A Stitch in Time Pt. 04

Instead I was just dead to the world. When she finished, after she'd swallowed every bit of the cum I'd stored up the last two weeks, she pushed my exhausted body back into bed, set my alarm, and gave me a soft, brief kiss on the lips.

"Good luck, Patrick Sterling," she said softly from the doorway just before she flipped off the light. "You'll do great."

I mumbled what I hoped were my profound thanks and slept like a rock until the alarm went off the next morning at seven. Jeanne was already up, ready to drive me to the test again. At my instructions, she parked in the same spot she had last time, although she pointed out that there were plenty of other, closer spaces available this time.

"That's cause only the real fuck-ups have to take the test again in March," I grinned at her.

"Well, try not to fuck up this time," she grinned back at me.

Mr. Katz, Miss Dullin, Mr. Abercrombie, and Mrs. Krankowsky watched me like a hawk for the next three and three-quarters hours, and every now and then I looked up and gave one of them a big smile. By the time I was finished, having confidently answered every single question, they were all smiling back at me. Mr. Hestrick snatched the paper from my hand as I exited the room, promising me that I would have my results back at exactly the same time as everyone else who took the test, and not a day sooner. I thanked my proctors, and together we left the building.

Tanya Szerchenko was standing at the foot of the steps, her hands in the pockets of the jean jacket she had worn to protect her against the still chilly March weather. She cocked her head at me as I walked down the stairs, and raised her eyebrows.

I stopped right in front of her as the teachers breezed past with their farewells.

"Well?" she asked.

I tried to look thoughtful for a minute.

"There was this one question," I finally said.

"Very funny," she laughed. "No way, José, are you getting a public blowjob for messing up one question, Patrick Sterling."

"In that case, Tanya Szerchenko, let's plan a celebration," I grinned.

"You really think you did that well?" she asked in surprise.

"I really do. And I have some very heartfelt thanks to deliver. Let's go round up the gang."

Dinner at Carter's that night was on me. Tommy got a Swiss Army knife that he loved just as much as Tanya thought he would when she saw it at the mall. Cammie just sat there staring at the lapis lazuli necklace that I had insisted would suit her perfectly. Finally she just closed the box and said, "Cool. Thanks." Tanya, of course, was already wearing the friendship ring that matched the one on the little finger of my right hand, her face glowing like a small sun.

The next day at church, I offered thanks again, for all of my friends. And I did notice that up in the front row, sitting next to Jeanne, Cammie was wearing the necklace.

Chapter 15

None of the teachers in the ninth grade had ever given "pop" quizzes. In the ninth grade, they told you what they were going to teach you, and they told you when you would be tested on it. Then they taught you, and then they tested you. That apparently changed somewhere between ninth and twelfth grades. Now you were supposed to be much better at absorbing the material, so that a sudden, off-the-cuff quiz, like the one Mr. Carruthers handed out in my Astronomy class on Monday morning, would be greeted with a smile. Like the one on Cammie Rowe's face.

The expression on my face was no doubt one of shock. I numbly took the test questions from Mr. Carruthers as he circled the room, and bent my head to the task of answering them with a vague sense of impending doom. Fortunately, most of them were multiple choice. The remaining few were short essays. Which helped only a little. Because as much as I thought I understood the retrograde motion of Venus, I soon discovered that my understanding was lacking. It was certainly lacking the answer to question number six. Damn. It looked like I was going to be digging myself out of a hole in this class. The only saving grace was Mr. Carruthers's announcement that this test, and the others that would be "popping up" during the semester, would count for no more than ten percent of our final grade. Our lab notebooks would be another forty percent, and our final project a full fifty percent. So it wouldn't be a very deep hole. Just a hole.

On Monday afternoon, I walked into the locker room to get ready for baseball practice just in time to hear Andy Lebo proclaim that all bitches were the same, so it was just a case of finding the one with the best tits and the tightest cunt. I glared at him and he smirked at me. At that point, I was already ashamed that I hadn't even tried to tell Jill about what had happened last Saturday in the weight room, when I'd found her very scared friend Marcia with Andy and Jesse. Andy's little monologue made it that much worse, and I made up my mind to sit down with my little sister that evening.

Oh, I had had plenty of excuses. She hadn't been around much on Sunday, and in any event I'd spent the day in a state of euphoria, elated that Tanya and I had finally reached a meeting of the minds on this "friends with benefits" thing. Monday had been pretty much taken up with the rush of planning for my birthday, which involved Jeanne coming into my room every five minutes to ask, did I like burgers (yes), what kind of cake did I like (chocolate), did I want presents (no), was there anyone else I wanted to ask (no). I spent Tuesday in a state of horrified shock, followed by my birthday party and three nights of cramming for a test that left me completely exhausted. Except for the party I'd thrown on Saturday night.

God, I really was an asshole. Because even if all of those were legitimate excuses, and they weren't, I had spent Sunday playing games on my computer and outlining my Civil War paper for Mr. Anson's history class. The one that wasn't due for two weeks.

So as I drove home after practice on Monday, I went over in my mind what I was going to say to Jill, and tried to anticipate her defensive responses. So I'd seen her friend Marcia in the locker room with her boyfriend and another guy? So what? Was there an innocent explanation? Probably not. Was I prepared to tell my sister my explanation? I guess. Would she believe me? Probably not. On the other hand, hadn't she talked to Marcia about it?

I knocked on her door after dinner and she waved me in.

"What?" she said impatiently.

"Did, uh, Andy tell you I'd seen him in the weight room last Saturday?" I asked.

"No," she said. "Why should I care? I know about his stupid weights."

"He was with Jesse and, uh, your friend Marcia."

"What friend Marcia?" she asked.

"Marcia Burns?"

"Oh, God, she was my friend, like, last year," Jill scoffed. "I mean, she still hangs around with us, but she's such a little Miss Priss. Like so totally the opposite of Liane."

"Okay. Anyway, she was in the weight room last Saturday with Jesse and Andy."

"If that ugly little slut thinks she can steal my boyfriend," Jill started to lecture me.

"I'm not sure she was there, you know, completely voluntarily," I interrupted her.

"Yeah, right," Jill's voice dripped with sarcasm. "She's been trying to worm her way closer in since school started in September."

"Jill, I'm just saying —"

"I know what you're saying. You are trying to break me and Andy up. I knew it. Go to hell, big brother."

I retreated to my room, remarkably unsuccessful in my quest to, well, break up Jill and Andy. Although I really saw it more as making sure that Jill had all the information she needed. To break up with Andy.

Baseball practice got more and more intense as the week went on. We would have our first scrimmage on Monday, and Coach told me I should expect to pitch no more than five innings. I wouldn't pitch at all in Thursday's scrimmage, so that I would be fresh for the season opener on the 26th. He made it clear that as the team's number one pitcher, I was going to be expected to contribute almost fifty percent of the team's pitching during the coming year. He was pleasantly surprised with Cary Roberts' development, and thought he'd probably by the number two. During the weeks that we needed more than that, he implied, we were going to be in trouble.

I was pretty much done with the in-school tryouts. If anyone wanted to see me, they could just come to a game. So Tommy and I were lifting together on Mondays and Fridays after lunch, and we lifted by ourselves on Wednesdays, since his only free period corresponded with my Astronomy lab.

On Tuesday, I learned to my surprise that I was also a pretty good hitter. We started taking batting practice, and when I took my turn, I was spraying balls all over the place. Including a couple of foul balls right back off of Jesse Traskers' catching mask. Which is actually very difficult to do if you're trying to do it on purpose. My hitting didn't surprise anybody else, though. When I suggested to Cary that my hitting was an unexpected dividend, he told me that most right fielders are expected to hit the ball pretty well, to make up for their not having to field all that much.

"But I'm a pitcher," I pointed out.

"And a right fielder on the days you don't pitch," he said. "At least that's what everybody's been telling me."

On the way home that evening, I stopped by the library to check out the Baseball for Dummies book again. With the chapter on "Fielding the Outfield" under my belt and my good old friend muscle memory, shagging fungoes on Thursday afternoon actually went pretty well.

The rest of the week was spent studying for my government test on Friday, working on the history paper that was due next week, and learning that my benefits friend had out of town relatives coming in for the weekend. Out of town relatives that unfortunately included a cousin who was going to be Tanya's responsibility. Since the Sabbath extended from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, we agreed that the three of us — Tanya, her cousin, and me — would go to a movie on Saturday evening. A late movie, actually, since Daylight Savings Time had kicked in last Sunday and sundown was now an hour later every evening. Damn the United States government.

On the other hand, three cheers for the United States government. It was the very orderliness of that government, the carefully prescribed system of checks and balances, that so perfectly suited the student who was willing to memorize every page of his text book and his notes. I walked out of that test on Friday morning serenely confident that my A-plus in Government was in no danger at all.

It was seven-thirty on Friday evening when I heard a knock on the door. That was the second knock, actually, after I finally realized that nobody else was going to be answering the door. I looked around, annoyed, because I knew it wasn't going to be for me. The sun had already set. And it wasn't like there weren't plenty of other people around to answer it. Dave was downstairs in his basement apartment, although the chances of its being for him were admittedly small. But Jill and Jeanne were both upstairs. Of course, Jill usually got summoned by horn.

I yelled out, "yeah, I'm coming," and threw down the Sports Illustrated I'd been reading. I ambled over to the door and yanked it open to find an absolutely ravishing blonde.

I was about to smile and ask if I could help her when her eyes widened and she threw her arms around my neck.

"Trick," she murmured between kisses on my cheek and neck. "Thank you so, so much."

"Uh, sure," I muttered. "Come in?"

She walked like she'd been here before and threw her coat onto a chair. She sat on the couch and patted the cushion next to her.

"Well, first off, how have you been?" she asked.

"Okay," I said, sitting where I was told. I was being very cautious. The slightest sign of fear or doubt could chase her away just as quickly as she'd come. "And you?"

"Oh, fine, you know how hard it is to adjust to someplace new."

Tell me about it, lady.

"Tell me about it," I suggested.

"No, I want to catch up with you first," she said. "Baseball season started yet?"

I managed to converse for another five minutes without getting even the smallest clue as to this woman's identity. She was my age or a little older, blonde, as I'd said, with blue eyes visible through a stylish pair of glasses. Even better, she had a stunningly curvy body that she was showing off in a knitted sweater and a pair of jeans that she'd obviously been sewn into. I went through my mnemonic for girlfriends again, but I'd actually dated relatively few blondes. And I for damn sure would have remembered a picture of this one.

I was saved, briefly, by the honk of a horn. Jill came thundering down the stairs and stopped in the doorway to the living room to look in. She furrowed her brow, clearly waiting for an introduction.

"Jill," I started very slowly, "this is —"

"Liane!" Jill yelped. "I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you as a blonde."

"You like it?" Liane said, flicking it out. "Your brother here hasn't said a thing."

"Yeah, um..." I stammered. Hair coloring, shit. Plus she hadn't been wearing glasses in the yearbook photo.

"Men," Jill dismissed me. "It looks nice."

"Thanks. Got a date?"

"Yeah. Andy Lebo, remember him?"

"Andy Lebo?" Liane's voice turned icy. "The asshole who almost raped my sister?"

She whipped around to look back at me.

"How can you let your sister date somebody like that?" she was nearly screaming.

"I don't tell her who to date," I protested.

"Wait a minute," Jill said. "What do you mean raped your sister?"

"How could you not tell her about it?" Liane screamed at me.

"I did tell her about," I protested.

"You tell me," Jill suddenly grew quiet and sat down across from Liane.

The horn sounded again. I got up and opened the door.

"Just wait a minute!" I yelled out to the waiting Andy Lebo.

His window rolled down.

"Tell the bitch to hurry up!" he yelled back.

I cocked my head at him, challenging him to say that again.

"Look, man," he yelled, "just tell your sister I'm here."

I closed the door and went back to the living room. Jill's face was white. Both women looked at me. Jill took a few deep breaths and the color slowly returned to her cheeks. Her face assumed a steely sort of expression that I'd never seen before.

"All right, I'm breaking up with him," Jill finally said. "Happy now?"

"Actually I am," I said to her back as she stormed out of the room.

"I didn't mean to yell at you like that," Liane said as I resumed my seat. "Marcia said that if it wasn't for you and, um..."

"Tommy."

"Tommy," she nodded, tears starting to well up in her eyes. "She said that they were both going to 'have her' at the same time."

I let her cry on my shoulder as we both listened to the muffled screaming from outside. Finally, the door burst open again and Jill slammed it behind her. She locked it and began to walk back toward the stairs.

The sound of Andy's fist beating on the door made both Liane and I jump.

"Jill," he bellowed. "Get out here."

"Fuck you," Jill yelled back through the locked door. "Asshole!"

The next sound was louder by far than Andy's first hammering, and I looked up to see Jill turn white.

"NOOO!" she screamed, tearing off up the stairs.

I jumped to my feet, having only belatedly realized that Andy had kicked the door in, lock and all.

"Out of the way, fucker," he growled as I put myself between him and the stairs.

"Get out, Andy," I tried to remain calm.

He took a few steps toward me.

"Out of the way, pussy."

"Liane, call the cops," I said into the living room.

"Fuckin' asshole," he muttered. He took a swing at me which I easily blocked. And then he simply put his hands on my biceps. We'd both been string beans in ninth grade. I had put on some muscle. Andy Lebo had put on more. With surprisingly little effort, he heaved me to the side, into the living room. I found myself tripping over one of the hassocks and heading face-first for the glass top of the coffee table.

I was only out of it momentarily. When I hauled myself out of the table's broken wooden frame, shattered glass was lying all around me. I could taste blood in my mouth, and it was running into my eyes, probably from at least two cuts on my forehead. Through the haze, I could still make out Liane yelling into phone for the police to get here. I'm sure she would have been Andy's next target, but then we heard Dave's "what the fuck is goin' on?" as he thundered up the steps from the basement. The door opened onto the first floor between Andy and the stairs, so there was now at least a well-muscled former quarterback standing between Andy and Jill.

Jill, meanwhile, was still in the upstairs hallway looking down at Andy's march through the house.

"Get the fuck out of here!" she screamed. "Get out, you fucking rapist!"

Whatever doubts Andy had about going through Dave evaporated in the white heat of Andy's anger.

"You fuckin' cunt!" he screamed back at her. "I'll rape your fuckin' ass!"

"I don't think so, kid," Dave said in an even tone.

It looked like it was going to be a very tough fight. Dave and Andy were about the same size. But apparently Andy knew Dave better than Dave knew Andy. I watched in horror as Andy looked down at Dave's knees, and with a malicious smile on his face yanked his right leg back and delivered a vicious kick to the outside of Dave's left knee.

Dave blanched, and when Andy kicked his knee again, he gave a heart-rending groan and dropped to the floor. Upstairs, Jill screamed again, and we could hear her running down the hall. Andy stepped over Dave to the bottom step.

"You can't hide, cunt!" he screamed at her.

A door slammed upstairs — probably Jill's bedroom — and Andy took off up the stairs. I shook my head, spraying the couch with blood, and tried to wipe the rest of the blood off my face. I didn't have time to try to stop the bleeding, and I learned later that facial cuts in particular were notorious bleeders anyway. I took the steps two at a time and looked down the hallway to see Andy trying Jill's door. That lock wouldn't keep him long, though. He turned and saw me.

"You want what your brother got, you come here, pussy," he snarled at me and beckoned me forward with his hands.

I stepped into my room, looking for a baseball bat or anything else I could use as a weapon. The only thing that immediately swam into view were the two baseballs sitting on my desk. I grabbed them up and stepped back into the hallway. Andy had his back to the wall opposite Jill's door, ready to kick it in like he had the front door. He lifted his right leg, and I threw. He was only fifteen feet away, he wasn't looking at me, and his left leg was supporting all of his weight. It was a carnival toss, the kind of throw that most people miss from sheer nerves.

Very fortunately, I don't suffer from those kind of nerves. Jill's door burst open under Andy's kick at virtually the same time that Andy shrieked in pain and collapsed to the ground, the inside of his left knee forced outward by a fastball that had been traveling well in excess of eighty miles an hour. He turned his face to me, a mask of hatred. Grabbing hold of the door jamb he hauled himself to his feet.

"You're a dead man, Sterling," he seethed.

He took two steps toward me, limping steps that clearly left him in agony. At that rate, he might have reached me in about five minutes. I hefted the second ball in my left hand, knowing full well that I could run away at this point. But there were no other exits from Jill's room. She had no way out except to get by Andy.

"The police are on their way!" Liane screamed from the bottom of the stairs. I looked down quickly and saw her kneel beside Dave. I looked back and saw Andy hesitate and then turn his face ever so slightly toward Jill's door. That was enough. I threw again, a little chin music. Andy crumpled to the floor again and lay there, motionless.