Chapter Eleven – Flirtations

Marcus left Hope Place feeling angry that there were men who would exploit young boys just for their own sexual pleasures. He remembered vividly an old video that he saw in his sociology class, called “The Culture of Justice,” which showed clips from the 1950s Army-McCarthy hearings in which the attorney Joseph Welch looked at Senator Joe McCarthy and said with contempt, “Have you no sense of decency, sir?” Had those men who apparently were wealthy no shame?

Amy and Latesha shared in Marcus’ anger when he related Jefferson’s story to them later that day.

“Apparently, these guys were successful businessmen types, all well-dressed and polished,” Marcus said. “How could they?”

“Those poor boys,” Latesha said. “They are so sad and vulnerable. Often, picked on by their families, other kids and just about everyone and then to be taken such advantage of. I could castrate all of them.”

“I’ll hold them down, Latesha, while you wield the knife,” Amy said.

“Those mother-fuckers!” Latesha cursed.

If it weren’t so tragic, Marcus felt he’d want to laugh. He’d never heard such language coming from either of them; they were always thoughtful and reasonable in their discourse; yet, here they were cursing like longshoremen. He couldn’t blame them since these men of privilege deserved the worst that a civilized society could give them, and then some.

“Should we call Sgt. Simbach or Officer Jelacic?” Marcus asked.

“Maybe not yet since you seem to be able to get Jefferson to talk,” Amy said.

“You don’t want to spook the kid,” Latesha added.

“And we need to find out about that second incident, too,” Amy said.

“I still think the Harrisons are mixed up in this,” Marcus added.

“Yeah, it’s good we got him out of there, and we’ll have to have Melody and Larry removed from that house immediately,” Amy said, indicating that she’d be contacting the State’s child welfare bureau to remove the three children to safer places.

“It won’t be easy to find other places for those three,” Latesha said. “There are few foster homes for such troubled teens.”

“I know,” Amy agreed, “but it’s got to be done.”

*****
Amy and Marcus sat together at Crandall Field, one of the city’s premier recreation fields, watching the Flashes in the city women’s league softball championship game. It was a warm late August night and Marcus was there as Miranda, wearing a light blue tank top and shorts that revealed his slender legs; Amy was similarly dressed. Because of the large crowd that had jammed into the small stands surrounding the field, the two were pressed together, their thighs unavoidably touching.

They were there to root for their friends, Latesha in center field and Mollie playing second base, for the team that represented the local chapter of the National Association of Social Workers. Even though the night was warm, the players on both teams wore striped pants, rather than the shorts they wore earlier in the year. Mollie explained that since the team had unexpectedly qualified for the championship that they had begun to take the game seriously. “We need to wear long pants in case we have to slide on the base paths or dive to field a ball,” she said.

“Yeah, we need to show the girls from the tractor works that social workers aren’t just a bunch of namby-pambys,” Latesha added.

To be sure, the girls from the other team, fittingly nicknamed the “Tractors,” looked tougher; they were mainly husky young women who were loud and enthusiastic. They were defending champions and the more diminutive looking Flashes looked like a poor match.

Yet, the game was close, due mainly to the skill of the Flashes pitcher, Marni Cjaka, alias the “Crusher,” whose fast pitching style bamboozled the Tractors’ batters. The Flashes had little success as well against the Tractors pitcher, a tall girl called simply “Bullet,” perhaps because her pitches came with the speed of a bullet.

Going into the sixth inning, the Flashes led, 2-0, having scored in the fifth after Crusher who had been batting got to first base on a dropped third strike by the catcher. She moved to second after stealing a base and then to third base on an error by the shortstop. Latesha came up; so far, she had been the only Flashes batter who had been able to hit Bullet’s pitches into the outfield. With a count of two strikes against her, the young man who had crammed in next to Marcus yelled out, “Latesha, you can hit her. She’s throwing wiffle balls. Go girl.”

Bullet wound up and threw her next pitch; there was a loud crack of the bat and the ball rose high in the sky.

“Go, go, go,” yelled a young man who was sitting on the other side of Marcus. The young man had said “hi” when he plopped himself down at the start of the game and Marcus realized that his cute girl persona might have stimulated the man. He tried to ignore the man’s periodic furtive glances, but it became more difficult as the game wore on. As Latesha’s ball soared up and over the outfielder’s head, the young man stood up, cheering loudly.

All wrapped up in the excitement Marcus and Amy also stood, and Marcus squealed as the ball sailed over the fence, “A home run!”

He jumped and hugged Amy. The young man next to Marcus, a mountain of blonde manhood, turned and hugged Marcus, who felt smothered in his grasp. He only came up to the young man’s shoulders and Marcus could smell his manly sweat and it was intoxicating.

“You know Latesha?” he asked when the excitement settled down.

“I work with her at Opportunities,” Marcus said.

“She’s quite a ballplayer,” he said.

“You know her?”

“Marni is my sister, y’know, the pitcher. Met Latesha while working with the team in practice.”

“Nice,” Marcus said.

The man began talking about the game and then about his family of athletes before asking about Marcus’ work. It turned out the young man also was a social worker employed as a counselor at the county jail.

“You play ball?” he asked Marcus as the game wore on.

“No hardly,” Marcus laughed, knowing how totally inept he was at the game.

“I guess you wouldn’t,” he said, looking at Marcus’ slender frame.

The Flashes won the game and the championship, beating the Tractors, 2-1. The Tractor girls were great losers, coming over to hug the Flashes when the game ended. Both teams and many of their fans gravitated to Bottoms Up, a large sports bar where the Flashes would cheer over their beer and the Tractors would moan and groan.

It was there that the brother of Crusher sidled up next to Marcus, much to Amy’s displeasure, and began a conversation. Before the night ended, Marcus had given him his phone number. He had no doubt he’d call sometime, and Marcus immediately felt guilty. What would he do if the man asked Marcus, whom he knew only as Miranda, out for a date? Marcus left the bar that night, musing about being Miranda and being the girl in the arms of a man he knew only as Marni’s brother and that his name was Peter.

*****
That night, at Amy’s apartment, Marcus and Amy showered off the sweat and steamed out their alcohol-stuffed systems. Together, of course. They had grown to enjoy each other’s bodies with Marcus finding Amy’s firm flesh a pleasure to caress while she seemed to relish his own soft fragility.

“You’re still mad at me, aren’t you, Amy?” Marcus asked when as they lay together, naked of course. Only a light sheet covered them; neither one liked air conditioning and were content to having the window in Amy’s bedroom open to allow the slight evening breeze to bring a degree of comfort. They could hear the traffic some nine stories below, along with occasional sirens.

“You were flirting with Peter. What the hell was on your mind?” Amy responded.

“I was not. He just wanted to talk.”

“My God, you were flashing those big blue eyes at him, Miranda,” she exclaimed, pushing herself away from Marcus.

“I was not. He’s fun to talk to, that’s all, Amy,” he protested.

“Damn I hate you pretty girls,” she said.

“Amy, enough of that. How many times must I tell you how lovely you are? Besides I thought you didn’t like guys,” Marcus replied, wondering why she was so upset by the casual conversation he had with Peter. Yet, Marcus was happy she didn’t see him give out his phone number; then she really would have been pissed.

“Well, I like you and you’re a guy,” she said, breaking out in low laughter.

“But . . . but . . .”

“Well, you’re really not much of a guy,” she said, her laughter dwindling into snickers. “Don’t you see I love you Miranda?”

Marcus froze at the mention of love; Amy had never even suggested that she felt so strongly about him. Their relationship had truly been one of convenience, he thought, giving both some needed hugs and opportunities to fulfill their sexual passions. It had been nothing more. Besides Marcus considered himself a freak, half-male and half-female, still uncertain as to his future. He felt most likely he would eventually live as a woman; that seemed assured. Yet, he couldn’t envision having a lifetime partner, a love-interest, of either sex.

Perhaps if Marcus had ever found love in his screwed-up life, it would be Amy. No one before had expressed much desire for him until Amy came along. Both shared much in common, even though they differed in many ways. No, he wasn’t ready for a commitment and Amy with her jealous reaction to his conversation with Peter appeared to want to create just such a life-long commitment, perhaps even marriage.

Marcus remembered, too, Amy’s earlier reaction to his mentions of Heddy, that is, Officer Jelacic. Amy seemed to bristle or make some gratuitous comment whenever he mentioned the police officer’s name, as if he were in a romantic relationship with her. Marcus had to admit he had grown to like Heddy greatly and truly enjoyed working with her, and the idea of romance had entered his mind, but he usually rejected the thought as being ridiculous and fanciful.

“We’re only colleagues who work well together, Amy, and nothing more,” Marcus tried to convince her.

As the night wore on and they found comfort in each other’s arms, Marcus felt Amy may have become convinced of his own affection for her. But, could it be love?

*****
It wasn’t until the Labor Day weekend, more than a week after Jefferson told Marcus about his first nightly experience as a would-be prostitute, that he found time to visit Jefferson at Hope Place. His schedule had been loaded with home visits, along with a few court encounters, plus exhausting bouts of completing the innumerable online forms required by the state. Marcus felt bad about neglecting the boy, but he had little choice. Nonetheless, he had time to call Jefferson occasionally, having made arrangements with Tatiana at Hope Place to get through the switchboard, since such calls from outsiders were usually blocked, due both to security and treatment reasons.

Jefferson kept insisting he was OK, but Marcus could sense he was still afraid of something. Tatiana assured him that the agency was keeping a close eye on the boy so that he wouldn’t do something to hurt himself. Jefferson had complained about the fact that they had taken belts and shoelaces or anything else that could be used to hurt himself from his room. There also were no razors, scissors and knives in the room.

“I’m not going to do anything foolish,” he protested. “I need to tell you more, Marcus.”

*****
Marcus got up early on Saturday morning, hoping to get his laundry and other necessary chores done by ten o’clock when he was scheduled to meet up with Jefferson. Of course, he had a mixture of male and female clothes to wash and dry; actually, there were more panties and bras and camis in his wash than briefs and tee shirts. He always figured he would tell anyone who was curious about the women’s stuff in the laundry that it was stuff for a fictional sister or a girlfriend (unless he could mean Amy).

The weird thing about Labor Day weekend in the area’s climate is that you never know what the weather will be like; some of the holiday weekends have been downright frigid and a grim reminder of the six months of chilly weather to come, while other weekends have been hot as the tropics. This particular Labor Day weekend promised to be hot and stifling. The morning sun was intense as Jefferson and Marcus walked into the patio area at Hope Place. They were fortunate to find that the bench at the shady edge of the small wooded area was vacant.

“This so pleasant here. I could sit here forever,” Jefferson said softly.

Marcus knew the boy had never been out of the city, had never experienced the scent of wildflowers or newly mown hay, or had never wandered into a forest and heard the chipmunks and squirrels scamper through dead leaves. Marcus told himself that someday he’d drive to the State Forest that was located not too many miles out of the city.

“Jefferson, you wanted to tell me more,” Marcus reminded him. “Are you ready?”

He nodded. “Hold my hand,” he said. Marcus took his hand; it was cold and clammy. He needed reassurance and Marcus felt it necessary to hold his hand, even though it might look like a compromising action to a passerby.

He continued his story.

“After I got back to the Harrison house, Mama was really nice to me. She bought me several cute dresses and a really pretty ‘baby-doll” nightgown. I continued to help her out with the household chores, just like I was her daughter. In fact, she said to me, ‘Margot, honey, I’m not sure if I had a natural daughter she’d be as sweet as you are to help out so much.’ I liked being complimented.

“And Melody really helped me with my makeup, though Mama Harrison sometimes said she made me look like a slut. I didn’t want to look like a slut. I wanted to be a nice girl, but I really didn’t think Melody was doing too bad a job. Sometimes, Mama argued with me over how much makeup we’d use. It was like Melody and I were sisters. I really liked that.

“One day, Mama told me she had a special treat for me and that if I continued to be a ‘good girl,’ that was the phrase she used, I’d get a chance to go to a place where I would be able to get some training for my ballet and even be provided with good quality ballet shoes. I asked for more information, since I was beginning to feel weird about all this talk about ‘someplace special,’ and I remembered it was Papa Harrison that left me in the hands of those awful men. But Mama was treating me so nice, I could hardly say ‘no,’ and besides I only had some old ballet shoes and it was impossible to practice going on pointe.

“Then one night, she had me dress up in a pretty skirt and blouse – the same clothes I was wearing that night when you picked me up in the park. She told me I looked really lovely in that outfit. I liked it, too. I liked being dressed like an ordinary girl, you know, like a girl going to school.”

Marcus nodded, signifying that her understood Jefferson’s feeling. Except for the fact that she (yes, Marcus was beginning to think of Jefferson now in female terms) was quite unkempt and messy-looking that night when he found her hiding in the woods, he could see that she could be a lovely young girl.

Jefferson stopped in his narrative as a slender Hispanic boy and a chunky woman (likely the boy’s mother or aunt) wandered down the path toward them. Jefferson greeted the boy, “Hi Jorge,” and the lad responded with a quick, ready smile, “Jeffsie, how’s it hanging, man?”

“You’re making friends here, Jefferson?” Marcus queried after the pair passed.

“A few. I hang out with Jorge quite a bit,” Jefferson replied. “That’s just a friend of his mother’s. She died. Jorge is sort of alone. He’s not very happy, and I try to cheer him up.”

“Good,” Marcus said, patting Jefferson on his hand. He was pleased to see Jefferson’s unselfish response to another boy’s troubles.

Jefferson resumed his story, explaining that Papa Harrison drove him to the parking lot of a community center where he was then transferred to what appeared to be the same black car that had taken him to the house on the night of his first encounter. Again, Jefferson was blindfolded; it wasn’t removed until he was in the same mansion.

“I tried to protest, saying it wasn’t necessary to blindfold me, but the men didn’t say anything,” he continued. “They just kept driving ‘til we got to the house. I was scared, really scared again. How could this be a ballet practice? I suspected Papa Harrison had betrayed me again and Mama, too. How could they?

“But, just as I was about to panic, they led down to a lower level in the house where there was this huge gym, with lots of exercise machines, you know, treadmills and bikes and weights. But best of all, there was a barre along a wall that was all mirror – floor to ceiling. This was a real ballet setup. I’d never been to one before. And there was a man down there in a ballet outfit. He said his name was Dimitri Petrovsky, my trainer for the night. And Mr. Petrovsky treated me as a ballerina.”

Jefferson smiled as he related this part of the story.

“He led me into a small locker room, with a shower, and helped me get into a leotard. Then, he provided me with really nice slippers and Mr. Petrovsky said he was going to make me dance like Maria in ‘West Side Story.’ I loved the outfit and was so excited that I momentarily forgot my fear. And, you know, I looked like a sweet teenaged girl.

“And it was strange, he knew all about me, that I had done some dancing and wanted to do ballet. First, he showed me a clip from a video of the movie, where Natalie Wood plays Maria and dances in the basement of the tenement. He said he wanted me to dance to that song. I think it’s called ‘I Feel Pretty.’ Then he worked with me and we set up a short dance duplicating some of the routines of that dance. He really pushed me and I got real tired. Then he led me back to the locker room and I had to shower and he produced a schoolgirl outfit, complete with a plaid skirt and white blouse. And, he made up my face like I was going be dancing in a real show. I’ve never looked so . . . ah . . . divine.

“He told me I was going to perform that dance now before a small audience and that I shouldn’t be afraid. He said I had done well in our practice and he knew the audience would like it. He even whispered to me that the men in the audience didn’t know anything about ballet. ‘Just be graceful and girly and they’ll like you,’ he said with a wink.

“Now I was really scared and I led upstairs into what appeared to be a small theater, with a little raised stage. There were lounge chairs and sofas occupied by about a half dozen men – I think some were the same men I saw the first night, including the man who attacked me. The men all looked at me and smiled as they led me to a small room behind the stage.

“And in that small room there were four other girls, including Pansy and Prissy who I recognized from the first night. The men told me I was not to talk and when I nodded at Pansy, she didn’t even respond. It was weird. It was all silent.

“Finally, one of the men told all of us that when we finished our performances, we were to circulate among the men and if one of them wanted it we were to sit on their laps. I objected and started to argue, but the biggest guy just slapped me across the face, not hard, I guess he didn’t want to hit me too hard so that it would show. But I could tell I better shut up. And I did.

“While we waited, I looked around the room, I saw a door in the back. I had noticed it was slightly open so it wasn’t locked, I thought. I didn’t know where it led, might only be a closet, but I wondered if I could escape that way.

“Anyway, I decided maybe I should play along with these guys. They could hurt me, I knew. Besides, how was I to fight back? I started to flirt with the big guy that hit me. He was sort of good looking and younger. He responded as if to tell me he was sorry he had to slap me, I guess. I even sidled up against him and he smiled at me.

“I was the last girl to perform.”

Marcus smiled, finding pleasure in hearing Jefferson talk of himself and the others as “girls,” even though the boy had told me earlier that he knew the four others were also boys, though all were as slender, soft and girlish as he was.

“Did the others dance, too?” Marcus asked.

“No,” he replied. “Pansy sang ‘A Tisket, A Tasket,’ and sounded just like Ella. She was great. Prissy did a short comedy routine and she sounded so girly. The other two girls did a dance routine and after each girl finished, I could hear the men applaud and cheer and ask them to ‘come on and sit here, dear.’

“I could see the girls’ performance on stage, and when they finished their routines they all stepped off the stage and went to sit with one of the men. No way was I going to do that; I’d probably be set up with the asshole from the first night and after what I did with him, I doubted he’d be very nice to me. I figured I’d give it a try to escape the ordeal and devised a plan. It probably wouldn’t work, but I had to try something.

“Then it was my turn to perform and the big guy, you know the guy I was flirting with, he was the only man backstage with us and he announced each performance. I couldn’t figure him out, he was obviously just one of the guards, I guess, but he seemed smart, like he’d been to college or something. Anyway, he announced me as ‘Candi,’ and said I was going to do a routine from “West Side Story.” I could hear the men groan ‘cause I guess they wanted a striptease or something lewd. But as I danced out on stage, I paused before the guard and then kissed him on the cheek, drawing cheers from the men. The guard blushed and in that moment, I charged off stage and out that open door I had spied earlier, praying that it led to freedom.

“I guess they were surprised because I was out the door and through a short hallway to an outside entrance before they must have realized I was running away. It looked like the outside door led to a small loading dock and I ran around a big garage and into the woods. It was only then I heard the men chasing after me, but I was already hidden by the bushes. I got all scratched and it was dark and I stumbled and fell a few times and soon came to a fence that lined the property; I was able to get over it, but I tore my outfit, as you saw.

“There was a road and across that street was another woods and I darted into it. I could hear those guys after me, but I found some real dense bushes and hid in there. They came within feet of me a couple of times, but I just curled up into a ball, hoping they’d not see me. I could hear them cuss, calling me a ‘bitch,’ ‘whore,’ ‘sissy’ and such. But they didn’t see me. I was glad my dance outfit wasn’t white, like it probably should have been. If it had been white, I’m sure I would have been seen.

“I must have hidden there for over an hour. I got cold and shivered, even though it was a warm night and bugs crawled on me and I got a few bites, but I didn’t dare move.”

“Finally, I heard one of the men say that they’d better give up. He said they were in a public park and that if the cops showed up there might be trouble. Another one said, ‘Let her go. No one would believe a whore. Besides, if she talks, she’ll be in trouble. The Harrisons have her under control.’”

“You heard that?” Marcus interrupted.

“Yes, they were just a few feet away from me. I was shocked. I had begun to love the Harrisons. It was the first foster home I’d been in where I was treated nicely. I trusted them. It just shows I can’t trust nobody. Not even you.”

Jefferson looked at Marcus sharply and then began to cry. Marcus wanted to protest to say he was wrong, but realized that at that point whatever he said would be taken wrong. He just needed to be hugged. Which Marcus did.

*****
“Do you believe the boy’s story?” Amy asked Marcus. He went to her apartment in the early afternoon, just a couple of hours after leaving Jefferson. He was worried about the boy and told the staff at Hope Place to be sure to keep an eye on him since he appeared to be troubled. Marcus was fairly confident they would; like so many of the staff at the agencies that handled young people, the folks truly cared for the kids, even though they tended to be short-staffed and underpaid.

“Of course,” he said. “The boy poured out the story, occasionally hesitating and tearing up. He even outright cried several times through the story. It just sounded too sincere to me.”

“But he could be just a very good actor,” she replied.

“No way, Amy. It was coming from the heart.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Miranda,” she said, using Marcus’ girl’s name. For the rest of the day, he was to be Miranda. Because it was a nice, sunny, warm day, the two were to meet Mollie and Latesha at Shoreview Park for an afternoon picnic. He and Amy were preparing potato salad and other snacks along with some ham and cheese sandwiches while the other two girls were to bring the drinks, most likely wine and beer.

“I asked Jefferson if he’d repeat the story to the police,” Marcus said. “But he wasn’t too sure he wanted to.”

“He’s scared, isn’t he?”

“Yes, scared of what they might do to him if they located him. He said the guys were big and tough and mean. And he’s not ready to trust anyone. He’s trusting me, but he’s still wary.”

Amy shook her head. “I don’t know if we’ll get to the bottom of this, but we have to, Miranda. Apparently, we’re dealing with a pedophile ring here and it must involve wealthy and influential perverts. If Jefferson’s right, they’re violating any fragile boys they can find.”

“I know, but I think if we’re gentle with Jefferson, he’ll tell his story to the authorities.”

For the next few minutes, they dealt with mixing the mayonnaise, potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, bacon bits, veggies and spices into the potato salad. “Yummy,” Amy said, as she sampled the finished salad.

“You said he called you on his cell phone, Miranda, right?” she asked.

“Yes, he did.”

“But how could he have kept a cell phone on his person while changing into the tutu and where would he keep it?”

Marcus laughed. “Stuffed into his fake boobs.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, as he told me, he was not too sure of what the Harrisons had in mind for him and he wanted to be prepared. His cell is just a tiny one that he uses just for phoning and he was able to place it into the padding of his breast forms.”

“Wow. I was beginning to think this was all a setup, but it seems the kid was being careful. Lucky for him.”

“Yeah, he had even programmed my cell phone number into his phone so he could call quickly.”

Amy smiled. “I think you’ve got his trust, Miranda.”

*****
Mollie and Latesha had already arrived at Shoreview Park and had been lucky enough to have found an unoccupied picnic table right at the edge of the sandy beach. The parking lot was nearly full when Amy and Marcus drove up, wondering if they’d be able to find a spot to picnic among all of the families that were taking advantage on what likely would be the last warm weekend before the autumn chill claimed the area. The city abutted Lake Michigan and Shoreview was on the eastern shore, always offering lovely sunsets if you were there at dusk.

“Wow, you look like jail bait,” Latesha exclaimed as Amy and Marcus approached with their baskets of goodies.

“Who? Me?” Marcus said, doing a flirtatious wiggle for her.

“Yes, you. God, you look like you’re fifteen,” she said.

He smiled and sat down next to her, giving her a peck on the cheek. He was wearing tight shorts and a tank top. Amy had fixed his hair in pigtails and Marcus guessed that helped to add to the illusion.

“You’re getting cuter every day, Miranda,” Mollie gushed.

“Enough, enough,” he said. “All of you looked just as cute, and I see we’ve attracted more than a few looks from guys around us.”

Latesha giggled. “Don’t sell yourself short, Miranda. I’ll bet that before the day is done, some pimply-faced high school kid will hit on you.”

“Well I do have my standards,” Marcus said, giggling in a cute teen-girl manner.

Marcus was glad he didn’t take Latesha up on her bet; within a half hour, a gangly boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen ambled up; he singled Marcus out among the girls and said that they were putting together a boy-girl volleyball game. “We need another girl on our team,” the boy, looking at Marcus. “Wanna play?”

The boy blushed as he said he was sorry for being so forward, but that he came with three other friends with their girlfriends and that he was alone. “My girlfriend broke up with me last week,” he said. “I’d like it if you’d just play with us.”

“I can’t. I’m with my friends, besides I’m no good at volleyball,” Marcus said.

“It’s just for fun,” he said. “I don’t think your friends would mind.”

“No, we wouldn’t, Miranda,” Latesha said, a mischievous grin covering her face. “Go, have some fun.”

“Yeah, go, Miranda, but she’s right, she’s no good at sports,” Mollie said, suppressing a giggle.

Marcus looked at Amy, hoping she’d say that he shouldn’t play, but she surprised me. “Go, make a fool of yourself, Miranda.”

He played the game, pathetically, of course. The other three girls were passable players. The teams had two couples on each side. Marcus was teamed with Michael, the gangly boy who invited him, and a boy named Josh and his girlfriend, Melissa. Thanks to the pathetic play of Marcus, his team lost all three matches.

Michael was a nice boy, very solicitous of Marcus’ ineptitude. He said he and his friends all went to Monroe High School; Marcus kept my own identity vague, stating, “I’m from up north and I’m visiting my auntie. She’s the short woman over there.”

He blushed with the lie he just told, but figured it was plausible since he was dressed so that he could easily be a sixteen-year-old girl.

As Marcus left to return to his friends, the boy, Michael, wondered if he could call Miranda sometime. “Sorry, Michael, but I have a boyfriend back home.”

“OK, he’s a lucky guy,” Michael said. He led me back to my friends and said a cheery goodbye.

“I played miserably,” Marcus admitted to his friends.

“Did they catch on to you?” Amy asked.

“No, how could they? No real boy would be so pathetic at the game,” Marcus said, mocking his lack of athletic abilities.

“That boy seemed interested in you for more than volleyball,” Amy questioned.

“I guess he was, but I told them I’m your niece and I go to high school up-state. He said he wanted to call me again, but I said I had a boyfriend.”

“I’m sure you could have many boyfriends without even trying,” Mollie said. “You’re so damned pretty. If you weren’t such a nice friend, I could really be jealous.”

Latesha laughed and said, “You met Peter, Crusher’s brother at the game, Miranda, and he’s been asking after you.”

“About me? I hardly talked to him.”

“Well you left an impression and he said he wanted to call you, but I told him you had a boyfriend, so I don’t think you’ll hear from him,” Latesha added, winking at Amy.

Marcus smiled, thinking of the huge, husky and handsome man who sat next to them at the softball. He was becoming intrigued by his ability to draw the attention of young men and Peter Cjaka was certainly had been an interesting prospect.

After a while, Marcus left his friends and wandered about in his bare feet along the shore, letting the waves wash over his toes. He began thinking about Jefferson and his frightening story. Realizing how easily he had been accepted as a teenage girl gave him an inspiration. Maybe it would take a high school girl (like him?) to figure out what and who was behind the pedophile racket that Jefferson had been lured into.