Dee Saves the ProgramChapter 15
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Dee Saves The ProgramChapter 14 free porn video
Maria treated Bessie and the area around her like a crime scene -- short of calling the lab in -- before we got her to the bike shop. Then she took me home and I went from her comforting professional care straight into Mom's warmly welcoming arms. Never was I so glad that my mom is my Mom, with a capital "M." If it had been Missy's bike, her mom would have said, "Oh, it's only a bike. Do you think we need new curtains in this room?"
Missy's dad would have said, "Don't cry, sweetie, the stock market is up. I'll buy you a new one tomorrow" and gone back to the evening news.
But my Mom knew what Bessie meant to me and, thank God, Elaine was smart enough to take her cues from Mom, or maybe Mom had clued her in. Whatever, they took me into their bed, and held me between them while I cried some more, and then held me when I had nightmares about what it must have been like for Bessie, chained and helpless, while thugs slashed her tires, and her seat, kicked the spokes out of her wheels and jumped on the rims, even bending the front fork, leaving her twisted and broken.
The tears were gone by morning, but even Mom's French toast with lots of butter and warm maple syrup stuck in my craw. I was mad and vowing that when I found out who'd done it the bastards were going to suffer the way Bessie had.
Mom knows me. After extracting a promise that I wouldn't do anything stupid and that I'd call her before I did she gave up trying to get me to stay home. Instead she gave me a ride to school and our hug was longer and tighter than ever. Finally I pried myself loose and got out of the car, my feelings under lock and key as I walked up to the main entrance, my head held high, fists clenched.
The crowd on the front steps, there to watch the current crop of NiSers strip for their last school day in The Program, parted like the Red Sea. Whether they meant to or not, the escorting seniors formed an honor guard for me to walk through. All they needed were swords crossed over my head. Obviously word had already gotten around. Everyone knew what had happened, and where and when. By noon everyone in school would know the who.
The only question in my mind was how I'd make them pay when I found out. Up until now this had been just me trying to protect The Program from some unknown oppponents. With the attack on Bessie this had suddenly become very personal.
My closest friends -- Missy, the Lunch Bunch and Matt and Heather -- greeted me at my locker. They were brave. Everyone else avoided me like I was radioactive.
I asked them for their help. By lunchtime -- the end of the day at the latest -- I'd know who'd done it. But I insisted they leave the rest up to me, rather than get in trouble themselves.
A strong hand suddenly gripped my shoulder, but knowing whose it was, I ignored it, finishing what I had to say.
My shoulder got a hard squeeze. "My office. Now."
"Yes'm." There was no arguing with that tone or that grip. Mrs. Devers's forehand is legend on the tennis court. I followed her through the halls, chin up, everyone's eyes following me, the crowd giving me wide birth. I couldn't help wondering which of them was the one, or one of the gang that had done it. I kept alert to limps, contusions or bruises on lower extremities. Okay, Bessie was only a bike, but I liked to think she had somehow fought back. Maybe one of the spokes had punctured a foot or something. Anything!
My plans for summary revenge went awry at the sight of Ms. Andrews in the vice principal's office. Not that I wasn't glad to see her, but my counselor knew me even better than Mrs. Devers did. If Devers hadn't already read my mind Ms. Andrews would have spelled it out for her. She gave me a hug, but carefully backed off when she realized how stiff I was. Then I felt bad, because her sympathy was genuine, so I returned the hug. There was nothing artificial about this woman, and ninety-nine percent of her is heart. She gave me an extra warm squeeze.
"How's Bessie?"
Just the question stung, so I delivered my carefully rehearsed attempt at a light-hearted answer. "Bessie is in intensive care, resting quietly. She's at the top of the transplant list. The doctors at Wheelin' 'n' Dealin' say it'll take time to come up with some of the parts, since she's no longer young and they have to find an alloy match. A rear wheel will be hard. The front's easier. Locating a new front fork may be the hardest thing, but they assure me that eventually they'll have her as good as new -- or maybe that should be old."
I know -- weak joke. It bombed with my audience, but I rode it out to the bitter end. I hoped if bicycles had a soul Bessie's was in the frame, because once she was whole again she'd be close to being like George Washington's hatchet, looking so good after two hundred years, with two new blades and three new handles.
Wheelin' 'n' Dealin' had offered me a used replacement, at half what it would cost to repair Bessie, but I told 'em "NO!" knowing it wouldn't be the same. I promised my help rebuilding her and that I'd somehow pay whatever it cost.
"They tell me I was lucky whoever did it didn't have tools or more time or it could have been worse. They could have hitched chains to her and used a car to tear her apart. With bolt cutters they could have simply cut the chain and stolen her and had her cut up and melted down as scrap before I had a chance to find her."
Just the thought of that made my voice break.
Mrs. Devers shook her head. "They left her on purpose. You know as well as I do they wanted to send you a message."
"But wouldn't just slashing her tires and seat and been enough?" I clamped down on my feelings before I turned into a human fountain again. "Why'd they have to stomp on her! She was chained and helpless!"
Mrs. Devers sighed. I think for the first time since I'd known her she wasn't able to find words. Then I realized she was as upset as I was, and it was because of me, so stiffened my resolve by thinking of what I'd do to the perps when I caught up with 'em.
"I'll be okay."
Yeah. I lied, and we all knew it. I was disgusted by how low the human race can sink. All this time I'd been playing at being an adult, chairing that committee and everything and this threatened to crack me wide open. I knew if I broke down now everyone would see the scared little girl behind the curtain and that made me only tougher.
What was it someone said? That which does not kill us only makes us stronger.
Mrs. Devers handed me a piece of paper. "Take the day off."
I took it, looked at it, trying to make sense of it.
Permission to leave school.
A get-out-of-jail-free card that any kid would have given her right arm to have.
"No."
She sighed. "That's not permission, it is an order. Call it a suspension if you must, though it won't go on your record. It's not that I'm unsympathetic, Dee, but I don't want this turning into something any uglier than it already is, and I don't want you getting into serious trouble. I'll see you Monday, and if you still have that homicidal glint in your eye I will send you home again. Ms. Andrews, get her out of here. Use a tranquilizer dart if you have to!"
Ms. Andrews urged me up out of the chair. "You and I have an appointment on the archery range. You've got some issues to work through." Her tone sounded like she was addressing someone not of sound mind. Which she was, come to think of it.
"But Frau Blucher..." I was grasping at straws, but I really did have an oral report to deliver that afternoon, in German, no less. Die gute Frrrrau zeemed to like my ahx-tscent.
Mrs. Devers was not interested in negotiating. "I'll talk with Frau Blucher. Go! Take her out the back way."
Knowing I was beaten I was surprised to feel some of the tension draining out of me. I'd been braced for a fight but now she'd taken that away from me. "Will the range be open this early?"
"I made a call," Ms. Andrews answered. "They like me there."
"We send them so much business there's talk of them sponsoring a school archery team," Mrs. Devers added.
"If you do don't you dare make me captain," I warned her.
"Don't worry. It won't happen. Our weapons policy bans bows and arrows," Mrs. Devers assured me as I headed for the door. "I'll see you Monday."
"Yes'm."
Ms. Andrews led me out the teachers' entrance, away from the crowds, which was a relief. I was in no mood to face -- depending on whose side they were on -- either sympathy or gloating.
The archery range is in the Fun Park, along with a driving range, miniature golf, skateboarding ramps, a go-kart track and a paint-ball course. I had yet to try that, but not this day, since it requires opponents. Not that I wouldn't enjoy working over some as yet undetermined miscreants.
The range itself is basically a fenced off field with a shack for the attendant and supplies. Stands to hold bows on when they're not in use mark the firing line, while supports for targets are set at various ranges. For hunters there are lifelike foam mockups of things like deer and turkeys. This day I might have liked a few human silhouettes, but settled for a traditional paper target with its black, blue, red and yellow concentric rings, with the little black bull's-eye in the middle.
Unlike swimming, where my mind can wander, when I'm launching sharp projectiles at a target I have to both concentrate and relax, a combination it takes me time to assemble, given the mood I'm usually in. When I first start I'm a threat to everything in front of me, from low-flying planes to gophers under the grass. It doesn't really matter where the shots end up since each arrow carries some of the bad feelings down range where they're buried, usually in the grass at first. However, it's more satisfying when, as I cool down, they wind up in the target with a satisfying THWOCK!
It is all very violent.
It is all very Zen.
Of course Ms. Andrews didn't bat an eye when I began to take my clothes off. She knows I like the sensation of being naked in the open air. I like to get down to the raw basics, just me versus the world. Once I was in nothing but skin I did a few stretching exercises, trying to loosen myself up before I slung the quiver of arrows across my back and picked up my bow.
And that's it. It's just me, the bow, and the arrows. No fancy equipment. My bow is a simple recurve, forty-pound pull, which is heavy for the average girl, which I am not. There's no arrow rest on it, the first knuckle of my bow hand -- the left -- will do. No special release, just the tips of the first two fingers of my right hand to draw the string back. No sight. I don't wear an arm guard or gloves or even finger tabs. True to my masochistic nature, I want it to hurt.
Ms. Andrews says it is cathartic.
This early I was alone on the range, and given the circumstances wilder than usual. But no-harm no-fowl -- pun intended -- the pigeon overflying the target at an inopportune moment only suffered the loss of his dignity and some tail feathers. Two of the arrows had actually hit the target by the time I emptied my quiver, though nowhere near even the outer black ring.
When I reached for another arrow and found nothing but air I didn't even think. Since I was still the only archer there wasn't the usual cease fire called. Placing the bow on its stand I went to retrieve my ammunition. The first time always involves a search through the grass, which is why I use bright orange arrows with day-glow fletching.
Back on the line I picked up my bow and began again. The arrows began finding the target more regularly, then the pattern they formed began to contract closer to the bull's-eye. I was barely aware of Ms. Andrews sitting behind me, watching silently as I went through the routine, time after time after time after time -- shooting, retrieving, shooting again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Inside of two rounds I was at the point where nothing existed but me, the bow, the arrows, the target. Rather than take the time to replace the target I shot at it until it was in shreds, the center of it a lace doily. I discarded three arrows that got de-feathered in the barrage, plus two more because of a Robin Hood shot -- one arrow splitting another right down the middle.
Ms. Andrews saved that to hang on the wall of her office. I take no credit. It wasn't in the bull's-eye, and it's just a matter of the odds getting even over time.
Ms. Andrews got replacements from Eddie, the attendant.
I shot until my shoulders burned and my back ached. I shot until at last I couldn't raise the bow one more time and was blinking away sweat and maybe some tears. At that point Ms. Andrews took the bow and quiver from me and walked me back to sit on the bench. After pressing an opened bottle of cold water into my aching and blistered bow hand she dug into her shoulder bag. As she fussed over me I sipped water, still mentally out there on the firing line, my mind running like a hamster in an exercise wheel.
Finally she stirred me out of my trance. "Come on, let's walk, and get some lunch."
"It's that late?"
"That's how long it took for you to do this," she explained, raising my right hand.
I gazed dumbly at the bandages on the fingers I drew with and the pain messages suddenly got through. I'd never done that before! "I'm sorry."
She smeared some salve on the inside of my left forearm where the bowstring had rubbed it nearly raw. "What for? It's your hand, not mine. Come on. I'm hungry."
I suddenly realized I was, too, ravenous in fact, and put the pain wherever it is I put pain so I can deal with it later. A little ice and I'd be fine. "I should call Mom and tell her where I am."
"I already did, while you were in the zone there on the range. I told her I'd bring you home."
"Thanks." I became aware of the hot sun overhead, the green of the grass of the field, the bouquet of arrows blossoming from the remains of the target, my bow dangling from the stand. "I should..."
"Leave them. Eddie will get them," Ms. Andrews assured me. "Come on."
"Don't you have other people who need you?"
"Nobody more than you right now. My substitute can deal with any that come along."
Done with my nature girl routine, I dressed. We found the refreshment stand and sat at an open air table watching ducks on the small pond, a rainbow arcing in the spray of the fountain. We drank sweet/tangy/icy lemonade and ate hamburgers and French fries drenched with ketchup, me left-handed, my shooting fingers soaking in a cup of ice water.
She observed the water turning pink. "That must hurt."
"No more than I deserve."
"Don't be silly!"
"I should have been there," I confessed. "Instead I was in the showers. Greg and I were in the showers making love -- fucking -- while those animals tortured Bessie. If I'd been there I could have at least tried to protect her."
She shushed me sympathetically. "You couldn't have been there."
"But..."
"But nothing! It's obvious they had it all planned out. They probably had a lookout -- someone to warn them when you were coming so they'd be gone. They're too cowardly to face you head on."
Reaching across the table she gently took my face in her hands and raised my head so her warm dark eyes bored into mine. Behind that look as all the mojo of her great-grandmother, who, as a twelve-year-old slave girl, had been sold for $250. After the Civil War I bet she'd danced on her masters' graves.
"There's nothing you could have done, and it was not your fault!"
"But I should ha..."
"Not your fault," she insisted, squeezing my face. "You must understand that it is not your fault! They planned it. They knew exactly what they were doing. There's nothing you could have done to stop them. If they hadn't done it yesterday they'd have waited for another chance when you weren't around.
"They did it! Not you! What happened is not your fault."
I tried to wrap my mind around that as we walked and talked that afternoon.
I can't forget even now how long it had taken Peggy to come to the conclusion that her rape was not her fault. Heather wrestled with her demons till the day she graduated, and beyond. She's a cheerleader at the state college now, and will probably be the most fashion-conscious social worker in the history of the profession as she tries to make up for not blowing the whistle on The Worm when she'd had the chance. This was pretty small potatoes compared to what they'd gone through.
The ice cream Ms. Andrews and I later shared on the sunny grass helped me surface from that swamp.
"The question is, now what are you going to do?" she ventured.
"Get even," I answered.
"How?"
"Don't know yet."
"Another broken nose?"
I shook my head. "Doesn't seem adequate."
"A word of advice from an old lady survivor of the civil rights wars?"
"You're not that old!"
"I'm old enough to remember what my momma taught me about Birmingham and Selma. She was there!" she countered. "Violence is not the answer."
"But look what they did!"
She took my hand -- my clenched left fist, not the sore right one -- and somehow her touch melted it.
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