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In our second entry we learn about a second character central to this adventure. The protagonists offer their own point of view revealing what they will of themselves. Here you discover Jean's view of her world allowing a glimpse of what makes her tick.

Let me introduce myself. My name is Jean Phillips. I am a high school senior at Saint Michaels a serious Catholic school demanding excellence. The nuns give no quarter and in their mind any grade lower than a B is failure. At least this part of my life in this hell hole is has gotten better. It is everything leading up to it that sucks. After four years of being condemned, insulted and treated as a social leper is now reduced to isolation. Isolation is a victory one leading to my success. I am on track to win the valedictorian award punching my ticket for scholarships and acceptance to an A college. The only things standing in my way are two guys. One a jock named Pedro Roman and the other a nobody known as Andrew Lyons.

I hate jocks almost as much as I hate the mean girls. You know the ones I’m talking about. They parade around in their designer clothes flaunting both their looks and wealth. Each of them has a gathering of drooling fools trailing behind. Most of those followers are horny cave men. They are guys like Pedro who runs around wearing gym shorts bouncing a basketball saying enlightening things like dude or you know twelve times in each paragraph. Pedro is the exception, not only is he cute he is really, really smart. He is also an asshole who is in love with himself. The remaining followers consist of a gaggle of pretty girls who know they are and believe everyone else adores them.

The other roadblock I mentioned is the opposite of Pedro. You take Lyons for instance nobody knows who he is. The guy is even more unpopular than I am. He dresses okay wearing the appropriate uniform of brand name jeans and beefy tees. Even his sneakers show fidelity to an appropriate swoosh. At least give him credit his shoes do not light up. I have never seen anyone, anyone at all so much as speak to him. I guess that puts him higher up the social standing than I. Me, they deem to acknowledge at least, usually with the term of ‘Parker.’ ‘Parker’ with a capital P is code for trailer park trash. Oh yes I live in a mobile home. Actually it is a modular home built to stick built specs. It is on our own land not in any trailer park. I get sensitive about that shit.

One of those two guys is the likely alternative top grade winner for the senior class. I dislike jocks because they score the winning basket at the buzzer to win the state championship. That’s what Roman did last year. Not winning the game is what bothers me it is what follows. His response is he joined the entitled. The idea soon rises in his head it is his right to have the head cheerleader on her knees honoring the ugly thing below his waist. True to form our brainless captain of the short skirt crowd complied. You can almost guess the name of our head cheerleader. If you said Brittany, bingo you get an A on my test. Do I have to tell you she is far too stupid to know how demeaning that is? She is also not bright enough to know old Pedro told everybody she swallows. Yeah, she swallows and now begs him to let her have another go at his foot long. We are not talking Subway here. I did not hear Brittany say that. It was Pedro bragging to his friends. Then again, considering my history why should I believe Pedro?

Brittany parades around the halls followed by her acolytes wearing designer clothes flaunting her queen bee image not knowing what they really think. The thing that pisses me off is they look down at me. Me the girl who minds her own business and is not the school tramp. I guess it speaks to why I detest the beautiful people here. Roman is a primary reason why I hate guys another is Lyons. I will get to the number one bastard named O’Riley later. Andrew has never done anything to me. That is directly but indirectly he is weird. Ever since I first laid eyes on him four years ago he watches me. Not in a stalking way but in an invasive uncomfortable manner. I catch him looking at me in every class. His eyes are deep blue, piercing and captivating. Before you get the wrong idea I know that it is not because I’m looking at him. It is he locks those pools on me like he is trying to probe inside me.

It should not surprise me, Andrew is a guy. It is not a stretch to know he wants inside me alright. I know what exactly he wants to shove inside me. Why is it guys think with that smelly ugly protrusion? Is that all they know? I mean women appreciate good looking guys. We dream of finding mister right and understand when settling down what’s going to happen. Sex is going to happen and I will be required to spit out kids after nine months of pure hell. I have already decided there is no way I will submit to having myself stretched apart squeezing a ten pound ball of fat through my bottom. How gross, it makes me sick to think about it.

My idea of romance is finding a soul mate who loves me one who I love in return. Ever since that ugly incident two years ago my desire for a boyfriend has vanished. I hate thinking about it and refuse to ever speak these words I am about to confess. His name is Jerry O’Riley the captain of the football team. The bastard graduated two springs ago, good riddance. I agreed to go to the home coming dance because I thought he was so cool. My friend Jennifer one of the well off kids was a year ahead of me. She was a junior going out with Jerry’s brother Mark who was a senior. Me a sophomore thought I was being so grown up going out with a junior. That is until after the dance on the way home.

I have to admit Jerry is a good dancer but his hands were all over me. I kept pushing them away but each dance found his fingers being too familiar with my rear. I had worked so hard to impress wearing a pleated knee length black wool skirt with white knee socks. My sleeveless white scoop button up linen blouse was framed nicely by my navy cardigan. I mentioned the ride home. I should have said ride to hell. Mark was driving slowly until he turned into a parking spot near the pole line on the northern end of Baker’s Woods. I heard kids telling stories about this being a make out spot. Jenny Bates was smiling acting rather giddy. I did not know she was half loaded.

It all happened like a flash. Jerry is all over me in the back seat his fingers pushing under my skirt he had my blouse unbuttoned so fast I did not realize it. That is until I could feel his other cold hand cupping my bare left breast. His other hand is trying to slip under my panties as my head is pushed back against the seat. I struggle just as his lips press against mine. His tongue is trying to get inside my mouth. I can hear Mark moaning from the front seat. “Oh baby suck harder.” I thought is Jennifer nuts she sucking his,,, oh shit. I had my own troubles then I got an unexpected break.

“I’m cumming Ohhhhh” is heard from a loud voice in front. Jennifer’s head appears above the seat pulling back. Jerry is almost inside my panties when I hear spitting sounds or coughing maybe it is gagging. Whatever, Mark is now complaining because Jennifer made him cum. His intention was to have intercourse. According to Mark the stupid bitch’s mouth made his pole go flaccid. His yelling at her caused the distraction I needed to jump out of the car. The pole line is only a few yards away and it is close to my house. I ran all the way home. On Monday I learned the horrible truth. Jerry told the whole school I screwed both him and his brother with Jennifer swearing it’s the truth. According to Jennifer she watched in shock as she had no idea what a little slut I am. At least she did not have to explain if she swallowed like Brittany.

My reputation now ruined made me the school outcast. Even the nuns look at me differently. I came to think they must have heard the sorted details and sat up all night saying Hail Marys for me. It was then the insult ‘Parker’ became popular and I’m relegated to pathetic little wench status known to take on any guy in school. The in crowd wanted nothing to do with me looking the other way when I came into view. This is the same crowd that parties in Baker’s woods. They have a little contest where the loser has to give head to a guy selected by the winner. Yet I am the one who is shunned. Then again with friends like that who needs enemies?

Even the rejects shunned me because they now have someone beneath them. It was right then and there I swore off boys they are nothing but pigs. The girls are nothing but back biting scabs interested in elevating their positioning at someone else’s expense. A pox on both their houses is an appropriate punishment.

What does a ‘Parker’ do? In my case you shut down bury yourself in books stay home and refuse to let them get to you. I may have told you since then I wear nothing but jeans. I am not showing my skin to these pigs. So the prime bimbos wear short skirts scoop tops with push up bras are sexually active and then complain because of the leers. Right, you silly princesses are advertising the only thing missing is the for rent sign. The good news is both O’Riley and my ex best friend Jennifer Bemis are long gone. They graduated before this year and now my best year of high school is the third year I navigate dim lit halls alone. I must sound like an angry little bitch but I’m not. I like myself but I’m not particularly crazy about playing defense all the time. I’d like a friend but I learned to trust no one.

I scored a part time job for the weekends which helped buy school clothes making my father’s pay check go a bit farther. It helps me avoid wearing ‘Parker’ clothes without having to put pressure on my parents. Being a girl is expensive that asshole Lyons does not have a clue how easy he has it. I look at him looking at me and I want to explode. Enough complaining, I don’t like myself when I do that. I work at the Warehouse Outlet an odd lots clothing store. They specialize in seconds from major manufacturers. Rejects are sold minus the label. They offer cheap knockoffs no one else could sell at any price.

The store is on the corner of Trident Avenue and Main Street on the outskirts of town. It is an old gray building rising four floors. The building is one of those old clapboard types initially used to store farm implements. There is one section on the fourth floor where the previous owners stored bales of hay. Farm trucks the old flat beds with removable picket fence like sides would park in the rear. A large crane type thingy lowered bales purchased by farmers. That is all gone now discarded remnants of decaying straw still lay in cracks of warped floor boards. They closed the fourth floor for safety reasons but the lift still ascends to the open floor. The warehouse workers slip up there to sneak cigarette breaks.

The floors are old consisting of wide weathered boards that have shown their wear. A faded chipped gray color betrays a lack of upkeep. It is doubtful they received any care since I have been born. You can still smell that oily scent permeating this old building. It goes without saying the floors creak with every step. I sometimes freak when hearing squeaking louder than normal expecting to fall through the floor.

My average Saturday consists of me sorting shipments arrived the day before. Everything goes into carts by product type. Girls and teens items into one adults into others and so on. The sorting takes all morning the hauling all afternoon. There is always some sales girl running in messing up my piles looking for that certain something she knew just came in. I get to spend another fifteen minutes straightening out the mess. Carts go to different floors which I have to push pull and drag. Fortunately what goes onto the sales floor is simply stuck in a back corner where the staff sorts them. I get to use the elevator.

Let me tell you about the modern lift. It is ancient looking more like a cage than an enclosed elevator. The wooden frame is reminiscent of an old picket fence. There are no walls so to speak everything is open including the gears and hoist cables. Sometimes I have to pull flat trucks loaded with heavy stuff. Perhaps you have seen those things. They are about the size of a sheet of plywood with wheels on the back end and a steel knob on the front. You take one of those huge jacks about four feet long connecting it to the knob. You have to pound your foot hard on the jack’s tongue. The first time I did it I ended up standing on the jack my whole body in the air. I wanted to scream when I noticed four truck drivers watching and smiling. I don’t know if it was my ass they were attracted to or if it was my struggle. Finally the jack engaged locking in place causing a reaction with the handle recoiling. I almost fell on my ass to the sound of applause. One of the drivers showed me the trick of the heavy jack and it became clear sailing after that. One more reason I do not wear skirts.

After loading the ancient elevator I pull down the creaking cage door. When I push the button for the second floor I pray it reaches the next level. Laugh if you want but the creaking and moaning sound made by that cage as it moves up or down scares the hell of me. The operation is done by pulleys and wires elevators in stores, malls and airports likely work the same way. They at least have the comfort of a sealed enclosure where riders do not see the nuts and bolts.

As I ride up and down this creaking and objecting cage I can see the steel cable wrapping around the pulleys. It bothers me just a little to notice the cable is frayed in many places. It is like school I close my eyes trying desperately to ignore the threats around me. This is basically my weekend up and down that scary lift stacking bundles of clothes in bins. Before closing on Saturdays an added insult is applied.

That little annoyance is provided by my job. I have to hang the Sunday sale signs in the window. What is so bad about that? There is a row of widows the length of the sales area facing the main street. Of course, the store is on street level. You can’t risk customer’s lives by putting them in the cage. A long rail is mounted to the floor under the windows. A ladder is mounted to it which I climb to hang the signs. So it goes push the heavy ladder climb up and down, push and climb again. All the while this is going on kids are walking by mouthing ‘Parker’. Worse yet guys stand there fingering their crotch as if offering it to me. I bet it pisses them off that I’m not climbing the ladder wearing a skirt. I keep coming back to that as if I’m fixated.

Bess Winslow is my supervisor. She is a nice lady who knows what poor is all about. Each Saturday when I come in she shows me a selection of clothes set aside lacking any noticeable defect. They help because they are not obviously from this hand me down store. Bess is a dear who cannot understand why I never, ever wear skirts or dresses. Jerry is part and parcel of the reason why no one sees my legs or has an open hem to violate. If the truth be known most of the preppies wear brands of jeans by Royal Blue, Revolt, Piper's Closet, Vigold and Paris Blues. It is not like I can afford any of those. The price of one pair equals four or five marked down Wranglers.

Mrs. Winslow is a farm wife who works to help make ends meet. Over the last few years she has been like a second mother to me. To help my mom and dad out she gives me a ride home on Saturday nights. She is always giving me advice and offering to listen to any concern I may have. My steel resolve refuses to let anyone in but I actually feel better knowing I have an ally.

In spite of how rotten my life in this town has been I consider myself a lucky girl. My dad is a great guy. He works hard as a mechanic in a local garage. The man can fix any car or truck, if it has a motor my dad is your guy. He does not drink, swear or beat my mother. When in high school dad was the captain and quarterback of the football team. The colleges were lining up with offers until he blew out his knee. Without the free ride afforded by the pigskin crowd college did not happen. He got his present job right out of high school.

Mom is terrific, I’m not like most girls I love my mom. We get along great and talk to each other though she has no idea of what happened that night or the hell I’m living. It hurts too much to think about or try to put it in words. I have to be creative pretending I do not like dancing and have no interest in school events. Somehow deep down I know the woman buys none of my tough guy act.

I know mom really wants to help me find that prom dress. She would absolutely go bonkers seeing me all decked out posing for pictures she is dying to take. I deflect every conversation that may lead to prom topics. My usual answer is something like, “Mom I have no time for that if I’m to get a scholarship to Gonzaga or Hillsdale.” I guess she has given up trying to relive her prom days through her daughter. To be honest I still sneak peeks at myself. Without sounding like all the top ten bitches I look better than any of them. I will keep that my secret.

On Friday’s I meet dad at the garage after school. The bosses have gone home and he lets me mess with some of the cars. I know how to change the oil, repair leaking tires and even set timing belts. I am getting pretty good with points and plugs knowing that is a lost art because most of the newer models do not require those things. In this town which is reliant on farms and factories there are plenty of old trucks and cars still requiring tune ups. Mom joins us at five when dad is finished and we catch dinner at the Dog Shack or the local diner. Sometimes if there is anything playing we hit the movies. Most of it is garbage these days so we tend to go home instead.

Yes money is tight and we have none of the toys everybody else seems to have. No cell phones, no MP3 players but I do have a laptop. Dad had a friend build one for me in exchange for him fixing the guy’s car. It is kick ass. I stay away from social sites primarily because I do not want to know what the bitches are saying about me. I often dream I’d like to be a guy as I especially would enjoy doing things to that little whore Jennifer. She owes me for swearing her actions were mine. That is a whole other thing. I just know being a girl bites. The idea of having to give birth totally sucks. Spread my legs to get stabbed and fertilized, it ain’t gonna happen. I’d rather do the stabbing.

That whole being a guy thing started during early October. I keep getting strange thoughts about girls. Things like if I were I guy what I could do to her, well ugly things I have no desire to act out. They are not dreams or visions just dark thoughts that come about every now and then. Whatever, they are creeps me out every time.

Sundays I only work until noon so when I get home mom and I hang out while dad watches football on the old TV. Hanging out with mom generally means cooking and the like. There is considerable pride shinning through mom’s eyes when my blueberry muffins come out just right. I must admit I get a kick out of it as well. We do have a lot of time to talk and just be close. I enjoy the feeling I get from these times with mom. We get along though I hold back from revealing my general daily misery.

I struggled into my senior year still dateless and still without a single friend. Anyone who I thought was a friend shunned me because of a lie. It taught me not to let anyone else get close ever. Then the weirdness started in my senior year. First it was obvious lust in the eyes of Andrew. It is like he suddenly discovered what a little slut I am and wants a piece. Sorry Andrew you are shit out of luck. Everyday this school year Andrew is looking at me. It is like his eyes are glued to me. I have to hold myself back stopping the urge to scream “What do you want?” It is my luck the guy is in every one of my classes. How did that work? Did Andrew bribe the nuns or something? On second thought that is stupid. Andrew, Pedro, and five others are welded together in honors classes. When I look around I feel vindicated none of my tormentors managed to make honors.

Talking about bribing the nuns I talked my way into doing a report for psychology class early on in the semester. It is one of those year long reports where I’m expected to write a long paper on an original topic. I proposed what would happen if a boy or girl tried to fake being the other sex in public? What would it do to their psyche if people took her at face value and they did it over a period of time? I know I am dealing with Sister George thinking that is an oxymoron to begin with. Why wouldn’t a nun named George go along with this?

She kind of hesitated when I assured her I would not touch the topic of transgender or sex change or any of that anti God stuff. I simply wanted to test the what if of it. Sister suddenly grew amused suggesting a girl would find out how unfair life is to women. There are different expectations and forced roles. A girl or boy might get confused if such a mask is allowed to persist for a long period. Satisfied I am only trying to determine the shock of reversed perceptions and will use only documented studies she agreed. Not until I promised I would not act out violating any commandment. Now all I need to find is a victim.

Because I have no friends and I prefer to be Brad Pitt without the stubble rather than Meg Ryan I elected myself. Now then how do I go about this? Oh yes and about the Meg Ryan bit. I heard my stalker, Andrew comment my hair looked like Meg Ryan’s. I am not so sure I agreed. I find myself looking in the mirror with a critical eye. It is unsettling to discover except for the color he may be correct. It is hard to put a name on a hair style. Each salon dreams up their own cool names. A descriptive one word label does not inform a stranger what your hair looks like. I’ll put it this way, a Pixie is generally too short and not really feathered like mine or Meg’s for that matter. But we are in that general length. A razor cut fails to describe me accurately and choppy though it is close sounds too disorganized. But those general terms tend to lend themselves to what I have.

It may sound like I’m pumping myself up because everybody knows the terminally pretty girl next door look of Meg. I could be accused of claiming; no I’m rather plain I just look like a beautiful actress. Move on nothing to see here. Applying her name to define a style seems easier than to go through all the verbiage I just laid out. To clarify my chestnut colored hair has those side and front bangs and is layered. I’d say its middle length is cut to look more voluminous because it is feathered. My final word on this is I talk too much. When I add a bit of goop and comb out the bangs I look kind of boyish.

For a short period of time I got really bummed when the Warehouse Outlet went belly up. Business had been pretty bad for most of the summer. Finally the company closed our store and little old me lost a part time job. Before I conned Sister George into allowing my paper I had been toying with the boy look. Since I have not worn a skirt or dress in years my jeans and tee shirts helped to confuse some strangers. Perhaps I could pull this off at least out of town or among people who did not know me. The first time I wore my hair like this to school the nuns nearly had kittens, Sister Karla walked me out of her class chewing me out in the hall. It seems she who looks like a linebacker has different standards. I knew better than to say anything and have become more careful.

Bess, my former boss called offering me some really cute girly outfits. She had been pressuring me to dress more feminine. You already know that is not going to happen. She keeps insisting threatening to make some selections and send them over to my mom. I can’t let that happen so I agreed to meet her at the store to pick out some stuff. I insisted I will take only a few. With great apprehension I walk over to the store meeting Bess. She has several outfits set aside and wanted me to try on every damn one of them. Forced to humor her I picked up a
lavender strapless cutout dress. Not only are there two sides to the story, but both are worth mentioning.

As I stood there staring into the mirror I became confused, this is not me. It's hard to gloss over the sexy allure of two triangular side cutouts below a fitted sweetheart bodice, or the custom fit that an elastic back band and no slip strip lining presented in that mirror. The A-line skirt tucks a little at the waist. It has an exposed zipper at back. It is fully lined.

Wow, I though so much skin showing around my shoulders. My resistance to my feminine side melted causing a sudden need to have this dress. Bess is beaming claiming I am far more beautiful than even she imagined. The woman quickly began handing off more of her treasures to me. I paw through this stuff not wanting to look like a girl knowing wearing these clothes make that impossible

I keep Bess happy by agreeing to take the lavender dress and two skirts. Both of them have fancy names and bullshit label descriptions to fish in the marks. Anyway I am attracted to a skirt named simply as Lush. I slip the thing on over my boy shorts. You know panty briefs for girls who object to constantly pulling that irritating thong out of her crack. Good grief must they insists we torture ourselves to make the hairy guy’s access convenient? I am not going to comply. Back to the skirt. It is made by somebody called Dark Star. It is a black leather skater skirt with a double pointed yoke front and back, plus some chic vertical seaming. The high wasted fit enhances my almost nothing sized middle. If the truth were to be revealed I am a size four. Again my legs look fabulous; they scare me I have not seen them exposed in a long time. By that I mean hanging out there for all to see because my jeans do hide them. It is unsettling to say the least.

The impression I get from looking at my knock out self sets off alarm bells. I’m now convinced Dark Star is owned by the Borg. This is their way to compel me to assimilate. One look at this babe and all the guys go into heat. Yes, I am caving letting my girl come out. Bess is giggling with that I told you her expression reveals she is now convinced of my model like looks. I am still not about to tell her why I’m in denial. I agreed to try one more to keep her happy picking out another skirt with a cool name. This one is called Under Skies. Where in hell do they come up with these names? I can picture guys with limp wrist sitting around dreaming them up wishing these outfits would look good on them. This one is a blue lace skirt atop a knit cream background. The banded waist creates a figure flattering look that won’t miss a beat. Ok I admit it makes me look hot and I put it in my pile and quickly pull my jeans back on. If this is not bad enough later in this month of October events will turn weirder.

“Humor me Jean please put on the black skirt one more time. I want to take a picture of the beautiful young woman you are. I knew it all along but you refused to show yourself.” A pleading Bess almost begged. How can I deny my best friend? Did I say best friend, a woman who is middle aged is my best friend? I never thought of Bess that way but it is true. The woman who stood by me and helped me in this not great job may be my only friend. How can I deny her? I nodded my assent caving against my better judgment.

“Okay this one time and only long enough to take a picture.” I used my best teasing voice. The truth be known I enjoy looking good. Today is one of those times I must confront my conflicted emotions. I hope you feel better I am a pretty girl and flaunting it.

Bess is absolutely giddy as she holds up her hand signaling “I’ll be right back. I have just the blouse to go with that.” She is back like a flash holding up a blouse while I stand there wearing this incredible skirt and only a bra on top.

“Here you are it is one of those nice styled blouses with a sewn in cami. See that the shirt is an oxford material that buttons halfway down to the waist. The body is pink while the open top reveals a lighter pink underneath.”

I have to admit it is really nice and goes great with the Borg’s skirt. I slip the blouse over my head after all with only half buttons it is a pull over. Now I have to brush my hair as Bess insist her photo must be perfect. Next she tosses me a cardigan sweater either black like the skirt or perhaps navy. Sometimes I have a hard time distinguishing between the two.

“What do I need that for?”

“Jean, it is cold outside and the sweater will keep you warm.”

I am not about to protest just let her take the picture and I can get out of this outfit and escape. It is amazing how threatened I feel when forced to dress like a female. I bet it would be easier to get some guys into this outfit. Finally she has her photos and Bess keeps talking slowing me down. I need to change and make my escape. It is incredibly generous of this woman to spend her money on these expensive clothes. I feel guilty for trying to escape them. I feel even worse knowing they will hang in my closet never seeing the light of day.

There are times when your luck runs out and this is one of those times. I stand here exchanging small talk not wishing to be obvious by rapidly changing into my jeans mom walks into Bess’ office. She stopped by on her way to the football game with dad. The plan is to drop me off at the library to work on my paper,

“Oh honey you look beautiful. Bess these clothes are simply awesome.” Mom picks up the other outfit examining it like it is gold. “Bess you spent too much.”

The two ladies start arguing over Bess refusing to allow mom to pay her. Bess insisting little old me is the daughter she never had. Now that the store is closing she will no longer get to spend time with me. Mom assures Bess she is always welcome at our house. Before I know it Bess and her husband are coming to dinner tomorrow. Even worse mom promises I will be wearing the lavender skirt. “Oh shit more pictures.”

Not only am I roped into looking like a young woman tomorrow I have to wear this get up to the library. Why? Well mom grabbed my worn clothes quickly stuffing them into a bag and under her arm. With her free hand she grabs my wrists leading me to the door saying. “See you tomorrow Bess and thank you for the outfits.”

When I stepped outside under protest I thought poor dad was going to have a heart attack. Until this moment he did not know he had a daughter. The kid with the monkey wrench at his garage the one with the grease mustache is a boy. He spells his name Gene or so dad had grown to think. “Oh my God!” He exclaims then heaps praise on the most beautiful girl he has ever seen.

All too soon we are at the entrance to the library. There is no way I am getting out of this car. Mom chirps, “We will pick you up after the game dear.” I sit there not moving as dad turns in his seat. “We have to go Jean.” The glint in his eye is priceless. The man just discovered his daughter with movie star looks suddenly realizing the fear of all fathers. The house will be surrounded by more guys than Custer had Indians.

I step out feeling like one of those guys who got caught on face book wearing a skirt in Wal-Mart. You’ve seen the photos of usually fat hairy guys with tattoos looking like queens. The breeze hits legs never before exposed to the public like an Arctic blast. As they pull away I hear mom, “She looks so lovely don’t you think dear.”

Dad could be heard grumbling “Don’t you think that skirt is too short. I like the jeans better.”

As they pull away I whisper, “At least dad is on my side.” Several guys walk by almost tripping to get a second look.

“Who is that?” I hear one say while another is heard, “I dunno but I’m gonna find out.”

The library on a Saturday afternoon is a safe place. All the jocks are at the football game with the top ten mean girls. The only ones I will see in here are the nobodies who are no threat. Then it hits me, Lyons is very likely to be studying. He always is just like me friendless with nothing to do but study.

I walk up the steps still conscious of this skirt swaying with every step still cognizant of every male eye for miles checking me out. Suddenly I laugh thinking of how many third legs I am causing. It makes me feel slightly better as I gather some books to begin working on that stupid paper I am indebted to produce. Sitting quietly at a secluded table near stacks of books I scan the room. To my relief there is no Andrew Lyons anywhere to be found. I said relief but is it disappointment? Considering what looking at my hair does to him what would this getup do?

These books are doing nothing for me as no progress is being made on my paper. My thoughts are tied up with stupid questions, questions surrounding impossibility. Do I really want to be a guy? That thought as intriguing as it may be brings up visions of hairy chest, sweating, beer bellies, bowling and belching. That causes a shudder and then the painful reminders of periods, bloating, stretch marks and squeezing out kids and an infant chomped on my aching tit. God that sounds disgusting. Thankfully my thoughts are interrupted.

“Hey,” a preppy blond who appears bubbly says to me. Without waiting for an answer she asks, “I simply adore that out fit. Would you please stand to let me see the effect?”

I wanted to go ballistic but I contained my anger at this rude chippy. She is no one I’ve ever seen before so I doubted this is an ambush. I stood as she simply fawned over what I am wearing. After hearing how beautiful I am more than once she apologizes for being rude. “I’m Terri Collins a senior at Central. Are you new in town?”

“I shake my head offering, “St Michaels, I’m a senior too, Jean Phillips.” She sat down and we talked for at least and hour ending up exchanging phone numbers. A couple of Terri’s friends arrive more girls I do not know named Gwen and Pat both seemed nice. I have this strangest feeling being a girl is not so bad. They left when their ride picked them up. We agreed if all goes well we can meet up next Saturday. All of them promised to call. We will see what happens but I am not about to take it to the bank. I’ve been burned too many times.

Mom and dad finally picked me up after I wasted the whole day. I never thought I’d miss spending my Saturdays at the Warehouse outlet. Suddenly that creaky exposed elevator, smelly oily floors and my own personal pallet jack were missed. That is a sad commentary on my pathetic life to admit I miss a greasy hard to pull pallet jack. Perhaps dad will buy me one. There must be a use for such a thing around the house.

Saturday nights at home are not something a teen girl considers the ideal. I helped mom by making corn bread muffins while she crafted a pot of home made pea soup. I’m still wearing my I will not assimilate skirt. Actually I like it and promise I will stop whining about my lot in life. Plenty of girls have a lot to complain about. My biggest bitch is I look like a Hollywood actress. That sounds pretty small doesn’t it? I am so content and self evaluating tonight I almost called Andrew Lyons. Wouldn’t that rock his boat?

What the hell is it with that guy? Someday I may find out and regret doing it. After dinner when dad stopped raving about my muffins I asked him a serious question. He almost came undone. “Dad what did you think when you saw me in that outfit? I swore you took a double take.”

He stared at me for the longest time. He almost looked like Lyons when he stared at me. “Honey you scared the hell out of me.”

I blinked at that not getting what he meant. Is my father picking on me like everyone else? I came close to screaming, “Whatever” and running to my room. Instead I sat there giving him an odd look.

“What I mean is,” he paused taking my hand. “You are so lovely I know my little girl has grown up. I am terrified I am going to lose you. I love you so much. I am very happy when you are wearing a baseball hat, jeans and a tee shirt with grease on your face. “The way you look tonight is breath taking and I know our time is limited.”

I’m absolutely speechless all I can do is hug the man I love tightly. Over his shoulder I see mom crying just like me. I did not sleep at all tossing and turning wondering what is going to become of me. I have no idea, I am simply lost.

The strangest thing happens. Now that you are caught up to date knowing more about me than anyone you can understand why Andrew Lyons has me so angry. It is Monday morning at school when I see Andrew upped his outrage directed at me. Not only is the little bastard in my face stealing those glances he stole my hair style. I have to clarify that because I am sounding hysterical. Despite that freak and sexual pervert Freud I am not coming undone imagining things. No I am not suffering from the female psychological disease of Hysteria. Sister George is scratching sentence diagrams on the blackboard when listening to her intuition she turns giving the evil eye to Andrew Lyons. Following her stare I too looked at the boy. Once again his eyes locked on me but I deflected by turning away.

This was not an isolated incident as sister George must have turned several times before she could finish that simple five minute lesson. Each time she nailed him intercepting his gaze. The last time I am held captive I could not break his hold. There he is staring without demonstrating any emotion. It is like he is in a trance. Then I see it those green eyes drinking me in holding me captive. What makes this so weird is Andrew has blue eyes. This is not my imagination those eyes gripping mine refusing to let go are fucking green.

There is something definitely weird about this shit. I am going to have it out with him. I guess there is no better time than now. Sister George intercepted my slugging the freak. The lunch bell rang and as I stood feeling my hand ball into a fist she said, “Andrew come up to my desk, now.”

In the cafeteria there is only one thing you can say that is good about my situation. That is Andy does not have any friends either. That is evidenced by the fact he has the lone table on the opposite of the cafeteria from me. We are bookends that never meet and never speak. I like it that way hoping it does not change anytime soon. Now I sit here looking at him trying to figure out what game he is playing.

My focus is suddenly intercepted by a video playing in my head. It feels like my brain is swelling trying to explode. I see myself sitting on a grassy slope wearing shorts. They are guy’s boat type cotton shorts reaching below the knee and a white rugby shirt. My hair is combed back is in a ruddy guy style. I am viewing gentle waves under a gleaming blue sky I felt something strange. Andrew is sitting next to me leaning back supported by his palms flat on the ground. At this angle his chest is pushed upward and well defined.

Andrew is wearing a short denim skirt pulled up by his position looking very tempting. His eyes are green and I swear his face is a replica of mine. I absently reach out brushing his hair from his eyes. My hair he stole my hair. My hand slides under his cami cupping a firm breast. I lean closer to kiss his tender moist lips. The passionate kiss is breathtaking. My excitement rises when he reaches under my shorts stroking me. I recoil breaking the intrusion getting myself back in control. Again focused seeing the cafeteria and students I relax but Andrew still has my hair and my eyes. This is not my imagination.

It is his hair or should I say my hair he stole. It is more than that he stole my eyes. He fucking stole my hair and my eyes. What the hell is going on, has he elevated stalking to an art form? I stand up starting to walk the ten miles or so across the room. If anyone is paying attention they will notice my balled hands. They cannot help but see my resolute purposeful stride. They might even predict the violence that is about to erupt.

Remember I took great pains to describe the size of that jack handle and how much strength it takes to operate? I mastered it spending better than a year dragging that thing around. A year tossing packing crates in that warehouse. I may be five-seven weighing barely a hundred pounds soaking wet but a year of pushing pulling and throwing built up some muscle. Not to mention changing tires and torquing plugs with a steel wrench. Andrew definitely is no match for me. I can see him sweat as I close in on his table.

Next Chapter 3 Andrew Lyons: Discoveries