Swing Time Ch. 02

All characters in this story are age 18 or older.

*

Craig Stewart was having a bad day. It was January second, the first day of spring semester of his senior year in high school. Everybody else had enjoyed vacation for two weeks. Craig, along with Hank Jones and Jeff Mullins, had been out for ten.

The three of them had been expelled for fighting and attempted sexual assault of a classmate. They had not been permitted to contact one another during their time of probation. Craig was not eager to talk with them now, either. All morning long it had been the same. Conversations in low tones would stop when he came into a classroom. His peers gave him a wide berth.

Now it was lunch time, the most dreaded time of day for outcast students across the nation. Craig swept the room uncertainly. The stares brought a flush to his cheeks, and the sense of his own hot face made him angry. As quickly as he could, he moved toward the emptiest looking table.

Hank and Jeff entered the cafeteria just as Craig sat down. Their attitudes were cocky. They laughed and talked a bit too loudly and looked around as if daring anyone to speak to them. Everyone could smell the negative emotions emanating from the pair: anger, bitterness, embarrassment.

They gravitated toward Craig, who started wolfing down his sandwich as fast as he could.

Hank started bitching right away. "Fuckers. I threw one punch and they act like I'm a fuckin' leper."

Craig eyed his compatriot coolly, thinking of his own fall from grace: getting kicked off the football team, which meant losing every chance he had for an athletic scholarship to college. He tore another huge bite out of his sandwich and didn't reply.

Jeff grumbled, "I didn't even hit anybody. All I tried to do was shut that bitch's mouth."

That was a particular sore spot for Craig. In an instant he remembered the feel of Allison's floaty white skirt in his hands. How pretty she was, even when her eyes were full of terror. Craig was repulsed by what he had done. He and Jeff had been in a race to see who would bed her first. As he looked back on his actions, all he could think was stupid, stupid, stupid.

"I'll see you guys later." Craig nearly ran toward the door, stopping long enough to drop his tray on the conveyor belt. As he whirled toward the exit, of all people, he bumped directly into Allison Katz. This time his face burned red as a Bud sign.

"I'm sorry!" he gasped, and bolted down the hall.

The rest of the afternoon went pretty much the same way. Craig had one study hall with Allison, in the library. He didn't dare approach her, and she ignored him thoroughly. He couldn't blame her for the ice.

He wondered whether, he fervently hoped, one day soon there might be a thaw.

The last bell couldn't ring soon enough. At the same time, Craig fussed in his locker, wondering exactly how to go about it. Maybe it was too soon. He eyed the black oblong shape that took up most of the skinny rectangular space and chewed at his lower lip.

Finally he decided against it and slung on his backpack. He wandered the halls as if he had somewhere to go, thanking the little star of fortune that helped him avoid his two former friends. For fifteen minutes he drifted, settling for a time in the library, where he pretended to read the day's paper and in truth stared a hole in the clock.

They had to be started by now. Of course, it was just a guess, but it was an educated one. Craig dreaded his destination, and hungered for it at the same time.

He slunk down the now-empty halls and found he was right. Piano and clarinet splayed their notes down the hall like marbles flung from a child's hand. Craig shut his eyes and stepped closer. He was right outside the door of the music room now.

The music broke off in a spurt of laughter. Bitterness welled in the outcast's throat. The desire for acceptance carved a great hollow shell in his gut. The laughter got in there and bounced inside him, cartwheeling gleefully, yet failing to invite him into the dance.

The young man took a deep breath and risked a look through the tiny window. He knew if they saw him they wouldn't be happy about it. He couldn't stand there and stare, either, because sooner or later one of them would look up, and then he'd be toast. This one glance would have to conclude his eavesdropping.

He peered in just as Allison bent to plant a kiss on David Hemingway's upturned face. The look of love on David's face was so obvious, it hurt. Jealousy tasered through Craig at 50,000 volts. He could not escape the feeling that, had he not been such an ass, had he treated this girl like a human being, she might at this moment be kissing him.

* * *

Next morning before the first bell, music teacher Jacob Olaffsen was penciling an arrangement of "My Funny Valentine" when a hesitant knock sounded on his door. Without looking up, he sounded his usual command: "Come!"

The drill-sergeant bark intimidated the former football star, but he straightened his back and pretended it didn't. The young man glanced around the room; he'd never been in here. Shelves full of thin-spined books took up most of the wall space. A fax/copy machine squatted on a credenza adjacent to an old wooden desk. A plaque on the wall read, "Here And Now." There were several old pictures of men in uniform, and Olaffsen surrounded by alumni, but Craig didn't have time to inspect these too closely.

"Mr. Olaffsen, good morning."

Olaffsen's face showed only a mild hint of the surprise that he was feeling. It was he, along with Allison's father, who had stopped Craig from sexually assaulting the young clarinetist right after the fall concert. Jacob could not imagine what Craig wanted, but the familiar shape on the young man's back gave him an idea.

"Have a seat, Mr. Stewart. What can I do for you?"

Craig worked to meet the older man's eyes. He swallowed. "I'd like permission to try out, sir."

Olaffsen tipped his chin back slightly. He would make the boy work for it. "Proceed."

The senior drew in a sharp breath. He pulled the guitar case off of his back and laid it in his lap, unsure if Olaffsen would consent to hearing him play.

"As you know, I was expelled after the — after what I did last semester. I'd like a chance to make amends and I, I've been studying hard for ten weeks now."

Olaffsen nodded, knowing the kid needed some affirmation to go on. "Continue," he granted.

Encouraged, Craig unzipped the case. "I know I'm not as good as your other students, but I'd really appreciate it if you'd hear me play."

Olaffsen looked at his watch. "I can give you twelve minutes, Mr. Stewart. You may begin when ready."

Craig smiled broadly and Jake could see why the girls used to fall for the young man. Somber, he was a handsome sonofabitch, but when he looked happy, his smile was dazzling. The Stewart family wealth probably didn't hurt, either.

Craig was off-book on only two pieces, and he played both of them: "Walk, Don't Run," and an advanced piece from a lesson book. Olaffsen tapped a pencil in his teeth as he studied the young man's hands from a professional standpoint. The kid was not bad. But no high school student deserved a Les Paul like that. Parents!

Craig concentrated for all he was worth. A hundred hours of practice paid off. His fingers stumbled once, but he righted himself quickly. When he was done, he looked up. The longing was plain on his face.

The weight of the moment was not lost on Olaffsen. "Uh-huh..." The teacher considered, then asked: "Who taught you?"

Craig named a local guitarist, one of the few musicians of Olaffsen's acquaintance who made a living playing gigs full-time. Olaffsen nodded and stood.

"So?"

"So tell me exactly what you want to audition for. Do you want to play in the jazz band?"

"I'd like to play in the spring swing concert."

As the teacher shook his head, Craig added, "Please! Even if it's just one number. I just want a chance."

Jake sighed. "You'll have to ask Allison and David, you know, not to mention her father."

"Do you think you could talk to them for me first?"

The teacher leaned back and decided to give the kid a break. "Okay, I'll intervene once. After that," he jabbed an index finger, "it's on you."

He picked a book from his shelf and photocopied a few pages. "Learn this, and see me at this time next week."

Craig grabbed Jake's hand and shook it. "Thank you, thank you for this chance," he gabbled. Olaffsen permitted a smile at last. "Don't get your hopes up too high, Mr. Stewart. It's not a done deal."

After the hopeful one left, Olaffsen made a copy of his own. Then he pulled out a clean sheet of lined paper, and started writing out symbols. Just the root positions, he thought. That would make it easy.

* * *

At the same time, David yelled, "No way!" and Allison shrieked, "What?!" Only Stan Katz, Allison's father, remained silent. He looked to Jake to see if there was any more information.

When the outburst died down, the music teacher continued. "Obviously a lot of conversations need to take place, but I hope you won't dismiss this notion out of hand. Consider that the school as a community would find some healing. Consider the musical benefit to our group — we sound great but our sound could be much fuller. And finally —" he looked into the teenagers' faces to underscore his next words "— consider how you have felt, when you made a dumb mistake and you wished you had a second chance." Olaffsen thought to himself that his last point might be somewhat tenuous. It had been decades since he'd experienced high school as a student. In his observation, today's young people weren't typically seasoned enough to develop a strong sense of empathy.

He stood up to go. "Please think about it."

As he left, he thought to himself, Why am I making such a pitch for this kid? The clear cold night offered no answer. But the response was in his soul, solid and steadfast, as it had been for many years. He'd become a teacher in hopes of helping kids blossom into their fullest possible selves. And though he hadn't said so, he thought it rather brave of young Mr. Stewart to try to make amends. The boy's family money, and resultant political connections, could have smoothed an easier path. It would be interesting to witness his students' choices.

The desire to make amends, he thought. To be given a second chance. He walked on alone.

After the teacher left, Stan told his daughter and her boyfriend, "I expect you two have some talking you want to do. I'll be upstairs if you need me." He disappeared up the steps. He had his own thinking to work through.

David was flatly against the idea of Craig Stewart joining their band, and said so, but Allison wavered.

"How can you even consider the idea! Allison, he was going to rape you."

"I know, I hear what you're saying. It's just—"

"What?" David was angry. "Don't tell me you have some kind of sick crush on this guy."

"No!" Her own temper was starting to heat up. "Listen, it's what Mr. Olaffsen said. Haven't you ever done something really stupid, and wished you could push the Undo button?"

"I guess so," the pianist grumbled. "I'm still against it."

"I feel like there's some other reason, something you're not telling me."

"Okay. Okay. Allie, I—" He stopped. The piano could not help him now. A few months ago, when he had longed so badly to tell her of his deepest feelings, music had enabled him to do so. But he could not think of a song that went, "I saw the way you used to look at that guy and I'm terrified you'll do it again, even though you said you love me."

David lifted a hand in a gesture of helplessness. "I just don't want to lose you."

Allison's brow furrowed. Then she relaxed into a smile and hugged him. "Love of mine, you can't lose me. I'm right here."

He turned his face to find hers; their kiss deepened. They had first made love at Thanksgiving, staying indoors while everyone else went for a walk to shake off Turkey Coma. The memory was fresh in David's mind...

* * *

After twenty minutes of increasingly passionate kissing, she pulled back and gently framed his face with her fingers. He saw desire in her eyes, and a question: "Do you want to?"

"God, yes. I love you, Allie, I want you."

"Okay," her voice just above a whisper, "let's go to my room."

She took him by the hand and led him upstairs. David's heart was beating so hard he thought it would fly out of his chest. He followed her swaying bottom up the steps.

They settled on the twin bed with low voices and the occasional giggle.

"Have you done this before?"

"No. Have you?"

She shook her head. "Uh-uh."

"And you're sure?"

Her voice dropped. "Yes. I want you to be my lover." The word felt strange on her tongue, but somehow right.

They kissed some more and were soon horizontal on the fluffy goose down. David slid his hand up her thigh. One negative image popped into his mind: Craig Stewart, pushing Allison's white formal dress up her legs while she yelled at him to stop, Jeff Mullins pinning the girl's arms behind her back...

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm here now." He gestured with his head. "Roll sideways a little."

This enabled him to get at the zipper of her velvet party dress. He pulled at it, marveling at her consent. She lifted her arms, and he raised the hem of the full skirt, helping her toward nudity; and he fell speechless.

Underneath, the burgundy lace of her bra and boy-short panties perfectly matched the shade of her dress. He murmured his awe at the beauty of her creamy skin and did his best to touch her everywhere at once.

"That tickles. And you're wearing too many clothes." She giggled and tugged at his shirt.

David needed no further encouragement. In less than sixty seconds he stripped to his underwear.

"Can I touch you?"

"Sure, yeah." He laughed a little. "Go ahead."

Allison's touch was shy at first. She looked in her boyfriend's eyes for guidance. "Like this?" She practiced the downward strokes she'd seen online. Then, boldly, she slipped her hand inside his pants. He felt hot and alive, firm, and yet the skin was so soft. She made the OK gesture with her thumb and forefinger, moving the circle up and down. The monster springing between his thighs was fascinating, a little frightening, yet hypnotically alluring.

"Yessss..." David threw back his head, moaning with pleasure. Then he grabbed her hand. "Stop."

"Did I hurt you?"

"No, no," he laughed. "I just don't want to come too soon." He blushed. "Let me touch you for a while."

In answer she guided his hands to her breasts. He peeled aside the lace cups and her nipples peeked back at him. They were lovely, a muted coral pink, exactly the same as the skin of her lips. He fell to kissing the twins, first one and then the other.

Allison writhed and grabbed the back of his head. "Harder," she moaned. "Oh god yes. Don't stop. Don't stop." The new sensation sparkled through her body like magic.

David grunted. Instinct was thundering to the fore. He kept his mouth on her breast and put one hand between her legs. She was wet, and getting wetter. Impatiently he pushed aside the satin crotch and slid his middle finger into juicy virgin territory.

Allison gave a soft scream of pleasure. This was nothing like the mouthpiece of her clarinet. True, her lover's finger was not big, but she had not counted on the sheer eroticism of the intimate touch. David moved inside her in different ways, feeling around, and Allison squirmed and begged breathlessly for more.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes-yes-yes! Oh god, yes." Then a thought occurred to her: "Do you have any protection?"

He nodded solemnly, hunting around for his wallet, and produced a condom. "Do you want to put it on me?"

"Okay... show me how."

It was easier than she expected. David got the thing started, and together they rolled it down. Their hands together on his cock nearly got the best of him. Then they figured she might bleed, so she grabbed an old band t-shirt and spread it under her hips.

The moment was upon them. Allison lay back on the bed, somewhat carefully, keeping her eyes on his. David settled himself between her open legs and rested on one forearm. He took his cock in hand and guided it to her naked curvature, feeling, feeling...

"Here." She wiggled, planting herself more squarely beneath him, and reached down to help steer him home. As the head of his cock sank in, she gasped and bit her lip.

"I'm sorry, does it hurt?" He looked concerned.

"Yes, but ... it feels so good, too ... don't stop. I don't want you to stop." Somehow the pain heightened the pleasure. The intense combination burned through her senses, a fuse hissing toward a stick of dynamite.

"I won't stop." Even through the latex, she felt so damn good. Her body enveloped his tightly in an all-around hot embrace.

Together they watched his cock glide inside her. Allison felt her heart rate pick up. Despite the pain, or perhaps in part because of it, some coiling knot of pleasure in her was threatening to spring. Her nipples were swollen and hot, the tiny peaks straining upward in full erection. She flexed her back and lifted her pelvis — a whimper fell from her mouth — and then it happened. David tore through, and they were virgins no more.

Pleasure and pain lanced through her body. She writhed hard, her entire being a fireball of agony and ecstasy. David galloped toward his own release. She looked into his eyes with a lust she had never experienced, laced with a bit of shock. He pounded into her at a frantic pace, until joy overtook him as well.

* * *

Now as he sat on the sofa where they had first started making out, David wanted more than ever to make love to Allison. He wanted to affirm their love, to somehow make sure that he was the one she would always want, not some good-looking bastard like Craig Stewart. David hated Craig, hated him for even thinking about laying hands on his girlfriend. The notion of that asshole playing in their band pissed him off no end. Swing Time had been his idea, and that idea had revolved solely around his effort to win Allie. Another man crashing the party, especially that goddamned sonofabitch who would have fucked her given thirty more seconds, galled him fiercely.

Yett here she was, talking about doing the right thing, and furthermore pushing him away when he slipped his hands under her sweatshirt. The feel of her smooth skin was a blessing to him. He could use a blessing right about now.

"Not now. My dad is right upstairs!" she hissed.

Dejected, David sat back. "And you want to do this thing, you want to let jerkwad play with us."

Her frown matched his. "I just feel like it's the right thing to do. I think he acted stupidly in the heat of the moment."

He stood to go home. "Okay, Allie, but please. Please don't be alone with him."

"I won't," she shook her head gently. "You have nothing to worry about."

* * *

Upstairs, Stan Katz was looking at an old photo album and trying not to cry. If only Emma were here, she'd know what to do, what to say.

What should he tell his daughter? How could he best protect her? The first emotion that speared his chest was anger. He seriously considered telling Allie to shut this Stewart kid down. The bastard had nearly raped her for Christ's sake!

On the other hand, he felt the true test of his faith. The boy was trying to atone. And you never, ever, cut someone off when they were seriously trying to make amends. What kind of example would that set?

That didn't mean you had to buddy up with them, though... Stan closed his eyes and sighed. Emma, Emma. Tell me how to be a good father to our girl!

He heard the front door close and figured David had just left. It was time for a father-daughter talk, and Stan hoped he didn't screw it up.