Ovid 16 - The Derelict free porn video

Ovid 16 - The Derelict By The Professor I think the day I really reconciled myself to being a woman was the day I discovered I really did like to shop. Yes, I know, it's a tired old stereotype, but the shopping trips I enjoyed with Susan Jager allowed the two of us to bond as friends and as women. And it didn't hurt that it gave us a few hours unfettered by children. I probably appreciated that time more than Susan since she just had Joshua while I had Ashley and the twins. Susan was leaving Joshua with her husband, and the two of us planned to spend most of Saturday morning at March's Department Store trying on spring fashions. Then we'd finish off our morning with a pleasant lunch at The Greenhouse complete with a glass of wine to lessen the late winter chill. I had just dropped all three kids off at Donna Pearson's house down the street. Since Michelle - that's my other daughter - and Donna's daughter enjoyed playing together, it was common for us to leave our children with each other. I was amazed at how well Kimberly Pearson had settled into her role as a young girl and I was glad Michelle had become her friend. Of course Mike mumbled about being left with a "bunch of girls." Since Kimberly had only an older sister and Mike's other sibling was little Ashley, he had a point. I had to chuckle to myself, knowing as Mike did not that once upon a time, he was one of my fraternity brothers and would have loved to have been surrounded by "a bunch of girls." Besides, Kimberly used to be male and remembered it, so I doubted if Mike would be completely left out. Susan had just pulled up in our driveway as I got home from the Pearson's house. She had agreed to drive, and I think she just wanted to show off her new Windstar van. As I admired the gleaming dark blue vehicle, I couldn't help but think her law practice had come a long way from the days when she drove a battered old Toyota. "Very nice," I commented as she stepped proudly from the van. "We like it," she grinned. Then a little wistfully, she added, "But I still miss my Lexus sometimes." "Another life," I commented. Most places, that would have just been an expression, but in Ovid, it was a statement of fact. "Are you ready to go?" "In a minute," I replied. "It's a little nippy out today. I think I'll go in and get a warmer coat." "Yeah, and I think I'll use the restroom," Susan said. "You know, when I was a man, I could go half the day and not have to take a piss. Now that I'm a woman, I can't hold it back an hour." "Or ten minutes when you're pregnant," I laughed, and Susan laughed with me. It was great having a friend like Susan. Since we had both been born male, we found a lot in common to gripe about. But to be honest, neither of us would have given up our new lives for anything. To my surprise, I smelled coffee when I opened the door. Granted, Jerry and I had shared a pot earlier in the morning before he went off to the store, but this coffee was not only fresh but smelled like no coffee I had ever smelled before. "Anyone for a cup?" an attractive twenty-something redhead called from the door, a glass coffee pot in hand. She was dressed as a fifties housewife (or what the ads of the fifties would have you believe housewives dress like), complete with a homey full-skirted dress in bright yellow, a frilly white apron, three inch heels, and, of course, pearls. While I had never seen this freckled, attractive young woman before, I knew at once who she was. "Dianna!" "Hi, girls," she replied brightly. "Care for some Blue Mountain? I just picked it up in Jamaica about an hour ago. I can guarantee you, there's nothing like it." "I've had Blue Mountain coffee before," Susan told her, "but I don't remember it smelling this good." "That's because it doesn't travel well," Dianna explained. "I just brewed this pot in Montego Bay a few minutes ago and popped up here." "I'd love some," I told her as I shivered a little from the chill outside. "Then let's all go in the kitchen and have some while we talk," she suggested. I knew more than talk was in store. Dianna always showed up when there had been a particularly interesting transformation in Ovid. The funny thing was that I couldn't think of any transformation that fit the bill. All of the cases before The Judge lately had been rather mundane. While all of the gods were entitled to view the records of The Judge's cases which were lodged inexplicably (if one didn't accept magic) inside my head, few took advantage of that service. Dianna, on the other hand, viewed all of the most interesting cases, and I had begun to suspect such a review was part of her duties to her father, Jupiter. Most of the time, I expected her, knowing from local viewings which cases would attract her attention. This time, however, I was at a complete loss. As Susan and I sat at the table, Dianna poured coffee like a perfect hostess. I sipped at mine first while Susan doctored hers with a little sugar. "My God, this coffee is incredible!" I exclaimed. Dianna smiled. "Isn't it? Ceres owns a coffee plantation in Jamaica, so I can assure you that this is the best of the best." "It's the best coffee I've ever tasted!" Susan chimed in, a look of pleasant surprise on her face. Given Susan's former life as a prominent and rather wealthy attorney, that was saying something. While Susan and Dianna talked about the particulars of the coffee, I tried to sort through the recent cases which might have attracted Dianna's attention. Oklahoma highways are tricky in the winter and there weren't as many travelers wandering into Ovid. In the past three weeks, The Judge had only tried five cases, and none of them seemed to warrant the interest of any of the gods, let alone Dianna's interest. Well, Susan and I had shopping to do. It was time to test the waters. "So, Dianna, I assume you're just passing through this morning." Dianna laughed a sparkling laugh worthy of a goddess. "No, silly! I've come to view a story." "Well, Susan and I were just about to go shopping..." She put her hand on mine. "Don't worry, dear. You know it will not take long." I had to admit she was right about that. It was odd, but while submerged in the life of one of the transformed, only ten minutes or so went by, but it seemed as if we had lived the life of another person for several days. "All right, Dianna, but I'm at a loss. Whose life did you want to see?" "Marsha Henry," she replied decisively. I mentally sifted through the files of recent court appearances until... "Marsha Henry?" I blurted out. "But there's nothing interesting about her, is there?" In fact, no one else had asked to view Marsha's life. She was just one more nondescript resident of Ovid who had once been an even more nondescript man in another reality. Dianna smiled a smile which would have made the Cheshire cat envious. "We'll see. Are you ready?" I took one more sip of the delicious coffee and sighed, "I guess there's no time like the present." And with that, I drifted off into a familiar trance... ***** I needed a drink. That was nothing new, I suppose. Any time I was awake, I needed a drink. The need tugged at my insides, causing a parched sensation in my throat and an emptiness in my belly. To make matters worse, I was beginning to feel - feel the cold, the bitter wind, and the sourness in my stomach. Wine would warm my insides - wine and an open boxcar heading south. I had hung around Kansas City far too long. I'd had sense enough to get out of Chicago before the end of the summer. I thought Kansas City would be a good place to winter over if I could find work, and I had been right for a while. I had worked as a day laborer - standing around in the morning bumming cigarettes and waiting to be selected for some low- wage, low-skill job that paid off in cash at the end of the day. Through a warm fall, jobs had been plentiful. There was always enough money to fill my stomach with cheap food and buy a cheap room where I could drink cheap wine in peace. For a man in my position, it was pretty decent living. And then came winter, and it became pretty certain that little Bobby Wallace's mother had, indeed, raised at least one fool - me. With the swift coming of winter, the need for day laborers lessened. Much of the work was outdoor work, sometimes construction related. That all slowed down when the snow began to fly. What few jobs were left went to the Mexes. They were undocumented and worked about as cheap as a man could work. Plus the guys who came up to the work centers in their dirty pickup trucks to hire laborers knew they wouldn't have to withhold any taxes on them or pay them for overtime. I guess I can't blame the Mexes. Many of them had families back in Mexico who needed to be fed any way possible. The Christmas season helped a little bit. People tend to feel sorrier for the down and out during the holidays. So supplementing my meager day wages with panhandling, I managed to get by until after the first of the year. But with the first of the year, what little work I had managed to get dried up completely and people stopped giving me money on the streets as the reality of holiday bills made them more niggardly. So with no work, I holed up in the mission for a couple of nights, my money to rent even a cheap room long exhausted. It was tough; they wouldn't allow me a bottle so the need got worse. But at least it cleared out my brain just a little bit. I thought about it and figured it was time to head south. Maybe in Dallas or Houston it would be warm enough to provide more day work. Of course, there'd be more Mexes, but what the Hell? There were more Mexes than jobs in Kansas City. Even if that were true in Texas, it wouldn't be so goddamned cold. I've heard some of the old-timers talk about how it used to be easier to travel back in the days before computers. Railroad cars had a bill of lading attached to the cars so you could see which city the train was headed to. Now they all had computer codes read by scanners so you just had to hop an available freight and hope to God it wasn't headed someplace even colder. I was familiar with the concept of computerization and couldn't blame the railroads for going to it. Hey, I might have been a little down on my luck, but I had an education. I even had a year of college at the University of Illinois. That was some of the best partying of my life, but no sense in dwelling on what was. The other problem was the railcars themselves. Boxcars were the preferred mode of travel. Unlike the gondolas and flatcars, they were enclosed, and believe me, you don't want to be a passenger on an open freight car traveling at seventy miles an hour through a cold winter night. The only problem is that there weren't as many boxcars as there used to be. Most stuff that could be loaded in boxcars could be loaded on a truck cheaper. Trains now mostly carried grain, coal, oil, and other commodities which were carried in cars that didn't have the relatively comfortable confines of a boxcar. And the few boxcars that were out there locked up better than they used to, making it hard to find an empty to ride in. Still, hope springs eternal. I found myself standing in the shadows on a cold, dark January night in the middle of the Argentine - the huge railroad yard that helped make Kansas City the second largest rail center in the US. And my hope was rewarded, for after a few minutes of searching, there it was - an open boxcar. It was an old one - I was sure of that. The logo on the side of one panel was an odd-shaped design in black with the words "Rock Island" in white. Along the other side panel were the words "Route of the Rockets." Now I might not have been an expert on railroads, but I was pretty sure the Rock Island folded back when I was in elementary school in Chicago. In fact, the whole train looked to be made up of over-aged cars bearing road names which I was sure were long gone and nearly forgotten. It looked out of place in an era of merged railroads and gleaming unit trains. Even the diesel poised to pull the cars out of the yard looked like a relic of the past with its cab-forward rounded nose structure. I hadn't seen anything quite like it since the commuter trains Metra ran in Chicago twenty years ago. My heart sank. The age and condition of the equipment indicated to me that the train was a local freight, going down some little spur line an hour or two. This wasn't a train that would take me all the way to Texas. I would have walked on, ignoring the open car, but I suddenly had reason to change my mind. "Look what we got here." The voice was young but it contained a note of danger. I turned and saw three men silhouetted by the powerful yard lights. They were no more than thirty yards away and were slowly drawing closer. In their hands, I could see the dark outlines of lengths of pipe, gleaming with the frozen slick of winter condensation. In the past three weeks, five men of my circumstances had been found murdered within a three-mile radius of where I stood. There seemed to be no motive for the murders; after all, men of my circumstances had nothing worth stealing. Police suspected gangs of youths, killing for the fun of it or to make their mark with their gangs. I had heard the whispered warning from others like me, but I hadn't taken them to heart - until now. "Just stay where you are!" the same voice ordered. "We won't hurt you." "Much," another voice giggled, sounding high on something. "Shut up!" hissed the third. My mind may not have been the clearest in the world, dulled by drink, cold and fatigue, but it was clear enough to realize if I didn't d something quickly, I was going to be the sixth victim of this gang. "Get up here!" a voice called out from behind me. In the darkness of the boxcar's doorway, I saw someone moving. "Come on, hurry!" There wasn't time to think or even anything to think about. I didn't know who had called out to me. For all I knew, whoever was in that boxcar could be a killer, too. But I knew instinctively that if I didn't reach the boxcar, I was a dead man. I ran for the door, faster than I thought I was capable of doing, catching an outstretched arm which hoisted me up into the car. At least there was no bludgeon awaiting me. But I still wasn't safe I realized, as I heard footsteps approaching the car rapidly. "Quick, help me get this door closed!" the man in the boxcar with me ordered. I complied at once, realizing that the two of us were no match for the gang. Closing the door and keeping it closed would determine our survival. Still shaking from fear and the cold, I managed to stay on my feet, helping him slide the heavy metal door shut to the yells and curses of the three youths below. "It won't lock, so hold on!" the man ordered. Matching his motions, I put my weight against the door. With any luck, we'd be able to hold out against them. There were three of them, each in better shape than I, but we had the floor of the boxcar to help our leverage. They would be trying to pull the door open from a poor angle. "The other door's locked," my savior told me, grunting as he pushed against an assault on the door. "If we can hold on until the train leaves, we'll be safe." But how long would that be? I wondered. And what if those guys had guns? The door was steel but I wasn't sure it was strong enough to withstand a gunshot. Suddenly the car lurched, throwing both of us to the ground. I fell to the floor, my face looking out a two-foot wide gap where either our actions or the youths had opened the door. I was looking directly into a pair of feral eyes and watched in horror as the youth's mouth broadened into a toothy grin. But the train was definitely moving. I could see the other two youths had been pushed to the ground by the sudden jerk of the train. The grin suddenly disappeared as the would-be killer realized the only way he could be sure of getting me was to face whoever was in the dark car with me - by himself. "Son of a bitch!" he growled, his moment for choosing to jump on the car suddenly passing. I grunted in relief, suddenly too exhausted to get up from the floor. "That was a close one!" my unexpected traveling companion said from the darkness. I could hear the sound of a zipper come from the same direction. He had a bag, I realized with envy. My own bag and all of my possessions - what few I had - had been stolen a couple of days before while I was... well, okay, while I was sleeping it off. Suddenly the interior of the car burst into a yellow-orange light, faint at the center of the car but bright on the floor where my companion sat. At first, I thought he had started a fire. That's what most of us on the road would have done. Instead it must have been some sort of new device - something really high tech - for it was small and circular, no more than the size of a golf ball. It gave off a nearly blinding yellow light, and even from a distance, I could feel its heat. The man grinned, unusually white teeth for one of our ilk showing surrounded by a beard of dark brown that was just beginning to turn gray. His clothing was old and road-worn as would befit a knight of the road, but he seemed remarkably hale and hearty for someone reduced to our circumstances. He scooted away from the fire, wincing a little and holding his stomach. Perhaps he wasn't as healthy as I had first thought. "Come and join me, Bob," he offered, motioning to a spot next to his device. My blood froze in spite of the growing warmth. "How did you know my name?" I demanded, stiffening defensively. "That's not really important, is it?" the man grinned again. "What? Do you think I'm a wizard or something?" "I didn't tell you my name," I argued, not moving. "Well, maybe you did and maybe you didn't," he allowed. "But that is your name, isn't it? Shall I call you Bob?" I didn't bother to answer. "And what should I call you?" He shrugged. "Call me whatever you like. Or better yet, just call me Pro. That's what most people call me these days." It wasn't unusual for those of us on the road to come up with a short nickname. Mine was Wall - short for my last name. No one had called me Bob in years. Pro, of course, had to be short for professional - but professional what? Men on the road found strange and often seamy ways of making a living. I wasn't sure I wanted to know how he cam up with the name Pro. "So, are you going to sit?" Warily I sat down beside him. My body involuntarily relaxed in the warmth the object gave off. I sat opposite Pro, but not directly across from his device. I wanted to be able to see his hands and not be blinded by the light. It was then I noticed that the source of the heat and light seemed to actually be floating a couple of inches above the floor. I reached out for it in curiosity. "Better not touch it," Pro advised calmly. "It's hot." "What is it?" I asked. I knew in my position that I didn't always have the resources to keep up on every new invention, but surely something as useful as Pro's device would have been the talk of the nation. "Just a gadget," he replied, telling me nothing. "Nothing special." "Yeah, right." "Here." I had been so drawn to the object that I hadn't noticed Pro had reached back into his bag. Looking up, I noticed a bottle of amber liquid in his outstretched hand. The label was black and white - Jack Daniel's, I realized. "You look like a man who could use a drink," he suggested, motioning for me to take the bottle from his hand. Gratefully I did so. But at the last minute, caution stayed my shaking hand before I could raise the bottle to my lips. Pro was being very generous with something most people like me didn't get to enjoy very often. Why was he being so decent to me? Was there something in the whiskey? "Suspicious?" I looked at him. His clear eyes were laughing at me. He had to know, though, that suspicion was what kept men like him and me alive. Still, I asked myself, what did he have to gain by slipping me a mickey? The only things I owned I was wearing, and they weren't worth robbing me. Besides, the whiskey looked so good... I tried to sip it; honest I did. But I had been without a drink for so long, I ended up taking a big swig from the bottle. It burned as it went down my throat, but it felt so good. I relished the near-pain from the fire as the liquor washed its way down to my stomach. "Good, isn't it?" Pro asked. I nodded. "The best." Pro leaned back on his side, grinning at me. "Now I've got to be honest with you. There is something in the whiskey, but don't worry - it won't knock you out. I just wanted to give you something to calm you down so you'd listen to my story." "All right." Whatever was in the whiskey had already taken effect. I had never felt like that before. I was awake and alert in spite of the whiskey, but I was calm. I trusted Pro. I would have trusted him enough to jump off the train if he'd asked me to. Fortunately, he didn't. "Listen to that," he commanded. When he saw my look of confusion, he explained. "I'm talking about the sound of the train's wheels on the rails. Most rails are smooth now - they're welded together and come in much longer sections than they used to. Hear that sound?" He was referring to the more insistent clickety-clack of the wheels on the track. It had become louder and more frequent, its sound amplified in the crisp winter air. "It means this train is off the main line and moved onto old, abandoned rails." "But why would it do that?" I asked, surprising myself with how calm I was. It was as if I had become a detached observer in my own body. "Because it has just one item to deliver tonight, Bob - you." "Me?" He nodded. "That's right. Every car on this train is empty tonight except this one. Don't worry, though. The railroad won't lose money. The Rock Island went out of business in the early eighties. This whole train is sort of a past memory, diverted for tonight. In fact, it's taking you someplace where the Rock Island didn't even have track." Maybe I should have been just a little frightened, but the whiskey had chased away any fears. Just to be sure, I took another drink - a smaller one this time. "But who would want me?" I laughed. "I'm a nobody." "And you're wise to realize that," Pro told me. "But sometimes, even nobodies have their uses. Some very powerful...people think you're useful." In a strange sort of way, that made me feel good. It had been a long time since anyone had said something like that to me. "We think you're useful, too," he added. "We?" I looked around the car, half expecting someone else to emerge from the shadows. No one did. "A group I'm associated with," he replied nonchalantly. "You needn't concern yourself with them. Just trust me when I tell you that they're working for a just cause." Of course I trusted him, I thought, taking another sip of the fine whiskey. I trusted Pro with my life because...well, just because. "You're being taken to a town called Ovid," Pro explained. "It's in Oklahoma. I know, don't say it; you've never heard of it. Well, that's not surprising because you see Ovid is run by a group of gods from classical mythology. You remember the ones I mean - Jupiter, Mars, Venus..." I couldn't help it; I broke out laughing. "Get real, Pro. Even I know there's no such thing as those gods." Not even the power of the drugs in the whiskey was enough to make me buy into that story. "Didn't I tell you to trust me?" "Yes, but - " "Then trust me on this point, Bob. You'll have plenty of reason to believe me once you get there," he assured me. "Once that happens, you'll have to believe me when I say that I'm the only one who can save you from the...beings who run Ovid - just like I was the one to save you tonight." I didn't want to believe him. The whole story was just too weird. But on the other hand, there was the oddness about this train. Then there was Pro's strange fire. As for the drugs in the whiskey, I suppose any number of people might have access to those, but I had never known such drugs to act so quickly or completely. And lastly, there was the fact that Pro had rescued me. If it hadn't been for him, I might have been the next victim of that gang. "What do you want of me?" I asked. Pro shrugged. "In a word - information. We have reason to believe you'll be in a position to help us. Once you've done so, we'll help you." "What if I don't need your help?" Pro grinned. "You will; trust me on that." So I did. "Now it's time I was leaving," he announced, rising to his feet. The strange little fiery ball of light rose with him until it was chest high on him. "Don't worry about the lack of heat in the car after I go, Bob. It should stay warm in here for at least three hours and by then it will be dawn. Now I think you should get some sleep." As the word died on his lips, I felt my eyes close and a contented sleep fell over me before I could think of another thing. I'm not sure what woke me. Maybe it was the sound of a truck shifting gears. Or it might have been the sound of birds in a nearby tree. Maybe it was the sound of laughing children on their way to school. Whatever it was, I heard all three of those sounds as I slowly returned to consciousness. My back hurt, the result of sleeping on the rough wood floor of the boxcar. At least I had slept warm, though, the heat remaining long after Pro... Pro? Where was Pro? I rose up, needing a drink to get the taste of last night's whiskey out of my mouth. Where was Pro? He must have the bottle. I looked around and saw no sign of him. He was an odd guy, but I kind of liked him. Talking with him had helped to pass the time. What had we talked about? Nothing consequential, I supposed. We must have talked about where we were from. I must have talked to him about being raised in Chicago and maybe I even bragged to him that I had even gone to college for a while. He had probably told me where he was from but I didn't remember. Come to think of it, I didn't remember much of anything from the night before, except sharing that bottle after Pro had helped me escape that gang. Maybe I had had more to drink than I though I had. All I could remember was that Pro was the right sort of guy - the sort of guy you trusted. I stretched feeling remarkably refreshed considering that I had spent the night sleeping on the hard floor of the boxcar. Maybe it was the whiskey, or maybe it was just that somehow, the railcar was warmer than it should have been. I seemed to remember that Pro had started a fire... Funny, there wasn't any residue from the fire. It must have been a portable heater of some sort. Now there was something odd about that heater, but what was it? I asked myself. Shrugging and letting my questions drift to the subbasement of my mind I got to my feet. My stomach growled loudly, reminding me that I hadn't eaten since before I had made my way down to the railroad yard. I had a couple of dollars in my pocket in change - well, a dollar eighty to be exact. Maybe it would be enough to get something to fill me up at some trackside eatery. I didn't require much in the way of food. Most people like me with a fondness for drink really didn't eat much. Plus being on the road like I was meant that eating irregularly was pretty normal, and you got used to the constant pangs in your gut. Bright sunshine spilled in the doorway of the boxcar, and a slight breeze promised brisk but not cold air. The bare tree limbs told me that wherever I was it was still winter, but the weather promised to be milder than the bitter cold of Kansas City. My shabby coat would be sufficient for the weather outside. Still, just to be sure, I pulled the coat tightly around me before I jumped from the car. A strange sight greeted me. I was expecting to be in a large town, someplace like Tulsa or Oklahoma City by now. Instead I was at the south end of the business district of some little town. I looked around to see if the train had just come to an intermittent stop and got my next surprise - there was no train. Oh, the box car was there, emblazoned with the Rock Island logo, but the car rested on rails that went nowhere. The track began near one set of trucks and ended at the other set, making me wonder how in the name of God the car had come to be parked there. I looked all around, but I saw no sign of additional tracks anywhere. Instead, all I saw was that small town business district, bustling with typical morning activity. Then I looked back once more at the boxcar, getting still another surprise - this one the biggest yet. The boxcar was gone. I don't mean it had been moved. I would have heard it if it had been. It was just...gone, and so were the tracks under it. Here it had been, there was nothing but a grassy plot, covered with a few shrubs and the browning remains of last summer's weeds. Now I knew men in my line who drank themselves to the point that they saw things that just weren't there, but I wasn't one of them. I had always managed to avoid the DT's, and besides, I really hadn't had all that much to drink the night before. And folks who get the DT's just see things; they don't ride them hundreds of miles through the night. What the hell was happening? I suppose I only had one reasonable decision to make. Whatever had happened, I was now stuck in some little town far from where I had expected to be. Now I'd just have to make the best of it. Small towns had day jobs, too. All I needed to do was walk up that main street and look for someplace where I could trade my muscles for a few dollars. Then I'd get something to eat, something to drink, and maybe even treat myself to a pack of cheap smokes before finding the nearest railroad yard and continuing my journey further south. So I began to walk up the main street, which I quickly discovered was, in fact, called "Main Street" toward the center of activity. There were a few morning shoppers and businessmen hustling for probable appointments. The strange thing to me was that everyone seemed to be better dressed than I would have expected. Coats and ties were worn by a number of men and an unusual number of women were in skirts. It was nothing overt, but more like the stylized version of a small town one might see on television. Also odd was how prosperous the town looked. I had spent most of my life in cities, but I had visited smaller towns before. Most small towns were drying up. Farming was no longer labor intensive, so the small towns were no longer needed to service that industry. Certainly none of the small towns I had ever visited had the look of affluence Ovid did - unless they had become fashionable suburbs of nearby cities. Ovid? Now where had I heard the name of the town? I wondered. I decided I must have seen it on a sign or something as I walked up the street. Yes, that had to be the answer. But odder still were the people that I could almost see through. I realized it was probably something the booze was doing to me, but I had never noticed anything like it before. I couldn't really see through people; it was just that I sensed what was on the other side of them, as if I could see right through them. It's hard to explain and even harder to understand, I suppose. I was just beginning to look over the various businesses, deciding which ones to hit up for work when I heard the siren behind me. It wailed for only a second or two, enough to make me turn around in surprise. I hadn't even heard the police car drive up behind me and yet there it was, as if it had been there all along and simply escaped my notice. I just stood there trying to look harmless as the big cop got out of the car. I was used to the routine. It wasn't the first time I had been rousted by the cops, and I was sure it wouldn't be the last time either. People in my circumstances were never very popular with the authorities. In cities, there were so many of us that we were tolerated. In small towns, we were usually asked to leave - and not always asked nicely. I tried to stand up straight and look as dignified as I could. Fat chance. "Good morning." The cop's voice was noncommittal and as guarded as the mirrored sunglasses that covered his eyes. At least he hadn't started out with a string of derogatory profanities as some cops do. He walked toward me with an easy grace, his trim body moving effortlessly as if I were an old acquaintance rather than a potential town nuisance "Good morning, Officer..." I peered at his nametag, "...Mercer." "You're new here." It wasn't a question. "That's right," I replied as nonchalantly as I could. "Just passing through." "You'd better come with me," he told me. "Have I done something wrong?" I asked as innocently as I could manage. "Just come with me," he repeated. Although his voice was neither loud nor gruff, his tone gave notice that he was used to being obeyed. He had opened the back door of his cruiser, so with a resigned shrug I did as I was told. Just my luck. In the cities, cops have just too much to do to run in guys like me. Besides, even if they did, their superiors would chew their butts for wasting their time and generating all the paperwork it took to process us. Small towns might be that way and they might not. This Mercer guy had to either be bored or some sort of an officious pencil dick to waste his time on me. What the hell, though, I thought. A few hours in a nice warm cell and a hot meal while he wasted his time trying to see if I was wanted on any outstanding warrants and I'd be back out on the street again. It wasn't like I was in a big hurry to get anywhere. The only bad thing about jail would be that I wouldn't be able to get a drink there. I felt an uncomfortable shudder in my body at that last thought. I really needed a drink. I slid into the back of the cleanest police cruiser I had ever seen. There were no dark bloodstains and the fresh odor told me nobody had ever puked in this car. The upholstery smelled as if it had just come out of the factory. Yeah, this Mercer guy had to be an officious pencil dick. Nobody else would keep a squad car this clean. The cop said nothing to me as we made what turned out to be a pretty short drive to City Hall. That gave me time to look around at the town that was probably going to be my home for a couple of days until they got tired of feeding and housing me free and figured out how to get me out of town. It was actually a nice little town in a way. It reminded me of the town in Wisconsin where my grandparents had lived. Or at least the way it used to look. As I've already noted, little farm towns used to be prosperous, but as farming became less labor intense and people moved to the cities for better opportunities, most small towns were beginning to die. My grandparents' hometown was already showing signs of decline before they died. By now, I imagined it was a lot smaller than I remembered it. But Ovid was obviously prosperous. People were well dressed, most cars were fairly new, and there were even bustling businesses still on Main Street that hadn't been forced out of operation by the nearest Wal-Mart - assuming there was one. It looked like an updated version of Pleasantville - at least from what I remembered of that movie. I had watched it on TV someplace where I had managed to get a bottle of wine, so I didn't remember much of the movie. I just remembered it involved some little fifties town where everything was bright and pedestrian. Of course, come to think of it, I don't remember any cop in the film rousting a guy just minding his own business. Just remember, I told myself, tonight it will be cold and you'll be in a nice warm cell with a full belly. The only thing that kept me wondering about Ovid was all those damned see-through people. They were everywhere, and they acted just like everybody else. No one else seemed to notice anything odd about them, though, so I told myself it was just some effect booze was having on my eyesight. Or maybe because I hadn't eaten in a while, I was starting to hallucinate. Whatever the reason, there's no such thing as transparent people, I told myself. Officer Mercer pulled up in front a City Hall. It was actually an impressive municipal building for a small town. Again, I noted Ovid appeared to be prosperous to afford such a building. I really had expected to be taken to a cell. In fact, I was really hoping to be taken to a cell when I got a glance at an attractive black woman in a police uniform walking by. Even in pants, she was a number. I tried to picture her bringing my meals on a tray every day, maybe dressed in something short and skimpy. No such luck, though - Officer Mercer had a firm grip on my arm as he walked me down a corridor leading to what I knew would be courtrooms. He opened an impressively large oak door for me. Inside the courtroom, I could see the whole courtroom was set up just awaiting the entrance of some overweight small-town judge. My heart sank. Some half-assed local magistrate was going to try me, then suspend the sentence if I'd get out of town by whatever means he'd decided upon. There'd be no warm cell and hot meals for me tonight. More than likely, Officer Mercer would drive me a few miles out of town - just far enough that the next town down the road I would be told was closer. It's commonly known as the bum's rush and it wouldn't be the first time I had experienced it. There was also an attractive brunette seated at the defendant's table. Undoubtedly, that would be my public defender -another name for an overworked and underpaid attorney who pretends to defend the indigent so that all the proper forms of justice are satisfied. She'd be the one who pleaded for a suspended sentence if I would just leave town and let her and all of her fine well-off neighbors go back to thinking there weren't really any poor folks in the world. Shit. I guess that's just me feeling sorry for myself. I wasn't raised poor. I had come from a middle class family and had been given enough opportunities to succeed that I knew in my heart I had only myself to blame for my circumstances. Maybe I deserved to be thrown out of town. It wasn't that bad; it had happened to me before. Maybe if I was real nice to this cute little public defender, she'd arrange to let me stay overnight in the jail before they booted me out of town. That way, I'd at least get a hot meal or two. "I'm Susan Jager," the brunette said, extending her hand. I just looked at her hand for a moment. It was soft and delicate with well-shaped nails coated in a very light pink. The bracelet on her wrist was tasteful if not expensive. The reason I just looked at her hand is that I was surprised she had offered it. My own hand was dirty with black grime under the nails. The fingerless gloves I wore were no better, having dulled from their original olive color to a dingy brown. Still, she showed no sign of reluctance to take my hand eventually; I offered it at last. "Bob Wallace," I replied softly. She grinned. "I know. Look, Bob, we just have a couple of minutes before The Judge appears. I need to talk to you about your appearance." "I suppose it's a little late to change into a fresh suit," I pointed out with no little irony. "I wasn't referring to your clothes," she told me, smiling at my witticism. "I just want to make sure you don't say or do something that might get you into trouble." "I thought I was already in trouble." She shook her head. "I can tell you're not taking this very seriously. Maybe you think if you do something off the wall, The Judge will throw you into jail for a few days and the city will have to feed you and give you a warm bed." That, of course, was exactly what I had been thinking. My public defender might be a youngster fresh out of law school, I thought to myself, but something about her spoke of wisdom well beyond her tender years. "That won't happen," she went on. "You need to understand that right now. The way you conduct yourself here today will have great bearing on the rest of your life. Do you understand that?" I nodded, but I really didn't understand. She was making this sound like a trial for a major crime. Maybe this was her first case. Maybe she wasn't as sage as I thought she was. Or maybe this judge she was talking about was one of those small town justices who thought he was hot shit. If he took a dislike to me, I could find myself someplace like a county lockup. That wouldn't be as pleasant as their little jail was sure to be, and using prisoners for unpleasant labor in small towns wasn't unheard of. I decided it was best to take her advice. She must have seen something that assured her I'd behave. "Good," she said. "Now have you been drinking?" "Not this morning," I hedged. I didn't bother to add that I'd gladly do anything she told me to do for a shot of whiskey. "Okay. Then when The Judge asks you a question, just answer politely. Don't try to BS him; he's heard it all before." "Okay," I agreed. "I'll just tell him I'm on my way south and just ended up here by accident." Some accident. How could I explain that I got here on a nonexistent railroad car over tracks that weren't there anymore? Now I suppose in retrospect I should have realized there was something fishy about my whole situation. How did I end up in Ovid in the first place? And once I was there, how was it that probably the only cop car in town was right there to pick me up? Somehow, those questions just never seemed to come to my mind - until later. "All rise!" Officer Mercer's voice called out. He mumbled the usual stuff about the Municipal Court of the City of Ovid being in session while I stood there wishing I could have a drink. The Judge was impressive, much to my surprise. Rather than the fat, pompous rube I had expected, he looked polished enough to be a big-time judge with his neatly trimmed beard and gold-rimmed glasses. He carried himself like he owned the world, and his robe flowed like a royal cape. It made me feel just a little bit important that such an impressive man would spend his time trying to figure out the best way to run me out of town. "The first case is the City of Ovid versus Robert James Wallace on a charge of vagrancy," he intoned, his voice deep and commanding. But how had he known my middle name? I didn't recall giving it to the cop. "Your Honor," my attorney began, "I would like to point out that my client is not in the best condition. I don't think he's eaten in some time." That was true, I realized, and my stomach let out a little growl in confirmation. "Yes, Ms. Jager," The Judge agreed. "But it should be pointed out that his physical condition is much of his own making." "According to the file, you bear some responsibility for his condition, Your Honor," she returned confidently. I just wondered what she was talking about. What file? "That is somewhat true and why I am willing to be somewhat lenient," The Judge replied. "Were that not so, I would argue that he had surrendered his humanity. I am willing to accept a plea of guilty with the assurance that the sentence will be both lenient and appropriate." My attorney looked at me. This was a little over my head, so I just nodded in response. "My client is willing to plead guilty with those assurances, Your Honor." "Step forward, Mr. Wallace," The Judge commanded. When I had done so, he began, "Mr. Wallace, few things disturb me more than to see a man throw away a promising future by developing a dependence upon drugs or alcohol. I'm going to put you in what might be called 'supervised probation' for a few years. Try to do a better job with yourself this time." I hadn't the foggiest notion what he was talking about. Probation? What did he mean by that? By sundown, I'd probably be over in the next county, never to cross the Ovid city limits again. But if I had been confused by what he had already said, I was completely lost when he spoke again. His words sounded foreign, but not a language I could readily identify. It's hard for me to describe what happened next. In retrospect, I now realize that my mind had been long dulled by the effects of alcohol, so when The Judge worked his magic on me, I simply became more befuddled than usual. My consciousness seemed to be floating in a warm liquid, ebbing and flowing with some strange mental tide. I felt almost as if facts and feelings were being poured into my mind while my identity, partially obscured from years of drinking, fought valiantly to survive this onslaught. What made the attack all the more terrible was that the facts entering my mind seemed to be coming from two sources. One source, I knew, was the Judge. Whatever he was chanting was opening my mind to new thoughts and new feelings. But the other source was coming from somewhere else. It was information. I suddenly remembered everything Pro had told me - the fantastic story of a town controlled by the gods of classical mythology. I had scoffed at the story when he told it to me. I wasn't scoffing now. There were other fact flowing into my mind as well, but they were moving so fast I couldn't quite capture them in my consciousness. I knew it was nothing Pro had discussed with me, but I also sensed they were coming from him nonetheless. I couldn't dwell on them more. I had more immediate problems to deal with. While my mind was being assaulted with impossible thoughts, I also sensed something happening to my body. It was tingling and somehow shifting, as if the rigid structure of my body had suddenly been reduced to a mound of quivering gelatin. The sensation wasn't unpleasant exactly. It as something like the shudder one gets after a long stretch, only extended to every part of my body. My head began to clear and I felt a hand gripping my arm. I hadn't realized it, but I had been about to fall down in a faint. I looked around to see Officer Mercer. He seemed a little taller than before - more imposing. But I was glad for his support. "Take the defendant to the high school," The Judge was telling him. "The changes should be complete by the time you get there." High school? Changes? What was he talking about? My mind was still as fuzzy as it would have been if I had downed a quart of wine. Why was I being taken to the high school? Did they have some program to show derelicts to the students with a warning of study hard or this could happen to you? I giggled at the thought. Yes, giggled. I had spent a lot of years swimming in a lot of bottles, but even with my mind fogged I was reasonably certain I had never giggled in my life. My mind although starting to clear was still in a fog, I found myself back in the back seat of Officer Mercer's police car once more. At least the back seat was roomy - much roomier than I had remembered it before. I carefully smoothed out my skirt and... and... Skirt? There was nothing terribly interesting about my skirt. It was black - the same color as my tights. It came down nearly to my knees - or the knees I now had, because they certainly didn't look like the knees I remembered having before - not that I looked at my knees all that often. Even in my dumbfounded state, I soon realized I was looking at the lower half of a female body. I reached out a hand to touch my skirt, praying that it was only an illusion. That was when I got the next shock. Not only was my hand small and slim, but as I watched, it darkened, the back of my hand becoming the color of coffee laced with a dash of cream. The nails were growing longer, then squaring off and turning a deep, glossy red. "What's happening to me?" I cried out, gasping as my voice cracked, then rose an octave in the middle of my question. Officer Mercer continued to drive as if he hadn't even heard me. Gods - gods ran Ovid; gods who had the power to control us, shape us, destroy us. The conversation with Pro had significant meaning now. My mind might have been confused and overloaded, but I had no doubt as to what was being done to me. I was being changed into a woman. Worse yet - I was being changed into a black woman! My life on the road had become a day-to-day struggle for survival, but it was a life of my own making. I wasn't a woman. I wasn't black. I was a man - a white man - and I had no desire to be anything else, even if the black woman I was becoming was Vanessa Williams. "Take me back to The Judge!" I screamed in my new, higher voice. "Take me back. I don't want to be a woman! I don't... want..." My voice broke down into a sob. I was crying hysterically as my chest rose and fell in gasps. I cried all the harder as I saw that with each exhale, my chest still pushed out further willing the dark red sweater I hadn't been wearing moments before with two substantial breasts. "Oh my God!" I wailed. Perhaps I should have said "gods." I leaned against the door of the car, helpless as hair fell over my ears and down the back of my neck. There was a sudden tiny pinprick in my ear lobes - once, then twice in each lobe, and I could feel something small swinging back and forth from each new hole. My face felt different - not just in shape, but I could feel something slick on my lips. I touched them with my tongue, rewarded with a slightly sweet taste. I gathered my coat - my dark faux fur coat that hadn't been there before - tightly against my breasts, as if by squeezing them, I could make them go away. Then as abruptly as it had begun, the tingling stopped and new sensations flooded my transformed body. I could feel a bra harnessing my breasts. I could feel the gentle constriction of the black tights on my legs. I could feel the gentle sway of my long tresses as I shook my head back and forth in disbelief. I could feel...nothing between my legs. "Oh my God!" I cried again as Officer Mercer brought the car to a halt. Through building tears, I looked out at where we had stopped. We were in front of a large, one-story building made of tan brick. There was a flag fling in front next to a large wooden sign that proclaimed in black letters over a gold background, "Ovid High School." In smaller script, the black letters declared, "Home of the Fighting Eagles!" "Do you want me to go in with you?" Officer Mercer asked, speaking to me for the first time since my transformation had begun. There was no compassion in his voice, but no malice either. "Go? Go where?" I managed to choke out. "School, Marsha," he replied as if that had always been my name as he got out of the car and opened my door. "You can't miss school now, can you?" Maybe I should have yelled, screamed and kicked my legs, but I did none of those things. Instead I reached out with an instinct which almost caused me to shudder and picked up the black leather purse which had suddenly appeared at my side. I wasn't even sure how I had known it was there. I demurely slid from the seat, making sure my skirt didn't hike up and balanced on the small block heels that I suddenly realized I was wearing. They weren't very high - only an inch or so I determined later, and somehow, my body knew how to perch on them and even walk in them without stumbling. Why was I so cooperative? The answer was simple - I had come to believe what Pro had told me. This town was run by gods. I could think of no other description for them. And I had no doubt that this Officer Mercer was one of them. Police would have been bad enough to deal with, but gods were even less likely to tolerate disobedience. If they could turn me into a little black high school girl, what could they do to me if they got angry? That wasn't a pleasant thought and I chose not to test it. "You're in Miss Samson's civics class right now," Officer Mercer told me as we entered the school. I felt almost a strange feeling of d?j? vu as I smelled the odor of the cleaning compound every school seemed to use and heard the sound of students in the classrooms excitedly talking before the final bell rang. A few students were hurrying into the classrooms. It was a reminder of my own high school days which I had nearly forgotten. "Where do I go?" I asked, feeling the strange weight of breasts and wondering at the swinging movement of my hips. It all seemed so strange and yet somehow natural. "First door on your right," he answered, pointing to an open door. I looked back in fear as he waited until I had entered the classroom. He actually managed to give me what might have passed for a smile. "You'll be fine," he told me. "Just relax and let it happen." Relax? I was in a strange body in a strange place and all I knew was that somehow I had been changed into a young black girl named Marsha and I was supposed to relax? Gulping, I turned and entered the classroom. I felt as if I had just stepped over a cliff. "Marsha honey!" I looked around the mostly full classroom, trying to avoid what appeared to be appreciative stares from some of the boys as I searched for the source of the greeting. Finally I spotted her. She was grinning at me from a seat near the window. She was a very attractive black girl, dressed much as I was. She was also transparent. There was an empty seat next to her, and I could tell she expected me to sit there. I supposed it was actually my - Marsha's - seat, so I made my way to it, smiling and greeting several other students along the way. No one seemed to think there was anything odd about my being in the classroom. It was as if they had known me forever and expected me to be there. "Girl, where is your notebook?" the black girl asked me as I plopped down quite unladylike in the seat. "Notebook?" "Here, take one of mine." She thrust a florescent pink notebook in front of me along with a matching pen. "You know how Miss Samson is about expecting us to take notes." "Huh?" She frowned at me. "Girl, you don't sound right. Are you on your period or something?" Period! Jesus H! I was a woman. I could actually have those... those... things now. Shit! Shit! Shit! "All right class," a woman's voice called out from the doorway. I looked up to see a fiftyish woman walking primly to the front of the class. She wore a dress which made her look ten years older, especially with her gray hair pulled into a tight bun. This had to be Miss Samson, I thought. It was, and class began with no nonsense, which I came to understand was Miss Sampson's style. It was a surreal experience for me. There I was, sitting attentively listening to this middle-aged woman droning on and on about the relationship of the states to the Federal government. I was back in high school for God's sakes. And to make even stranger, I was now a girl - a black girl no less. This just couldn't be happening, gods or no gods. Now one thing I'd like to make clear; I never had anything against blacks. I wasn't too nuts about Mexicans because I saw them as taking work away from good Americans like me, but I had known a lot of blacks on the road. I just never, ever in my wildest dreams expected to be one of them. Looking down at my dark skin was almost as big a shock as looking at the breasts I now sported. "You're new here, aren't you?" a boy's whispered voice came from behind me. "How did you know?" I whispered back, frightened that I had somehow done something wrong to give myself away. "I'll tell you after class," he replied softly, and I could sense him leaning back in his seat to a peevish glare from Miss Samson. I wanted to take a look at my Samaritan but I didn't dare turn around. Miss Samson was watching me like a hawk, and I certainly didn't want to get detention. It was bad enough being turned into a little black high school girl without the embarrassment of having to stay after school as well. I just wanted to meld into the crowd until I could figure out what had happened and why and maybe do something about it. At last, the class bell sounded and I was able to turn around. Grinning at me was a muscular and visually solid boy in a black and gold letter jacket. He was, I supposed, handsome, and it wasn't without some concern that I realized I was suddenly much more aware of boys' looks than I had ever been before. His hair was short and brown with just a little bit of curl to it. He was also white, and noting that made me all the more aware that I was not. When everyone else was out of earshot, he said softly, "Welcome to Ovid." "How...how do you know I just got here?" I asked. "Marsha Henry used to be a shade," he explained. When he saw the confusion on my face, he added, "I'm talking about the people you can see through. We call them shades here. But be careful. The shades don't know they aren't real, and neither do most of the other people around here." I was very relieved to have someone who knew the ropes and was obviously willing to help me. As we both rose to leave the classroom, I asked, "What do I do now? Where do I go?" "We have the same afternoon class schedule," he told me. "Just stick with me. But we'd better go by your locker and get your books. Spanish class is next and you'll need your book. Miss... or rather Senora Sanchez doesn't like it when we forget to bring our Spanish books to class." "But I don't know my locker number!" I nearly cried from frustration. "Look in your purse," he suggested. "If you're like most girls, you probably have it written down somewhere." He was right. It only took me a moment to find a little notebook inside my purse, and folded inside it was my class schedule and my locker combination and number. "Is it like this for everyone?" I asked, my frustration showing. "Does everyone have to feel their way around in the dark trying to figure out what we're supposed to be doing?" "Pretty much," he laughed, but I felt as if he was not laughing at me. "By the way, I'm Pete Conway." "I'm..." Sticking out my hand, I realized my old name meant nothing now. "You're Marsha Henry," he reminded me, not offering his own hand. I was afraid that meant he just didn't want to shake hands with a black girl, but he quickly explained, "It would look a little funny for us to be shaking hands since I've supposedly known you since elementary school." "Oh, yeah," I agreed, withdrawing my hand before anyone noticed. Suddenly the bell rang. "Shit!" Pete exclaimed. "Come on; we've only got a minute to get to class." We barely made it to class on time. Fortunately Pete nodded to me to sit next to him toward the front of the classroom in what was apparently my assigned seat just before the final bell rang. The youngish woman with long wavy hair which spilled in soft, black curls over her shoulders glared at Pete and me as we found our seats. I guess she didn't like it when students were almost late to class either. Now I took Spanish many years ago when I was in high school, and I was pretty good at it. I even managed to use a little of it on the road. But there was no way I should have been able to keep up in a Spanish class - yet I did. It seemed if I just let myself go and floated along, I was able to understand what was being said in class. I even managed to answer a couple of questions. I began to realize when basking in the teacher's smiles at my answers that I must be a fairly good Spanish student. I began to wonder if it worked for other things as well. Maybe I could let myself go like that and... what? Do my hair and makeup? How could I even think about that? Maybe if I let myself go what would really happen is that I would lose myself. Maybe Bob Wallace would disappear mentally as well as physically and only Marsha Henry would be left. I suppose no one ever thinks much about it, but no matter how bad a person's life might be, I can't think of too many folks who would be willing to completely lose their sense of being and become someone else. I might have had a little drinking problem, and life might not have been too sweet for me, but I didn't want to forget I was ever Bob Wallace. The funny thing is I sort of sensed that a lot of people in Ovid had forgotten who they had been. Either that or they were mostly a terrific troupe of actors. Everyone in the classroom - solid or not - acted as if he or she had been who they were now for their entire lives. And none of the transparent people seemed to notice there was anything wrong with being sort of transparent, and none of the solid students let on that they saw anything odd. Even Senora Sanchez was transparent, but the longer I listened to her in class, the more I found myself just thinking of her as just another person. There was a subtlety to Ovid. I don't know how many changed people noticed it, but I did. Maybe it was because my mind was truly clear for the first time in years. It was as if a deaf person suddenly could hear sounds. Every little sound would be something to be savored, and I was doing a lot of savoring. For one thing, as I sat there in class, I wondered why my stomach wasn't growling. After all, I hadn't eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours. Correction, I realized suddenly. Bob Wallace hadn't eaten in a day. Marsha Henry had probably eaten a bland but filling lunch in the high school cafeteria. My flat little stomach felt as if it had been filled right on schedule. Well, at least I hadn't been wrong about one thing. Getting picked up by the police had at least meant a warm meal for me. I even managed to meet some of my other classmates that afternoon. Of course, they didn't know I was meeting them for the first time. One of them was Yolanda Montgomery. She was the black girl who sat next to me in civics and had a locker next to mine as it turned out. Even though she was a...what had Pete called them? Oh yes, a shade. Even though Yolanda was a shade, I found when she squeezed my arm in a friendly embrace that she felt as solid as anyone would. Of the others I met, I liked two of them instantly. Trish Yamamoto and Jennifer Tilton were both cheerleaders, but they were not stereotypes of that breed. Both were real and both were pretty enough to be cheerleaders, but both were obviously very bright as well. When Pete and I nearly bumped into them after the last class of the day, they were engrossed in a paper they were writing for a physics class. "Wait!" the Oriental girl said when she saw Pete and me. "Let's ask Marsha. She's great at physics." I was? Then she looked at me closely. "Oops!" she chuckled. "She just noticed you're real now," Pete whispered to me. I found as I was introduced to the girls that everyone had become much more circumspect, speaking as if we had all known each other forever. Even the introductions were careful, not sounding like introductions at all but rather like greetings among old friends. Trish had obviously noted that there was something different about me. I wondered if the other girl - Jennifer - wasn't in on what had happened to us. Pete explained to me later how only two people could talk knowingly about Ovid. I discovered that Trish and Jennifer were as self aware as Pete and I were, but in a group, we could only chat like normal high school students. "By the way, Pete," Jennifer said conspiratorially, "Carole Sue is looking for you." Pete groaned while Trish and Jennifer laughed. "Yeah," Trish added. "She wants you to wait for her after cheerleader practice tonight." "Uh...don't tell her you saw me, okay?" Pete asked, his cheeks turning red. "Don't worry," Jennifer assured him with a chuckle and a chummy squeeze of his arm. "We won't." "Oh I don't know," Trish teased. "Shouldn't we cheerleaders all stick together? I mean, Carole Sue is one of us now." She struck a mocking cheerleader pose. "Don't remind me," Jennifer grinned, shaking her head. "Besides, she's only on the squad because Dana Porter sprained her leg so badly. She'll have to try out for next year." Trish and Jennifer waved goodbye to us, but as they walked away, I heard Jennifer say, "Let's just hope Carole Sue sprains her leg before the tryouts." When they had left and a number of the students had already left the building, I asked, "What was all that about?" "Carole