No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 07byTheScribe©
A few days after their tryst in the infirmary, Rufus called Anne into his office just before the final bell. She had only been with him once or twice since the afternoon they borrowed Nurse Hazel's infirmary, and she was feeling slightly nervous and somewhat neglected. His attentions may not have been entirely welcome, but, nevertheless, when they were diverted elsewhere, she became anxious.
Rufus was seated behind his desk, wearing his suit coat. A handkerchief, which someone had carefully folded and creased, stood pompously out of his breast pocket. His necktie, which matched the handkerchief and was obviously part of a boxed set, was snugged up under his chin, and he looked like he was determined to be nothing but business.
She wiggled into the office, and smiled, "Hi, honey, I've been wondering when you were going to call me again. I've been lonesome."
"I have an assignment for you," he began without preamble, ignoring her opening gambit. Hints of his former punctiliousness tinged his pronunciation of the words.
"Alright," she answered with some reservation. She glanced around, looking for the stack of photos, but saw none. She was puzzled by the departure from their routine, but let it pass.
"I want you to go watch Archibald Farber swim this evening." His hands were folded together on top of his desk, and his manner was cool and formal.
"Do what?" she yelped, startled at the oddity of his request and by his demeanor.
"Look, relax. It is not a big deal," he said reassuringly. "He needs to practice tonight. The big meet is next week, and he has to get ready. He'll just be doing some laps, butterfly's his specialty."
"What's that got to do with me?" she protested. She was disappointed. She had hoped he called her in for something more intimate, something a lot more interesting than going off to watch Archibald Farber, an obnoxious, self-absorbed jerk if ever there was one, practice swimming.
"There has to be a faculty member at the pool any time there's a student in the water; it's an insurance requirement."
"Well, I don't know anything about swimming."
"You can swim, can't you? Your resume says you can."
"Well, sure I can swim."
"That's all you need. He knows everything he needs to know about swimming, so you won't need to worry about teaching him anything about that."
"What am I supposed to do, then?"
"Just keep an eye on him. Be there in case anything happens and pull him out if it does."
"He's twice my size, Rufus."
"Well, hell, let him drown then, we'd all probably be better off for it. Insurance just says somebody has to be there. It doesn't say how big they are supposed to be, or that you actually have to save him. You just need to be there. He drowns and the insurance pays. Mommie and Daddy Farber collect a cool million, and he's outa our hair for good. I could get used to that idea."
"Relax. Just a thought. The kid's trouble. Has been from the day he arrived. What is he, anyway, twenty? He's doing his second year of postgraduate work in high school for Pete's sake. Have you ever heard of such a thing?"
"No, actually, I haven't. It is kind of odd."
"`Odd's' way too generous. It's downright weird. I can't understand for the life of me why Nancy doesn't just pack him off to college somewhere and let him drive somebody else nuts for a while. Hell, he's just wasting his time here; we ran out of courses for him to take last year, so all he does is hang around and pick on the little guys and brag to the older ones about all his sexual conquests. I bet I get three calls a day from parents complaining about something that kid has done to one of their children."
"Maybe his folks are trying to get his grades up so he can get accepted somewhere."
"Oh pullleassse," Rufus moaned in disbelief. "That dumbass could stay here for five years with you taking every test for him, and it wouldn't do him any good. You think I haven't doctored his transcript for him? Hell, girl, I doctored it so much it's about to overdose on `A's' and `B's,' but it didn't help; his problem is he can't pop better than an 8 on the ACT, so most colleges won't touch him with a ten foot pole."
"So what is his mother hoping to accomplish by keeping him here?"
"You tell me. Ask him, maybe he'll tell you. I told her a hundred times, there's nothing more we can do here to improve his chances, but she just laughs and tells me to keep trying."
"I think he's the one who stole our underwear."
Rufus leaned back and looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. "That wouldn't surprise me in the least."
"And, I think she put him up to it."
Rufus looked at her a little closer. "Now, why on earth would she do a thing like that?"
"I just might do that, but you tell me first, before I run off half cocked and put my foot in it."
"Alright, Rufus. Remember those pictures you like so much? The ones with the Vaseline, and the boys standing around me in a circle?"
"Yeah, yeah." Rufus blushed at her reference to the Vaseline. "What's that got to do with Nancy Farber?"
"Not much, really. Just that one of those boys standing there was Cletus' and Nadeen's son."
Rufus' jaw dropped perceptibly when the implications of that revelation settled on him. He jerked back in his chair and gasped, "That's ridiculous, Anne, we're talking about Nancy Farber, here, the mayor's wife, for God's sake."
"I'm sure you're right, Rufus. Just my imagination working overtime," she replied insincerely.
"You're damn right, I'm right about that," he replied self-assuredly. "Speaking of overtime, though, you need to get out of here and down to the pool. He'll be waiting for you, by now."
She turned to leave, but he called her back. "Say, do you have a swim suit?"
"Well, yeah, I guess so. I have the suit I wear to the tanning salon. It's out in my car. Why? You don't expect me to get in the water with him, do you?"
"I guess you better put it on when you go down there. Insurance policy says the person standing by has to be dressed in quote, `proper life-saving attire.' The lawyer says that means a swim suit."
"Rufus?" She began nervously. "Do you think that's such a good idea?"
"It's a better one than him drowning down there with you standing around in pants and high heels, and the insurance refusing to pay the claim just cause you weren't dressed properly."
"Alright, Rufus, but I think I'm going to regret this."
"Quit worrying and get down there. Last time coach was late, Archie called his mother, and she bitched me out for a week."
"Coach!" she shot back, realizing she had forgotten about the swim coach. "Why isn't the coach watching him, instead of me?"
"Outa town. All week. Coaching seminar. Now go, dammit."
* * *
She was right, naturally. She had experience, and her instincts were good; she did come to regret that she accepted the assignment. She wound her way down to the lower level of the sports annex, that three million dollar monstrosity the Parents' Club had funded and built behind the main school building. The annex housed, among many other sports facilities, an Olympic sized pool, which was located in the lowest level of the building. The pool was enclosed closely on all sides by low windowless walls. It was divided into swimming lanes by ropes, and there were ladders on either side at both ends. There was no diving board, and there were no seats for spectators. It was strictly for training swimmers, and it was immediately apparent to even the most casual observer that the driving force on the Parents' Club didn't have the interests of more than one or two of the students in mind when the pool was designed.
Anne slipped into the women's bathroom to change, more than a little annoyed at the lack of women's dressing facilities. She hung her clothes over the wall of the toilet stall, and put on her suit. She smoothed her hair with her fingers and turned to check herself in the mirror. At least they put mirrors in the ladies room, she thought. She frowned at her reflection. Darn, if only Rufus had given her some warning, she would have brought something more appropriate, less revealing. Her swimsuit didn't cover much; it was made for tanning, not swimming, and tanning in a private tanning booth, at that. She tugged at the cups of her top in a futile attempt to cover more of her breasts, but there was just so much fabric available, and in the end, she had to be content with the fact that at least her nipples were covered. She glanced down and shook her head woefully. Curly pubic hairs were exposed on both sides of the tiny triangle covering her down there. Shoulda shaved, she thought absently, then giggled, remembering that she never had shaved herself. Oh well, we'll just have to manage as best we can, she thought, and reached to tuck the stray hairs back where they belonged.
She pirouetted, assessing her figure in the mirror and patted her tummy smugly. Not too shabby, she thought at the sight of her wide flaring hips and full bust, her sensuous, lithe curves, turning gracefully in the glass. She stooped and picked up her purse, extracting a tube of lipstick. She uncapped the tube and swept a bright line of red across her upper lip, then, pressing her lips together, transferred some color to her lower lip. She dabbed a spot of lipstick on each cheek and spread it around with the heel of her hand to bring out a little blush, and then, quickly for she was late and hurrying, freshened the dark line of her eyeliner. Taking one last look, she tugged selfconsciously at the waistband of her suit and stepped through the door.
She pushed through the heavy metal, double doors separating the pool enclosure from the main hall and was nearly knocked back by the heat and humidity. Jeez, she thought, waving her hand back and forth in front of her face like a windshield wiper, it's like a steam bath in here. It was also poorly lit, because someone had turned off all but a single row of overhead lights and the lone green indicator light on the lap counter across the pool, which showed the lane being used and the swimmer's splits. Economy, she grumbled, Rufus would replace all the light bulbs with candles, if he thought he could save a buck or two on the electric. She heard splashing and spotted movement at the far end of the pool. She walked toward the noise being careful to avoid the edge. The walkway between the pool and the wall was narrow, and several folding chairs were lined up along the wall and were nearly blocking her way. She squinted in the gloom and could just see Archie making his turn at the end of the lap. She sat down on one of the folding chairs and immediately recoiled. Ugh, she thought, the damn thing's wet. She looked at the others, and they too were wet with standing water in the seats. She hadn't realized she was about to sit in a puddle. The condensate was cold and uncomfortable, and her suit soaked it up like a wick. Archie churned past, about fifteen feet out, in the third swim lane, without acknowledging her arrival. Darn, she thought, glancing down at her swimsuit bottom. The thin fabric had soaked through and was clinging to her curves. She felt an instant kinship to a contestant in a wet tee shirt contest, when she realized, in dismay, that her suit bottom had become nearly transparent, and she plucked selfconsciously at the fabric to detach it. It was tight, however, and elastic, and merely snapped back exposing her again just as soon as she released it. She gave up in disgust and crossed her legs to conceal herself.
The clock on the lap counter across the pool told her it was nearly five. She fidgeted on the hard metal seat. He had been beating the water for twenty minutes without a break, and she was becoming restless. She wished she had brought a book, or papers to grade, or something to break the monotony. She had quickly tired of watching Archie practice his backstroke technique. Inexperienced though she was, it was pretty obvious to her that the kid was going to need a lot more practice if he was going to do any good at the meet next week. His arms were beating the water like a couple of out of sync propellers running amuck, and he wandered erratically from side to side, sometimes crossing two or three lanes in just the length of the pool. She made a mental note to ask him how long he had been competing in backstroke competitions, cause he was swimming tonight like this was his first time in the water.
He swam a few minutes longer and seemed to tire. His pace, though never particularly fast, slowed perceptibly, and, when he reached the end of the last lap, he was barely moving in the water. Anne leaned toward the pool, slightly concerned that he might go under, and readied herself to leap in after him. He made it, in spite of appearances, and threw his arms up on the ledge running around the perimeter of the pool. He hung from the side, resting his weight on his forearms, regaining his breath for a minute or two. He was fifty or sixty feet away, and she probably would have been unable to see him at all were it not for the bright, florescent red swim cap he was wearing, which beamed through the mists like a beacon on a buoy. She glanced at the clock and thought, good, maybe I'll make it home by six after all, and, almost on cue, Archie slipped off the side and swam to the ladder in the corner. He climbed out of the water with his back to her and walked to a chair against the wall, where some towels were lying. He picked up a towel, a large, white one, shook it out, and threw it over his shoulders without bothering to dry himself. He picked up another towel, brown or beige, she couldn't tell for sure, and tucked it under his arm, then turned and started walking around the pool toward her.
He was nearly to the double doors, where she had entered, before she could see him clearly. He was a big boy, she thought. More than six feet tall, and lean, somewhere around 180 pounds, she guessed. He hadn't removed the swimming cap, and his swimming goggles were perched on his forehead, held in place by an elastic band. Water was still streaming off him, and he was leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him. She glanced at his chest and belly and was mildly surprised at the definition of his abdominal muscles. Maybe he did more swimming than she had given him credit for, she thought casually, and her eyes dropped to his trunks. They were black, Lycra Speedo's, the kind Olympic swimmers wear, the kind that look like second skin and fit so tight that you could read heads or tails on a dime in the pocket if there was one. He walked toward her casually, almost arrogantly, materializing out of the hazy gloom like an image in a slowly focusing camera lens.
He was twenty feet from her when she noticed the bulge in his trunks, and turned away pretending to look at the clock. He was fifteen feet away when she looked at him again. The bulge was larger, more prominent, and she forced her eyes downward toward the floor. He was ten feet away and entering the circle of her peripheral vision; she snuck a peak out of the corner of her eye.
My God, she thought, he's huge. His wet trunks sagged under his weight; the dark material hung down below his crotch like a sock full of rocks. The weight of him pulled the elastic leg bands away exposing flashes of groin and pubic hair.
He was closing quickly, pushing the intervening chairs out of his way and approaching her purposefully. She was nearly staring at him in her amazement. No wonder he couldn't swim fast, she smirked, what with having to drag that anchor up and down the pool. He was just a few feet away, about to stop in front of her, and she could not take her eyes off of him. She gaped and thought, astonishing, and took the measure of him through his wet trunks. Her eyes gauged the breadth of him, and she marveled. He stopped when he was close and stood with his hands on his hips, displaying himself to her with no wisp of self-consciousness, saying nothing.
She looked at him, mentally measuring, weighing, sizing him up with her eyes, and knew she was taking too long to finish, but she was powerless to look away. She was the rabbit, and there was her snake. She was paralyzed, unable to move or flee, and the snake slithered closer and prepared to strike.
His size was clearly apparent even under the wet cloth of his suit, and he was bulging out at her obscenely. She struggled to turn her attention elsewhere. She had seen similar men, even had one or two, but none were anything like this boy. Cletus had been big, sure, and proud of it, and Johnny, too, he was even bigger than Cletus, but they didn't have what Archie was packing. There had been big ones in the videos Nadeen showed the boys to get them excited, and some of them had been huge for sure, but, still, and just to be certain she looked closely at Archie and at the bulbous knob of dark fabric that delineated the head of his coiled snake, they didn't look like this, she acknowledged in awe.
"You want some of that, teacher?"
The sound of his voice was like the slap of a cold washrag across her face, and she snapped her head up toward the source. Her eyes sparkled with indignation. She didn't like this boy at all. She had heard things about him and none of them were complimentary. Her students feared him because he bullied them, and they hated him for ridiculing them mercilessly.
She threw her shoulders back and stiffened her spine. Her chin jutted out pugnaciously, and she snapped, "I beg your pardon, young man." As soon as she said it, she felt a little foolish because there were only a few years between them, but, still, she had to establish control of the situation.
"You didn't hear me, teacher? I asked if you wanted some of what you were looking at." His manner was cool and calculating, and repulsed her, and she thought it was appropriate that he looked like a prick too, standing there with that silly cap on his head.
"Archibald Farber!" She was shrill in her fury and clipped the syllables of his name. "You better mind how you speak to me."
"Or, you'll do what, teacher?" He was taunting her, and she knew it.
"Or, I'll march you up to the Headmaster's office, and you'll find out what happens to impudent, disrespectful children in this school." She was seething and made no attempt to conceal her displeasure.
"What for, teacher, just cause I caught you staring at my cock?"
She wanted more than anything in the world to reach out and slap the smirk off his insolent face, but she controlled the urge and replied in measured, flat tones that were, at the edges, rife with her disdain, "No, Archibald, because you are a disrespectful, disagreeable little prick." The words had no sooner than left her lips than she regretted them; what an unfortunate choice of terms she thought.
He smiled triumphantly, and she crumbled slightly. "It ain't no `little prick,' now is it, teacher?" While speaking, he dipped his hand into his trunks and pushed them aside, unfurling the standard of his masculinity. It was dark and thick, and it hung from his hand like a fire hose waiting to fill with water from the hydrant. He shook it, and it swung heavily between his legs and drooped nearly to his knees.
She jerked back, and the metal feet of her chair screeched against the concrete apron of the pool. Shocked at his brazenness, she gasped, and struggled desperately to regain control of the situation, but the sheer size of him overpowered her thoughts. My God, look at that thing; it was her nasty voice dogpaddling toward her through the murky waters of her subconscious.
She tore her eyes away from the appendage swinging in front of her, and shook her finger at his face, "Archibald Farber, you put that thing away right this minute." Her nasty voice followed in a singsong, schoolyard, chanting taunt, you didn't call it a `nasty' thing, and she blushed for having missed the opportunity.