Tales of the Seasons: Jessica's story
Part 1
Wiry.
I hated that word. Why couldn't it have been 'sinewy' instead? Sinewy is cool. Sinews are
supple and tough. And at least they're part of something alive, not cold and hard and never-living
like wires.
Oh, and sinews don't have any fat either. So there, just as applicable to me as 'wiry'. Besides,
I'm more of a 'snake'. That would be way cool. And appropriate too, since snakes are all offense.
I mean, think about it. A snake can't throw up an arm to block an attack, or 'run' away, or
anything. It survives by attacking first. That's me. I'm too damn small to duke it out with some
knuckle-dragging gorilla anyway, and too damn smart, too. Like I should just wait for some
doofus to rearrange my nose before I retaliate? Again? I tried that. Once. Stupid doctor actually
had to shorten the damn thing to 'fix' it and now I have this dorky little nose that turns up on the
end. You can imagine what that looks like, and it did NOT make my life any easier.
So now, if some lumbering mouth-breather is coming after me - or even thinking about it - I
make sure he pays the price. And the only sure way to do that is make him pay it before he gets
in his first shot. Like I said, I'm not stupid and I know that those big assholes can park me in the
middle of next week if they get even one shot. They've done that, too. So I have to make sure
they pay the price first. And I do. After a few demonstrations, the hulks started leaving me
alone. That's when I started hearing the, "Stay away from Jesse. He's got a hair trigger, and he's
wiry."
I learned the hard way that my damn hand is too fragile to use as a hammer on the rockheads
who would come after me, so I pick softer targets and a harder club. Specifically, joints. Two in
particular: the knee, and the crotch. Even the hardest rockhead will go down if you get either
one of those places. And they're both conveniently located within the reach of my foot. Two
problems solved at once.
Unfortunately, that involves some risk, too. Hence my situation. I was in jail for defending
myself against an asshole who hit me first. Well, actually I was in court, not the lockup, but it's
the same thing. This old lady judge was acting all pompous and pretending to be objective. She
had her mind made up before we even entered the room, though, you could tell.
"Mr. Shepherd," - that would be me - "would you care to explain yourself?"
"Dorkbrain hit me. I hit him back. He should'n'a started it."
"There seems to be some dispute about that," the Judge said. "According to the other
witnesses, you hit Mr. Wilson without provocation."
"Yeah, well, I'm not surprised they stick up for Mr. Geekhead. He's such a doofus they
probably all feel sorry for him. But he DID hit me first."
"On what basis do you claim that he struck you?" she asked. Like I said, all calm and rational-
sounding, like she was fair. Yeah, right.
"On the basis of the bruise on my shoulder," I snapped.
"And how did Mr. Wilson strike you on your shoulder?"
"Hard," I said, smirking. "That's why there was a bruise."
My guardian, the court-appointed one, looked like he felt guilty. Well, he was an asshole, but
he hadn't ever hit me so I didn't know what he had to feel guilty about. My lawyer, the court-
appointed one (notice the trend?), looked like he was about to say something but the Judge raised
her hand and just kept grinding on.
"With what part of his body did Mr. Wilson strike you?"
Oh well, I knew that was what she was getting at, of course. Too bad she was such a frigid
bitch. No fun baiting someone who just sits there like a lump. "With his shoulder," I said. "With
all the weight of his pudgy body behind it. It slammed me back into the lockers."
"What did you do then?"
"Defended myself, like I said," I answered. Then before the so-called adults could go through
another round of looking at each other, I answered the question I knew she wanted. But I'd made
the point - again - that it was self-defense. Besides, it had been a good move. "I whacked his
knee and he went down. End of fight."
Judge Bitchy wasn't satisfied with that explanation, though. "What reason do you think Mr.
Wilson might have had for striking you?"
"Because he's a clumsy doofus who doesn't watch where he's going," I blurted out. Then I
wished I could have had those words back because I realized I'd just put my foot in it, big time.
"Oh," she said quietly, "you think it was accidental on his part?"
I looked at the lawyer, who didn't seem like he cared what happened to me - like THAT was
any surprise. I shrugged and offered an excuse I knew was lame even as I said it. "He shoulda
watched where he was going."
The Judge sat back in her chair, paused for a moment, then looked at the juvie prosecutor.
"Mr. Handel, any further arguments?"
"No, your Honor. As has already been established in testimony, Mr. Wilson was jostled
against the defendant in the normal interaction of an over-crowded school. The defendant's
reaction was completely disproportionate."
"Mr. Gordon?" she said, looking at 'my' lawyer. As if.
"Your Honor, as has been established, my client has suffered physical injury in prior
encounters which were demonstrably not of his instigation. If he has over-reacted this time, it is
understandable. He had cause to feel threatened."
Hey, that was a pretty good argument. Maybe she'd let me off after all.
That happy thought - like most happy thoughts in my life - ended before it had a chance to
take root. The look in the Judge's eyes said she was not buying it, though there was a sort of
'more in sadness than in anger' thing that I thought I might be able to take advantage of, even if
she found me guilty of something.
She paused for another long moment, staring at me. I met her gaze head on. Regardless of
what she decided to do to me, I was not going out like a crybaby. I'd made my choice, and I'd
face the consequences.
"The defendant will rise," she intoned pompously. My lawyer and my guardian stood with
me, like that helped or something. I wondered if they'd serve part of my time at juvie hall for me.
Yeah, right, and tomorrow I'd wake up 6'2" tall, with a stacked blonde in bed beside me.
"Mr. Shepherd, the court finds you guilty of assault on Mr. Wilson. In light of the medical
report that he is expected to recover fully from the damage to his knee, we will drop the 'with
intent to commit great bodily harm' part of that. However, I am reluctant to send you back into a
public school situation where your tendency toward violence can place others at risk."
She paused again, with a troubled look in her eyes that worried me more than honest disdain.
She was about to do something she thought would be good for me. God save me from well-
meaning adults.
"However," she continued, "I am equally reluctant to place you in a conventional juvenile
facility. Your small stature and, ah, delicate features have no doubt made you the target of
predators before. Sending you where such people are concentrated, and for perhaps the three
years until you reach statutory adulthood at eighteen years of age, serves neither your interests
nor those of society."
She looked directly at me again, staring like she was looking inside me to see if there were
things hidden there that I did not want revealed. Well, no surprise, there were some. For the first
time, I felt uncomfortable enough to look down. It was only for a moment and I looked her right
in the eye again after that, but she knew and I knew that she had won that one.
At least she was still talking to me. I mean, directly to me as though whatever she was
dreaming up would be my decision to accept or reject, not my so-called guardian's, nor the
lawyer's.
"Mr. Shepherd, I have an alternative for you." *Uh, oh, here it comes.* "I know of a private
school that might accept you as a student. I have discussed the matter with the woman who runs
the school." *I *knew* she had her mind made up before this farce of a trial.* "She is willing,
but *only* if you give me, and her, your solemn promise to abide by the rules of her school. She
is a very disciplined woman, and can perhaps instill in you some of the discipline you will need if
you are to learn to function in society."
"What, like some sort of boot camp, but the instructor is a woman?" I asked incredulously.
"Close enough," the Judge said. "In fact, it would be closer to a traditional English boarding
school than boot camp."
"Uh, oh, nothing doing," I said, shaking my head. "I read about those places. Some bitch
comes after me with a cane and I'm not responsible for what happens next."
"There would not be any corporal punishment," the Judge assured me. "Her methods are
indeed strict, but no one will strike you except in their own defense. If you can make the same
claim, then you should have nothing to fear. You will, however, be expected to dress, act, and
speak politely. To achieve your cooperation - beyond whatever commitment is embedded in
giving your word, the breaking of which will return you for more conventional sentencing - she
will have the normal authority in loco parentis to discipline you with such non-physical
punishments as she deems appropriate."
"Send me to bed without supper?" I snorted. "Feed me on gruel? Hell, the food at the home is
bad enough I duke it out with the cat three days a week for *her* slop - and I have to stand in line
for the privilege."
The 'home' was the 'Elizabeth James Home'; the county orphanage, housed in an old mansion
donated by the descendants of the original money in the area instead of paying taxes. It wasn't as
bad as 'Oliver Twist', really. We never starved or anything, but the suffocating condescension
was, well, suffocating. Like it was our fault we were orphans, and broke, and didn't have any
other relatives 'good' enough (meaning rich enough) to take us off the county's hands. What did
they want me to do, push for the return of Prohibition so drunks wouldn't kill only parts of
families? Sober drivers could do the job properly, right? And save the state from the task of
taking care of the leftovers?
I interrupted my silent tirade and said, "Not that it matters. I don't have the money for some
fancy boarding school, and it's clear the home ain't gonna shell out for it."
My guardian flinched at that comment, but he shrugged and looked at the Judge without real
apology.
The Judge's eyes seemed to share something with my guardian, sympathy or understanding of
some sort - adults against us again, as usual, then she looked back at me.
"Financial arrangements will be made. Well, Mr. Shepherd, I am waiting. Will you give me
your word of honor to attend Ms. Thompson's school and obey her as your court-appointed
guardian, or would you prefer the State School in Jonesboro?"
"Uh, gee, let me see," I said. "Go to reform school and be some badass brother's bitch, or go
to this bitch's school and be her little boytoy. Some choice."
"Nonetheless, it is the choice you are offered," she said unbendingly.
"Yeah, well, I won't be anybody's bitch, and that means either I'll end up in the hospital, or
someone else will if I go to the reform school. I'll take what's behind door number 2."
"Very well, so ordered," she said, slamming her gavel. "Mr. Gordon, make arrangements for
transportation and for the necessary documentation. My clerk will give you the particulars."
As we turned to go, the Judge called after me one last time. "Oh, Mr. Shepherd, a word to the
wise. I'd suggest you think carefully about your language once you reach Ms. Thompson's. She
does not consider washing a student's mouth out with soap to be physical punishment, and neither
do I."
***************
So that's how I ended up on a train, for God's sake, traveling to some middle-of-nowhere place
in Vermont or Maine or something. Iceland, near enough. A place so far from the center of the
universe that they still had to travel on *trains*! Next thing you know I'll be, like, touching
Republicans or something. It was a damn long train ride, too. I think we stopped every ten
minutes - for twenty minutes at a time.
Time to come clean with a secret, I guess. Even thought I truly do believe in an active defense
- nobody messes with me for free - I don't pparticularly *like* to be a hardass all the time. I mean,
it's necessary, but if I had my druthers, I'd be reading Shakespeare or Marcus Aurelius, not
fighting. If I *really* had my druthers, I'd have been able to let the grups know how much I
enjoyed the field trips to the museums we sometimes visited. But it is NOT a good idea to be
gushing over how intense 'Guernica' makes you feel when people already think you've got violent
tendencies, even if you felt the same sort of wonder about Monet. 'Tough' guys don't get all
excited by blurry fields of flowers, and teens do not go anywhere *near* 'Guernica' by choice. I
had enough problems without showing an appreciation for fine art. One day I found out the
library had art reprint books. Then I was as happy as . . . well, as close to happy as I got any
more. So I kept that as my own little secret, and used what little privacy I had to read philosophy,
or honest-to-God classic literature. I even found the Bible interesting, despite the best efforts of
the teachers at the home to turn reading it into work. Maybe that's because my mother had really
loved that old book.
Anyway, there I was on a train with a one-way ticket to someplace else, just like putting a bum
on a bus - except the bus would probably have been quicker. Old Judge Ruth had made it seem
like a special favor to let me travel by myself. I suppose the alternative was a Federal marshal or
something since I was being transported across state lines. I was, of course, giddy with
anticipation at the chance to meet this Thompson woman who was now gonna own my skinny
butt until I either learned to crook my little finger in the proper way, or I survived to reach age 18.
As I was a lot more organized than my grades indicated (another hard-won lesson learned -
don't stand out academically or the jealous jocks would take it out on you), I had my downloaded-
for-free-off-the-Internet copy of Mac's 'The Prince' packed away before the train screeched to a
stop at my station, Kingston, Rhode Island, if it matters. When I stepped down from the car I saw
my new owner, obvious despite the lack of any prior description.
When I grow up, I wanna be rich. Really, really rich; old money that comes from a pile taller
than Everest, and in big bills. Like the woman I saw standing on the station platform. Even a no-
taste grunge like me could see that her dark power-suit was not off the rack - and she still had the
curves to do the tailoring justice. Think Joan Crawford, but with less of a smile. Auburn hair
with just a few gray accents instead of witch-black, but you get the picture. I had this feeling that
her shoes cost more than the sum total of all the clothes I'd ever had in my entire post-parents life.
And apparently it was catching. Standing next to the rich bitch was this really tall girl, nearly
six feet even aside from her modish heels. And she was wearing - I kid you not - little white
gloves and a hat with a veil, and a pink suit tailored a little less carefully than the older broad's,
but then I'm sure she was still a growing girl so I made allowances. Made me mad all over again
that the home hadn't let me wear my combat boots. I figured with these two, I needed that as an
initial condition so that I could work a compromise and end up in the Doc's I was actually
wearing (well, fake ones, but they looked like Doc Marten's). As it was, I had given up half my
negotiating position before I even started.
"Jesse Shepherd?" the woman asked. Like, who'd have dared be anyone else?
"Yeah," I said, nodding. Are you supposed to offer to shake hands with someone wearing
gloves? I decided it was safer just to pick up my bags. It was obvious who was gonna be the
coolie labor in this group.
Then she drew her dark glove off with a sharp, snapping notion and held out her hand. "I am
Ms. Jane Thompson."
I dropped my bag and shook her hand, almost like real people do. Then she looked at her
companion and said, "And this is Miss Penny McQueen."
Penny did not take of her own little white glove, afraid I'd get cooties on her hand or
something. I took a better look at her and decided she musta been old money, too. A young Joan
Crawford-to-be, complete with rich, dark hair. She had that lean, elegant look that you pictured
riding in the back of the carriage while the peasants touched their caps. She'd obviously marry
someone just as rich in an arranged business merger. Romance not required.
Oh, hell, maybe I was just jealous of all that obvious class. I mean, she wasn't any
competition for Britney Spears, but she was good-looking in a sterile sort of way, and I'm sure
there was some nice rich preppy for her somewhere. They'd probably have a dozen kids and live
happily - and richly - ever after.
But it was clear that I was one of those peasants who were expected to tip their caps to her.
She offered just the ends of her white-gloved fingers to my hand, and I resisted the urge to slap it
away. An insult is not the same as a physical attack, at least not if there isn't anyone around to
take it as a sign of weakness. I touched her fingers briefly with my own and picked my bag up
again.
It came to me that there might be a chance to gain a little momentum in this new arrangement.
I had the feeling the Thompson bitch was going to be on my case 24/7, and that meant I was
going to have to modify my dumb-on-the-outside-smart-on-the-inside role. With no real privacy,
I was either going to have to let them know I was brighter than my grades suggested, or else give
up my real books until, well, forever. So okay, I'd see if I could surprise her a little.
"Lay on, MacDuff, and curst be he - or in this case she - who first cries, 'Hold, enough!'"
The first stage of that didn't get much of a rise out of her. She went into an immediate lecture
mode. "That quote does not refer to MacDuff leading MacBeth somewhere. It is in fact a battle
cry, and the 'Lay on' refers to the blows they are about to exchange."
Then I *did* score a point, when I simply said, "I know."
But I had to admit, she scored a point or two of her own when she merely lifted a carefully
shaped brow at my comment - I swear she could have given lessons to the real Joan Crawford.
But what really got my attention was the way the corners of her eyes showed a smile of genuine
amusement. There was so freaking much confidence in that little smile that I almost went into
full defense mode.
She didn't say anything, though. Turning on her own stylish heel, she led the way through the
small station to a waiting car. That got her another cool point, because it was a great car. Audi
A8, Quattro, with all the bells and whistles, $65K, plus or minus not enough to matter. It was the
most beautiful car I'd ever seen in real life.
"It is just a vehicle, Mr. Shepherd," she said mockingly. I was to learn that she saw
EVERYthing, including my momentary amazement.
"Yeah," I replied, trying to get back some rapidly vanishing cool by seeming nonchalant about
it. Not that it helped, but it's all I had to work with.
Then I just quit trying for a while, to be cool that is. First off, she drove that fine car like it
was meant to be driven. She didn't really speed, staying as close to the limits as the rest of the
gentry who shared the road, but she powered through the curves and used all the muscle of that
big V-8 on the hills. Definitely not what I expected from the old lady, and I was impressed.
Then we reached her house. At that moment, I decided there were more differences between
rich people and poor people than just that the rich had more money. There was a sense of . . .
eternity about that place, as though it had always been there, and always would be there.
Mountains may wear down and the stars burn out, but that mansion would endure. I was WAY
out of my league here.
(
geocities.com/b_dewinter)