Season of Terror

by Tigger
© 2002, All Rights Reserved

 

Introduction: A Moment of Crisis

Her lips set into a fine, hard line against the emotion burning in her throat, Victoria Denato started to stride out of her pastel-and-chintz-decorated bedroom only to catch herself at the last moment. If her plan was to have any chance of success, she had to have Jane Thompson's full cooperation - and she was absolutely certain that cooperation would not be forthcoming if she failed to be ladylike in any way. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she stepped across her room's threshold and walked with carefully measured gait down the hall that led to the main staircase.

*Maybe I should have worn the taller heels,* she thought, *They would have made my walk more ladylike, but they don't go with the outfit. Remember, toe-to-heel, toe-to-heel. . * she mentally repeated like a marching cadence.

New and hard-learned habit had her checking her appearance one last time before venturing down to the main floor of the huge old house. The floor-to-ceiling mirror that dominated the second floor landing revealed no flaws to her now-experienced eyes - as should only be expected for Victoria had selected this outfit and dressed with equal care. After all, this Laura Ashley skirt and sweater set, combined with the opaque, white stockings had actually been praised by Marie, and barely commented upon by Ms. Thompson the previous time she'd worn it. *Although I can't think of any other girls who'd actually dressed in this kind of stuff, unless they were going to church or something,* she mused at her reflection.

Her hair and makeup were as close to perfect as she could manage - though like her outfit they were too formal for morning. But Marie hadn't shown her how to cope with some of the color effects yet. Victoria resisted the urge to pat her hair to see if it was real. The bright golden shade clashed with the olive skin tones that were a legacy her Mediterranean ancestors. Sandy, drat her, had actually cooed over the look, assuring Victoria that it made her look 'exotically sexy'.

With a sigh, Victoria squared her shoulders and headed down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, Victoria headed for Jane's study, the plush Persian carpet muting any sound from her modest heels. She was surprised to find the thick door slightly ajar as she approached it. A small sound caught her notice as she raised her fist to knock. Surprised, Victoria hesitated and listened, not sure if she believed the evidence of her ears - and then she heard it again. It was a noise with which she had become only too personally familiar in her months living at Seasons House.

Someone was crying - except this time, it was someone other than Victoria Denato doing the crying.

Cautiously, Victoria peeked around the edge of the door, not sure what to expect, and was utterly shocked to see that it was the indomitable Jane Thompson herself who was in tears, the receiver of her old fashioned phone held shakily in a white-knuckled fist.

Some dark, malicious part of Victoria wanted to revel in whatever had driven her tormentor to display such emotion, wanted to savor the older woman's pain. Well, didn't the woman deserve some payback for all the humiliation she'd inflicted on Vic Denato?

The part of Victoria that was still that rebellious hooligan - that rebellious MALE hooligan - wanted to shout aloud in the affirmative, wanted to relish in full measure this woman's grief. But for some reason, she just couldn't do it.

*Whatever is bothering her must be pretty awful for her to break down like that,* Victoria thought. *Heck, she didn't even make sure the door was closed so she could cry in privacy. Now what do I do?* She thought for a moment and recalled her determination to see her plan through.

Before she could change her mind, Victoria knocked sharply on the doorjamb and stepped into the room without waiting for permission. "Is there anything I can do to help, Ms. Jane?" she asked softly.

Jane's head came up with an almost-audible snap, her eyes going wide as she saw her latest student standing in the open doorway. "Vic. . Victoria," Jane stammered even as she tried to bat away the evidence of her crying, almost hitting herself in the face with the telephone. "What are you doing here?" the older woman managed as she carefully settled the phone back in its delicately scrolled gilded cradle.

Her 'high-heel marching cadence' still playing in her head, Victoria stepped carefully into Jane's sanctum. "That's why," she said, pointing to the televised scene of devastation as she moved toward Jane's desk. "I need to talk to you about something I heard on the radio."

Jane seemed to consider that for a few moments before moving to her desk. "Sit down, Victoria, and tell me what you want," she ordered as she took her own seat, although with something less than her usual brusque authority.

Victoria took her seat, doing her best to perform that maneuver precisely the way she'd been taught, and turned to face her guardian. "The radio said the Red Cross needs blood donations," Victoria began quietly, "They especially need O-negative - the Universal Donor blood-type because of the emergency stuff they're having to do at. . .at . . . the, well, at the Towers." She actually shook herself to keep from babbling and forced her eyes to meet Jane's own violet ones. "I'm O-negative and I would like to give."

Jane literally gaped at Victoria, momentarily stunned. *Obviously,* Victoria thought, *Whatever she had expected to be on her student's mind, donating blood had not been it.*

"I see," and then she finally managed was to ask, "Why?"

"Because they need the blood," Victoria repeated, again pointing back to the television, "for them."

Reflexively, Jane's eyes followed Victoria's gesture and then closed as tears started to gather once again at the sights, this time of the Pentagon, she saw on the glowing screen. "It really hurts you," Victoria noted, "What's on the television. Did you. . I mean," she faltered as she realized who she was talking to and what she was about to ask.

"Did I what?" Jane asked.

"Know someone who might. . might be in there?"

The older woman considered Victoria for several long moments. For her part, Victoria struggled not to fidget under that steely gaze; an effort that brought the momentary and unnoticed twitch of a smile to Jane's lips. "One of my gir. . uh, students, works in the Pentagon," she finally admitted. "I haven't been able to reach he. . him or . . . his family. The phone circuits are overloaded and I couldn't get through. Now they're asking non-essential calls to New York and Washington be curtailed."

Victoria considered that and then remembered something she'd heard on the radio. "They said that the part of the Pentagon that was damaged was mostly empty - on account of it being renovated," she offered hopefully.

"I hadn't heard that," Jane admitted, too focused on her worries to notice, let alone correct Victoria's grammatical error. "Are you certain of that?"

"As much as I can be. I know I heard that at least twice on the radio." Jane nodded and Victoria wondered if who this student was - another of Ms. Thompson's manners projects? "Was. . . your student, that is, in the Army?"

"No," Jane answered with a shake of her head. "Marines, actually."

"There's a difference?" Victor asked suspiciously, only remembering to use Victoria's voice for the last few syllables.

"According to the Marines, there is a world of difference, child," Jane replied, a single brow lifted to show she had not missed THAT verbal gaff. However, she did not specifically call the girl on it.

Silence grew between the two as the repetitious and unchanging reports of destruction, terror and growing anger sounded from the television. After several minutes, Victoria could wait no longer. "Ms. Jane? About my request?"

"To give blood? I must ask you again, why do you want to do that? Is this some scheme to get out of your skirts, Victoria?"

The steady gaze that answered her question surprised Jane. "No," her student replied firmly. "It's not a scheme or anything else. I just need to . . . to do. . SOMEthing!"

"Really? Well, I am sorry, but I'm afraid that is out of the question," Jane replied sharply.

"But the newscasters said they really need the blood!" Victoria slipped and it was Victor's voice that protested.

"As I told you after our little trip to the mall, you're in skirts until I decide you've earned the privilege of trousers." The vivid blush on her pupil's cheeks spoke volumes about just how clearly Victor/Victoria remembered that recent experience. "A stipulation, I hasten to add, to which you agreed quite readily just this very Saturday, in fact."

"I know that, Ma'am," the girl said softly. "That's why I dressed so carefully. I don't think anyone would question me dressed like this. We could go and give blood right now. No one would have to know that I'm. . .that I'm anything other than what I appear to be."

"I see," Jane said in what Victoria thought was a very odd tone, "but I don't think that will work. I'm fairly certain that they, that is, the people who would be taking and using your blood, would need to know you are really a boy under that girlish finery. When they will test your blood, they'll find male hormones instead of the female ones they expect. The Red Cross might well have to discard otherwise perfectly acceptable blood. That would be a sad waste."

"So?" Victor's voice cracked through again, but he pressed on as Victoria. "We just tell them who and what I really am once we're inside the clinic where they take the blood. I can do that. I WILL do that, Ms. Jane!"

Shaking her head, Jane replied, "No, you will not. I do not choose to have it become general knowledge that some of my students are . . . 'troubled.' That would cast unwarranted aspersions on prior students and those to come after you. We must solve your problems without harming others in the process. And I believe your experiences this previous weekend demonstrated the futility of you trying to appear masculine?"

Victoria felt her hackles rise and glared at the woman seated across the desk from her. "If that's what I have to do, Ms. Jane, then that's what I'll do!" At Jane's challengingly lifted brow, Victoria continued. "I'll go to a clinic, dressed just like I am right now. I'll tell them I am a really a boy who's being punished by being made to wear girl's clothes, but . . . "

"But?"

"Well, I sort of figured you must know someone in the medical field - in case I got hurt or sick, you know? Someone who could take my blood, fill out the paperwork correctly, but not give away my secret?"

A thoughtful look crossed Jane's drawn features, but "I'm not sure that would work," was all she said.

"Couldn't you at least check, please? And if that won't work, then I still want to donate the blood they need, Ma'am, even if it means admitting to. . .," and despite the best will in the world, Victoria had to swallow hard before continuing, "to being a boy who likes to wear girl's clothes and stuff . . . or to being a boy who's being punished by being made to dress up like a girl."

"You'd break your cover just to donate blood? Again, I have to ask why?"

For the first time since she'd stepped into the room, the emotion that Victoria had been fighting since staring in mute shock at those first televised images started to roil up out of control. Swallowing hard, she fought the tears, but knew it was a losing battle. "Because. . . because. . ."

"Because why, child?" Jane prompted as she handed the girl a tissue.

"BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO BE LIKE THE ONES WHO DID THAT!!" she burst out and then bolted from the room, slamming the door behind her.

 

Season of Terror

by Tigger

Copyright 2002, All Rights Reserved

 

Chapter 1: The Beginning - Again

*Lord above, but I am glad women don't wear feathered hats anymore. The plumage would definitely be drooping right now,* Jane mused as she once again stood upon the train station platform. The oppressively humid heat of late July in New England beat down on her and Jane's black 'power-suit' only made it worse. *It's a wonder I'm not drooping, and of course, this is the day the infernal train is late, too,* she thought as she cast her eyes down the track in hopes of seeing the electric locomotive appear in the heatwave-distorted distance.

She was alone today because there was no other student in residence at her little school. That meant that Marie would be pressed into the 'good cop' role against Jane's 'bad cop' persona with this student. That was not optimal for the student or Jane's program, of course. Marie had other duties that would get in the way of her becoming the new resident's confidante, but using the deeply caring French Canadian had worked out well enough in the past and should serve again this time.

*Perhaps, given this student's particularly belligerent history, the lack of a 'big sister' might be all to the good. Marie and I can take care of ourselves, well enough. Besides, we will know not to turn our backs on a teenager with a tendency toward violence, particularly when we've pushed him to the very edge of his emotional control. Another student, no matter how well we prepared her for her role, might get hurt.*

The sound of the train's whistle sounded in the distance. Jane checked her appearance in the station's plate glass window, and then moved purposefully to the center of the platform. It was show time!

Most of the train's passengers were obviously headed for Providence or Boston, and few of those wanted to leave the air-conditioned comfort of the passenger cars so Jane's new student stood out immediately. His Italian ancestry showed clearly in his dark hair and olive-toned skin. She studied him with professional objectivity as he gathered his bags from the porter. He was short, even shorter than she'd pictured from his file description, and while he wasn't slight of build, he wasn't bulky either. *Good skin,* she thought, *and no sign of any significant beard growth yet. Smooth facial features, too. We'll have to select his garments carefully, and a good corsetting will do wonders for _her_ figure, but we'll have no trouble getting him out into public en femme.*

With that confirmed in her own mind, Jane moved to intercept her quarry. "Victor Denato?" she said in her sharpest tones.

"Yeah, I'm Vic Denato," was the sneeringly insolent reply. "I suppose you're the warden here?"

"I am," Jane said in icy tones, "Jane Thompson, your court-appointed guardian for an as-yet indeterminate period of time. *YOU* may call me Ms. Thompson."

Something akin to humor, but darker and unpleasant, glinted in the boy's dark eyes. "Sure thing, Mizzz Thompson," he said flippantly. "Whatever you say."

Jane knew better than to allow a confrontation between them to escalate in public, so she changed the subject. "Is that all of your things?" she demanded. A head movement that might have been a nod was all the answer she received. "Come along, then. It is nearly noon and we have much to accomplish today."

"Yeah, sure. Get one of those porters over here for my stuff, then."

"I beg your pardon," Jane retorted. "Were you speaking to me, young man?"

"Who else, bit . . ., I mean, Mizzz Thompson?"

Raw anger pulsed through Jane's heat-frayed self-control, but she managed to hold her composure. "From your record, I understand you are QUITE the, uh, physical young man, Mr. Denato. I think you can and WILL handle your own baggage. You will ALSO treat me and anyone with whom I direct you to work with absolute courtesy and respect or you can get back on that bloody train right now. You might make it to Boston before the police show up to cart you off to that reformatory. Your choice, Mr. Denato."

If anger was sparking from Jane's violet eyes, violent fury was blazing in Victor Denato's. For just an instant, Jane thought the boy was going to try to strike her and prepared to deflect him. However, he backed off under her steel-hard glare. Slowly, with ill-concealed dislike, the boy reached down to gather his three large bags. Straightening unsteadily beneath their weight, he scowled up at the taller Jane. "Lead on, Mizzz Thompson."

She did, thinking as she walked, *A bully, indeed, but I can handle that. Like all bullies, beneath all that male braggadocio he's also a coward. Well, young man, I will have no compunction at all pulling out the big guns with you! In fact, I am going to enjoy making you squirm and cry.*

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Tigger. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.