A Stitch in Time Pt. 01

She'd put a couple of air quotes around the word "teachers." Did I not have real teachers this year?

"Trickster!"

A boyish-looking man came hustling out of the principal's office, his hand extended. I eagerly grasped it, the first sign I'd seen yet that someone knew who I was and was happy to see me. Evidently the occupant of the principal's office had changed as well. This would be Tony Peterson, according to the fake-wood sign at the entrance.

"How was your holiday, um, sir?" I asked.

"Excellent, Trickster, excellent. And call me Pete. How about yours?"

"Fine, thank you, sir. Pete," I said, finally pulling my hand loose.

"Excellent," he smiled. "So what can we do for you?"

"Mr. Sterling thinks his courses next semester are too hard," Ms. Carter said scornfully.

"Actually," I said softly, "I don't believe I said that, ma'am. I simply said I had some thoughts about changing my class schedule."

"Well, let's see what we've got," 'Pete' said.

Ms. Carter had already pulled my schedule up and was holding it between her forefinger and thumb as if it would infect her. Pete snatched it from her hands, her message flying right over his head,

"First period," he read, "Principles of Government with Mr. Kennedy. That looks good."

Ms. Carter was shaking her head.

"Second period," he continued. "The second half of Mr. Anson's American History survey. Just between us, you might want to go to a few more classes this semester, Trick."

Ms. Carter rolled her eyes.

"And fourth period," he concluded, "English Self-study with Ms. Torianni."

After a few seconds of silence, it became clear that he'd finished reading.

"That's it?" I asked. "Three classes? All I have is three classes? What do I do in the afternoon?"

"Coach Torianni wanted that kept clear for scouts and practice," Pete winked at me. "I played a little ball in high school myself, you know, Trick. I know how important it is to make a good impression and keep in shape."

The phone rang just then, and Ms. Carter answered it and told Pete that it was Superintendent Frostman.

"Whoa, gotta take this," Pete gave me another wink. "Don't go away, Trick."

He bounded into the other room and closed the door behind him, but Ms. Carter and I could both hear the "Merry Christmas, sir!"

"So what is it you're unhappy with?" Ms. Carter turned her attention back to me.

I decided I needed to level with somebody, at least to a certain extent, and I'd concluded, based on nothing more than ninth-grade instinct, that Tony "Pete" Peterson might not be the best guy to start with. After all, he was a ballplayer, too, wink wink. I imagined him reacting the same way my father would have reacted if I'd told him I wanted a more challenging schedule.

"Can I ask you a question, ma'am?" I put as much sincerity into my voice as I could.

Ms. Carter blinked.

"Certainly," she said.

"Can I come sit at the desk?" I asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

I slipped around the counter to take the chair beside her desk after I got her nod.

"What would I have to do to get a 2.75?"

"You'd have to get B-minuses," she said, trying to figure out whether I was trying to trick her.

"No, I mean permanently."

"You mean for a high-school average?" she asked, her eyebrows shooting into the wispy bangs that had come loose from her bun.

"Exactly," I smiled. "What would I have to get this semester?"

She hit some keys on her computer.

"You'd have to take five substantive courses," she said, "and average a 4.6. Then you'd end up with a 2.749 which would get rounded up to a 2.75."

I'm sure my face fell. If I got all A-pluses I could average only a 4.5.

"So it's impossible," I mumbled.

"Well, no," she said. "Not impossible. But given your academic record I'd have to say it was extremely unlikely."

"But I could do it? In theory?"

"If you took one honors course," she said. "And got A-pluses in everything."

She looked skeptical, and given what I'd learned up to this point — that it would take five A-pluses this semester just to get me close to a B-minus overall — she probably had good reason. But I saw an opening, and I wasn't about to let it close.

"So, like, what could I take?"

She pushed a few more buttons and printed out a schedule for me. First and second period were the same; third period was Honors English, fourth period was "The Physics of Astronomy," and fifth period was something called "People of the Book" a course labeled "REL 101."

"And other than astronomy lab on Wednesday afternoons," she said with a quiet seriousness, "this leaves all your afternoons free like Coach Torianni wanted."

"Huh," I looked at the paper. "Can I ask you another question?"

"Certainly, Mr. Sterling," she smiled at me. "I'm enjoying today very much so far."

"'Cause you think they really coddle athletes around here, don't you?" I asked.

She stared at me.

"Your mother thought that, too," I said. "I remember her talking with my mother once, about my older brother, when I was still in ninth grade and hangin' out here at the office waiting for a ride home. And this English Self-study I have with Ms. Torianni — the coach's wife? — " she was nodding — "is...?"

"Crap," she said with the ghost of a smile.

"So I can take all these courses?" I held up the list.

"Why?"

I looked at the principal's door, and then turned back to her.

"I would really like to go to the University of Virginia next year," I said. "And I was told they require a 2.75 average and a 1400 on the SATs for a baseball scholarship."

"You're serious," she looked at me, her eyes softening just a bit.

"I am," I nodded.

"You'll have to re-take the SATs, you know."

"I figured," I nodded. "I guess I really didn't put a lot of effort into them, huh?"

"You got a 790."

"On the reading?" I asked. I'd looked up the SAT scoring system when I got back home last night. Evidently there were now three of them: Reading, Math, and Critical Analysis. I was always better at reading. A 790 was pretty damn good.

"On all of them, Mr. Sterling," she said. "A 790 on all three of them together."

"Shit," I blurted out.

"That pretty much describes it, Mr. Sterling."

I looked over to see a smile playing across her lips once again. I couldn't help but smiling myself, and pretty soon we were both laughing out loud. Finally, we quieted down and she waited for me to continue.

"I'm dead serious about this, Ms. Carter," I said. "I can take 'em again on the 27th of next month, right?"

"I'll sign you up, Mr. Sterling. As for these classes, the only prerequisite for the three new courses here is Introductory Physics, and you took that last year."

So I knew physics? Well, damn.

"So what's this course?" I pointed at the "People of the Book."

"The School Board wanted a religion class this year," she frowned.

"Who teaches it?"

"Mrs. Jenkins."

"Old Mrs. Jenk-?" I stopped myself.

"-kins," she finished with another smile. "Yes, Old Mrs. Jenkins. This is her last year, and she insisted on being allowed to teach this course. She was afraid that it would become just another Christian education class if somebody else got hold of it. You haven't had her for anything else, have you?"

She was frowning at her computer while I mumbled my answer.

"I'm sorry?" she asked.

"Sunday school," I finally said. "I had her for Sunday School."

"Perfect," Ms. Carter smiled. "Now it won't just be a class of evangelicals. You only have one problem left."

I raised an eyebrow.

"You have to get Mrs. Palmer's permission to take Honors English," she said, in a tone that suggested that that would require some sort of divine intervention.

"Mrs. Palmer likes me," I protested. "I got an A-plus from her last, er, in ninth grade. Uh, first semester"

Ms. Carter looked back at her computer as my voice trailed off.

"Yes, you did," she nodded. "And then a B second semester. And then a C last year, after your initial incomplete. As I remember, you turned in your final paper two weeks late, and got a C on it. Normally, the incomplete would have been replaced with a C-minus, one grade lower than your paper, but she talked Mr. Linwood into giving you the C. So you may have used up all your good will with Mrs. Palmer.

"Unfortunately," she continued, "she's on her winter cruise this week, and won't be back until next Monday. You really think you can talk her into this?"

"Honestly, I have no idea," I said. "It's worth a try though, huh?"

"For UVA? Yes, it is. My father went there. He used to go on and on about it. I tell you what, why don't we keep this our little secret until then?"

I gave her a quizzical look.

"If it doesn't work," she said. "You can take your current schedule and go on to the major league draft. We'll be the only ones who ever know. Because if Mrs. Palmer says okay, Coach Torianni's gonna hit the roof. And this one" — she nodded toward the principal's door — "will run right to him to tell him.

"So if you can talk her into it," she continued, "give me a call on Tuesday and I'll have you all set to go when school starts on Wednesday."

"That's the only way?" I asked.

"I'm afraid all of the other honors classes have prerequisites that you don't meet," she shook her head.

"Even in the afternoon?" I asked.

"I'm afraid so, Patrick," she said gently. "I'll be keeping my fingers crossed."

"So!" boomed Pete from his office doorway. "What do we need to do to make your schedule better, Trickster?"

"You know," I said, "I think that Ms. Carter and I have got it all figured out. Turns out we can't make it any easier after all."

Ms. Carter had the decency to blush as I stood up, and I thanked her and "Pete" and made my way out to the street.

My next stop was the public library, another two blocks past the high school. I was supposed to know physics and baseball, and the library had always been where I went for information. It was one of my favorite places, or at least it had been back in ninth grade. Two days or three years ago, depending on your point of view. I found myself hoping that it hadn't changed too much. The lady who sat behind the circulation desk most of the time, Lynn Edwards, was probably my very first crush. She'd started work when I was between seventh grade and eighth grades, just after she graduated from college. She was just about my size then, maybe five-foot five inches tall. I was always afraid she'd catch me staring at her, although it never stopped me, particularly when she was wearing a sweater. And yet, as nice as she looked, her best feature was her beautiful smile; I loved to ask her for recommendations about books because it was so clear that she loved to answer me.

I was very pleased to find the place open. It was about as crowded as the school had been. There was one older lady by the new arrival shelf with a book in each hand, comparing the blurbs on the back of each to decide which one to check out. And there she was, sitting at the desk, just as beautiful as she'd been, well, two weeks ago. Wearing a sweater to ward off the winter chill.

"Hi, Miss Edwards," I approached her shyly. "I was looking for a book on — "

"Trick!" her face lit up with a smile as she saw me. Not the smile of a librarian who had a new book she was dying to recommend, but an odd sort of expectant smile that she emphasized by running the tip of her tongue across her upper lip.

She held up a finger to quiet me.

"Let me get rid of Mrs. Parsons first," she whispered.

"Okay," I said, "but really, I just wanted a book — "

"I know, Trick," she interrupted me. "I remember the game. But not with Mrs. Parsons standing right over there. Why don't you go look at the new Sports Illustrated?"

I actually picked up a Newsweek — did everybody think I only read SI? — and settled into one of the comfortable chairs in the library's reading room. Miss Edwards stood up, smoothed her skirt with a wink at me, and approached the older lady.

"Why don't you just take both of them, Mrs. Parsons?" she suggested.

"Oh, no, dear," the woman protested, "I always end up being overdue, and then I have to pay the late fee, and I really can't afford to —"

Miss Edwards had taken the books out of her hand and strode back to the circulation desk, leaving Mrs. Parsons in her wake making her futile protests to Miss Edwards' back.

"There," Miss Edwards said when she was seated again, "I wiped out all your late fees, and I've made sure that neither of these books is due until the end of February."

"Well, thank you, dear," Mrs. Parsons seemed more than a little taken aback by Miss Edwards' forbearance.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Parsons," Miss Edwards smiled at her.

"Well, you, too, dear," Mrs. Parsons said. She slipped the books in her large bag and began to make her way slowly toward the front door. I watched her close the door behind her, and then turned back to see Miss Edwards looking directly at me, once again slowly licking her upper lip as she held up the index finger of her right hand. She looked at the door, and suddenly jumped to her feet and quickly covered the twenty feet between her desk and the door. With a quick look outside, she took the sign off the door that read "Open" and turned around to show me that she'd tucked its little chain into the front of her skirt. With a grin, she grabbed the little sign that hung by the side of the door, the one with the little clock on it that read "Out to Lunch. Will return at." She glanced at the clock over the circulation desk, which read 11:45, and set the clock on the sign. She turned it around to show me she'd set it for 1:00.

Realization was slowly beginning to dawn on me; the "Open" sign hanging on the front of her skirt was too obvious even for me to miss. But the idea that Miss Edwards would be interested in me, a ninth-grader, was nearly too much to take. I watched in a haze as she hung the new sign in the window, and pulled the shade down behind it.

"I'm sorry," she said to me in a husky voice as she went back to sit behind the desk, "you were asking me about a book, Mr. Sterling."

She returned to the book she was reading when I came in.

Okay, I thought. Don't panic. She said it's a game. It's a game with librarians and books. Well, of course, it's a game with librarians and books, idiot, you're in a frickin' library.

I pushed myself out of the chair and walked over to her desk.

"Um," I began far more suavely than I felt, "I wondered if you had any surveys of American history."

She peered up at me over the top of her book

"I believe we have a few books on that subject, young man," she said. "Follow me, please."

She led me to an aisle containing one of those two-step stools that librarians use to get books off the top shelf.

"I think we might have something on the top shelf," she grinned at me. I tentatively climbed the stool and she immediately reached for the zipper on my pants when I reached the top step.

"Oh, God," I moaned. Lynn Edwards seemed to know her way around my cock like it came with its own road map, teasing me with her tongue and her teeth, gently tugging on the shaft with her fingers when her lips were busy with the head, and then burying her chin against my balls before she backed off with an explosive exhalation of air through her nose.

Unfortunately, it was my first blow job, and knowing that last week's crush had magically become this week's lover didn't help. It ended quickly.

"Well, that was certainly a brief trip to the library," she said with a little asperity as she finished swallowing my spunk.

Oh, shit, it ended way too quickly.

"Maybe you should take a look," I said hastily.

"I should take a look?" she asked me, wrinkling her brow.

"For the book," I said.

Apparently this hadn't been part of the game before, but she took my hand and let me walk her up the little step stool. Based on, aah, previous experiments, I knew that it would take a little time for me to recover. And I kind of had the feeling that if we spent that time, oh, I don't know, looking through the card catalogue, I might find myself an unwelcome library patron for the rest of my life.

I moved behind her and slowly rolled her skirt up over her ass. As a somewhat introverted ninth grader, my sexual experience to this point had included a full-semester health class and a few kisses with Cammie Rowe. Not much to go on. Oh, and while I was deleting most of the porn bookmarks from my computer before I'd gone to bed last night, I did sort of look at a few of them first. I probably knew just enough to get me in trouble; the potential for seriously disappointing Miss Edwards was clearly there.

Pulling her white panties tight into her crotch, which itself earned me a shiver and a moan, I began kissing my way around her two beautiful round cheeks. It soon became apparent, though, as she gripped the bookshelves for support, that the panties, and not my kisses, were responsible for most of the moaning she was doing. I was nothing if not adaptable; I pulled them down to her knees and replaced them with first my fingers, and then with my tongue, and then with both together.

"Oh, God, Trick," she cried. "That's so good, honey. I can't believe you're doing this to me."

I couldn't believe I'd never done it before. What a selfish son of a bitch I must be. This was actually fun; not only that, it considerable shortened the time I needed to come back to life. In fifteen minutes, just after my finger had located something that made her scream "Oh, yes, my clit, do my clit," she scrambled down the stepping stool and bent over in front of me.

This time I was determined to last. I thought about old Mrs. Jenkins, I thought about old Mrs. Carter, I thought about baseball (what little I knew about it); I thought about everything except the gorgeous ass on the gorgeous woman in front of me. I reached around to finger the clit I'd found before, sending her into a spasm of what I hoped was pleasure. She didn't make me stop, so I kept right on, managing to get two more spasms from her before I had a spasm of my own.

Oh, shit. Well, too late now. Pulling herself off of me, she turned and threw her arms around me, driving her tongue halfway down my throat. I did my best to respond in kind, and it seemed to satisfy her.

"God, Trick," she teased me after pulling back a bit. "Been doing some extra reading on your own, have you? Or just practicing with your other girlfriends?"

"Uh, yeah," I said. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't take care of the, uh, protection thing, you know."

She laughed, a glorious peal of giggles.

"Yeah, right," she said, giving my softening cock a squeeze. "The day Trick Sterling puts a rubber on is the day I let him do me in the ass."

That was enough to make me twitch again, and she looked down in amazement.

"I — I can't do it again, baby," she looked at me suddenly, tears welling in her eyes. "You were just pounding me for so long. I'm — I'm sorry."

"That was great," I said.

"Say it," she grinned up at me. I only now realize that I topped her by a good eight inches.

"Say what?" I asked.

"You know," she went on in a teasing voice before dropping her voice to a parody of a man's. "You were great, baby."

"You were great, baby," I agreed.

"You too, stud," she said, giving me another long kiss before she finally disengaged.

"Shit," she said, looking at her watch. "One-oh-five. Guess I better open up, huh?"

"Uh, yeah," I said. "About those books, though?"

"What?" she laughed, straightening out her skirt as I pulled my pants back up. "You really want books?"

"Yeah," I said. "Is that so odd?"

"Not three years ago," she said, reaching up to pat me on the head. "Little Patrick Sterling was my favorite customer then. That was before he became big Patrick Sterling."