreadable. The nun quickly secured the long sides of the dressing. She placed the last piece of tape on the high end of the bandage and delicately pressed it down. "What am I doing?" Cynthia wondered to herself. Tears formed in her eyes. She put her hand over the young teacher's hand before it could withdraw from the tape on her leg. "Allison?" the girl whispered. Alarmed, the nun looked up at Cynthia. "Wh-" "-I'm so confused." One tear slipped from Cynthia's left eye. She kept her hand firmly over the nun's hand. Slowly, so that the young woman might not notice the movement, she began to guide the captive hand up her leg. She stared into those incredible brown eyes. "What's wrong with me, Sister Allison?" The substitute teacher couldn't answer. She couldn't do anything but stare at this desperate, fragile girl. She'd never seen so many emotions written so clearly on one person's face. She became vaguely aware that Cynthia was pushing her hood off her head. Her long black hair tumbled past her shoulders and shimmered in appreciation of freedom. "What do you mean, Cynthia?" she asked without thinking. "I shouldn't even be here. I am an outcast." One of the girl's hands was unbuttoning her small, translucent blouse now, as the other climbed inexorably higher along her thigh, pulling the nun's hand with it. "This is why." "Outcast?" the teacher murmured. She was transfixed now-unable to move or even think without assistance. She had never encountered this amount of intensity from anyone. "Don't say that, Cynthia." The girl's skin was hot and trembling beneath her touch. She felt her fingers encounter smooth fabric and she realized that the girl was using her hand to push this material aside. She nearly regained control of herself when she understood what was about to happen. "Because I'm too young to love," Cynthia quietly asserted. Her eyes were wild and fierce. "But I love you, Allison." "You-" Then the girl's lips were on her own. "Please," the student pleaded. "All I know is that I need you." She pressed her bare chest against her teacher's. She began moving her teacher's hand in a circular motion and sighed with sudden pleasure. The last of Sister Allison's discipline fled. "This is wrong," her mind objected weakly. But it didn't feel wrong. It felt like love. She was a marionette now, but a marionette who'd never experienced anything even remotely like this. She felt Cynthia's hands opening her habit and sliding it off her shoulders. She felt Cynthia's mouth kissing her neck. "I am not too young to love," Cynthia mumbled into her breast. The nun could not disagree. She could never forget this smooth skin, this curly blonde hair, these luminous green eyes, these dazzling pink lips. She would remember this beautiful girl for the rest of her life. This was how it felt to be possessed. For these few minutes, she belonged to this extraordinary child. Mr. Shilling returned a week later and resumed his teaching position. Sister Allison left. Cynthia would never see her again. She was certain of that. For months, her heart was numb, crushed beyond feeling. Still, she felt that she had proven her point at last. Maybe that was all the exotic nun had been: an opportunity for her to show herself that she'd been correct. Maybe it didn't matter. Cynthia never skipped another grade.