Tales of the Season - Ken's Barbie

by Tigger
Copyright 2002

 

Chapter 23: Buried Emotions

Barbara Anne Braithwaite repressed the urge to shiver as she stood over the rain-muddied grave of a woman she did not even know. Not that she considered that any great loss. If a tenth of what she'd been told about Sheila Roberts was only half-true, knowing that woman could not have added anything positive to her life.

Which probably explained why there were but four people braving the unseasonably cold morning wet to attend her internment. Barbie stood at the center of a black-garbed phalanx; Anne to her left, the Judge to her right while the minister faced them from the other side of the still open grave.

The minister, also dressed in black, was of a Christian Interdenominational Church. He was of a similar age to Judge Ruth, and projected an almost palpable aura of serenity, much as the Judge radiated power. According to Ruth, this man was also a member of the small, select group of men and women who knew of and support the work of one Jane Thompson. *Well, at least there won't be any need to deceive a man of the cloth about Barbie's little secret,* she mused to herself.

How different this ceremony, Skipper thought, to the one she'd attended with her brother Adrian, when Caryn and Martin Braithwaite had been buried. *There'd been people for Momma and Poppa,* she thought, and felt the hot prickle of tears for the first time that morning. *But then, Momma and Poppa had been wonderful people who had friends and who loved their children. God, but I miss them so much!*

The minister began the traditional readings, quickly reciting the passages about ashes and dust and life everlasting. Skipper shot a quick look up at Barbie's face and saw, well, hardly anything. The perfectly made-up face stared fixedly on the plain wooden casket that had already been lowered into place. The heavy mist had saturated the thick blond curls into a sodden mass while rivulets of rain ran down those lovely high cheeks.

*Rain, but no tears,* was all Skipper could think. *How awful not to be able to cry for one's own mother.*

Suddenly, the minister snapped his bible shut, the sharp sound of it making everyone but Barbie jump. He walked around the grave-site, and came to stand beside Ruth who took his hand in hers while reaching around to hug him with her free arm. She whispered something in his ear, whereupon he nodded before moving to Barbie.

"God Bless you, child," he said, putting a comforting hand on Barbie's left arm. "Ruth has my number if you, well, if you need to talk. Anytime, day or night, okay? I will be mightily annoyed if you don't allow me to earn my keep."

The little joke seemed to reach the tall blonde as nothing else had that morning, and the ghost of a half-smile curled her full lips. "I live to roust people out of sound sleeps, padre," she said softly. "Thank you. I appreciate your time, and . . . and your discretion about. . .well, you know."

"Jane is a magnificent woman who, along with the Judge here, has helped many young men. I am ever at her service, and at yours."

"I'll walk you to your car, Brian," Ruth said. "Barbie? You and Anne meet me at my car when you're ready to leave, all right?"

Anne wasn't sure what she should do. Offer condolences? Try to hurry her friend out of here? What? As with most such situations, no answer seemed best so she did none of them, and instead kept close to Barbie in the off-chance the tall blonde needed something from her.

An almost-silence fell upon the little glade, broken only by the rustle of rain upon leaves.

"I suppose," the unexpected sound of Barbie's voice again made Anne jump, "that there's something almost appropriate about me attending your final ceremony dressed this way, Mother. All those years of trying, and here I am - blonde and buxom, perfumed and made-up, wearing buttons, bows and heels. Doubly appropriate, because - although I appear to be everything you in your twisted dreams wanted to make of me - thanks to Ruth and Jane, Marie and Darryl, I am in no way diminished by what I'm wearing, by how I look, or by what you tried to do to me. In the end, it only looks like you won, Mother. In the end, thanks to my friends, I'm the winner. And I suppose, thanks to you, because without you, I'd have never met Jane or Ruth. For that, regardless of what you intended, I owe you. Rest in peace, Mother - the peace you could never find in life."

With that, Barbie crouched down - almost losing her balance on the slippery grass due to the tight skirt and heels - and picked up a clump of the dripping earth. She stared at the sodden mass for a few moments, before finally tossing it upon the top of the casket. Anne wondered if where the dirt landed had any significance, for it would have struck Sheila directly in the face if not for the casket's cover. *A final parting shot?* she wondered, and then had to hurry to catch up with the suddenly departing Barbie.

~-~

"Let me be sure we both understand this, Adrienne. You have decided to attend the mime class as a girl. After I offered you the opportunity to attend as a male?"

Adrienne bowed her head, golden curls falling to hide her face as she sat in the very uncomfortable chair Jane kept in her study for just such interviews. "Yes, Ma'am."

"What did you say, child? I couldn't hear you."

"I said, yes, ma'am. I would prefer," and Jane saw her swallow hard, "to attend as Adrienne."

Ever the Mistress of the dramatic moment, Jane let that admission hang in the air between them for several long moments, her eyes hard upon her student. "I am afraid, Miss Braithwaite, that I do not understand. I thought you wanted nothing more than to be immediately restored to your rightful status as a male. Why, you wanted that so badly that you broke your word to me, placed yourself in danger of being sent to a juvenile detention facility for violating your post-trial agreement, and I might add, endangering your sister at the same time. And now, after I make a major concession to you, give you my blessing to do what you've already lied and cheated to attain, NOW you tell me, 'thank you, Miss Thompson, but no thank you'?

"I. . I can't go as a boy, Miss Thompson. No matter what I do, I look like a girl. If I try to be a boy there, I'll get killed. At least as Adrienne, I won't take that chance."

"Nonsense!" Jane snapped. "I told you that you would never be physically harmed or at risk in my keeping, young lady. And I have NEVER broken my word on that score. You almost tempt me to ORDER you to attend as a male, for that insult alone!"

Adrienne's control snapped like a dry twig. "Oh, god, no, please!" she sobbed out begging, "Don't do that to me! Don't order me to do that. I don't think I can. Please, Miss Jane!"

For a moment, Jane feared the child would hyperventilate and that the culmination she'd planned for this interview would have to be held until another, less advantageous time. Then, the girl seemed to recover herself. Still crying, she looked up at Jane. "I.. .I would prefer to go as Adrienne, ma'am. Please?!"

Relief washed through Jane, but she didn't let it show. Instead, she turned her most stern displeased schoolmistress glare on her student. "Very well, you may attend as Adrienne, but I want something in return, young lady. From now on, you will not only go through the motions of feminine deportment and dress as I instruct, you will also give it your best, creative effort. You will be a girl who enjoys being a girl, who laughs and has a good time. You will look forward trying on pretty new clothes, and take too long in the bathroom making your hair look just right. You will be happy, or at least you will seem to be to anyone you meet outside my home. Do you accept that condition? Else you will be introduced as Adrian to the mime class."

Again, silence hung heavily between the two antagonists, until, as had so many young men before her, Adrienne acquiesced. She gave a single, jerky nod of her head, and said, "Yes, Ma'am. I promise. You have my word on it and I'll keep it this time."

Jane managed to contain her smile of triumph until the door shut behind the rapidly retreating Adrienne.

~-~

Ruth and Skipper shared a concerned look beneath their umbrellas as they followed Barbie into the Judge's little cottage. The tall blonde had been stonily silent since the trio had departed the lonely, rain-gray cemetery.

The moment they walked through the door, Barbie's sensual sway sagged into a tired slump. "I think I'll go up and work at my computer, if you don't mind, Anne," Ken's voice proposed from that perfectly made up feminine face.

*That's the first time that she, or 'he', has called me 'Anne' in three days,* the other blonde realized. *I've been 'Skipper' ever since he thought up that cute little play on words. He must be really down right now. Should I really leave him alone right now? Or should I make some excuse to be 'Barbie's little friend, Skipper' so I can keep an eye on him?*

But Barbara Anne didn't feel she could force the issue by pushing herself on her troubled friend. "Of. . . of course," she stuttered back, her heart oddly skipping for a moment.

As it turned out, Ruth felt the same undesired distancing. The older woman said, "I had thought he'd learned other, better ways of dealing with emotional upset."

"She's upset? How can you tell?"

Ruth snorted. "Don't give me that, young woman. You can't tell me you don't feel it yourself. Right now, that child is fighting demons, and won't let me in to help. God, but I wish Darla was here."

"Darla could help? How?"

"Darla would find a way to take Barbie's mind off what's upsetting her. The little minx has that pesky little sister routine down pat." She sighed, then suddenly regarded Skipper thoughtfully. "But maybe you. . ."

"Maybe me. . . what?"

"I just had a thought - a way for you to divert Barbie's mind from today's events. Tell me, dear. Do you, perhaps, play chess? Or at least, know the moves?"

"Actually, I do - I was city school champion my senior year in high school. Why?"

"Come on. You need to get out of that black sack - you can use my room while we plan this out. Are you a movie buff? Ever see 'The Thomas Crowne Affair'?"

Baffled, the younger woman followed Ruth's lead. "Sure. Rene Russo was fantastic - carried Pierce Brosnan the whole show."

"Not that one," was the disgusted retort.

"Oh, you mean the one with Steve Mcqueen and that. . what was her name, . .. Bonnie something-woman?"

"Dear, we are going to have to do something about your woeful knowledge of classic film. Faye Dunnaway."

"Okay, okay. I have seen it - on the late show one night I was waiting up for Adrian. Why?"

"Remember the chess game between Steve and Faye?"

"Chess game? What are you talking about?" Skipper asked, and then memory flashed. "Oh, my."

"Ah, yes. I see you do. Well, I don't mean for you to take quite that tack here, but I do think we can use your looks and chess to redirect my boy's. . . girl's thoughts."

*Looks?! What does she mean by that crack??!*

"By the way, dear," Ruth asked, a thoroughly female smile crossing her round face, "In and among all that silk and satin I'm sure Jane foisted off on you, she didn't happen to see her way clear to pack something more, ah, shall we say in the way of being 'girl next door'-chic, did she?"

"What?"

 

 

Chapter 24: Queen's Gambit - Skipper's Variation

A barely audible "Enter!" answered Skipper's tentative knock on the door to the attic apartment.

Hesitantly, she peeked around the door and saw Barbie sitting in front of the computer, staring fixedly at what had to be some type of screen saver while her hair soaked the back of her black mourning dress. *That will get a lot of work done . . . NOT!*

"Umm, I need to get some different clothes which is something you might consider yourself," she offered when Barbie turned a disinterested eye toward the door. "These black things are uncomfortable at the best of times and now they're wet on top of it."

"Oh, sorry," her friend half-mumbled. "Should have thought of that." and then turned back to stare at the wildly shifting lines on the monitor again.

*Somehow, I don't think Judge Ruth's idea has a snowball's chance in hell of accomplishing anything positive just now,* Skipper mused as she opened the small closet to pull out a skirt and blouse set. *Still, it can't be good for her to brood like that. . . *

"What are those lumpy things in the river?" she asked, pointing into the glass-topped sand-table. "They look like some type of mutant broccoli plants." *That should make for a 'safe' intellectual exercise to get her mind off. . .whatever.* "How'd you get all those little bitty trees? They're real, aren't they?"

There was a resigned air about Barbie as she pushed herself to her feet and walked over to join Skipper. "Yes, they're bonsai trees. Nothing mutated in there."

"How utterly perfect for a battle scene," Skipper laughed - and somehow managed not to sound forced while doing it, and then squealed, "Banzai!! Charge that hill!"

"Not banzai," her companion corrected without humor or heat, "Bonsai. It's a Japanese art-form that trains small plants to look like the full sized version."

Something caught Skipper's attention - a stiffness that was unlike the control she'd already encountered dealing with all three incarnations of the unique person before her. There was a brittleness about Barbie that pulled at the shorter girl's heart even as it frightened her. Without quite realizing she was doing it, or even why she was doing it, Anne moved in and wrapped her arms about Barbie, pulling her close.

And felt her friend shatter.

"OH, GOD! What's WRONG with me!?! Why can't I FEEL anything? Why DIDN'T I feel anything, even there, at the ceremony?!?"

Uncertain whether answering or not was right, Anne only held on tighter and felt Barbie's head rest on her shoulder. The tall, powerful frame shook with each sob. "She was my MOTHER, damnit, and I couldn't feel anything. . ." and then her voice cracked, and became low and filled with a pain that brought tears to Skipper's eyes. "Anything. . except. . "

"Say it," Skipper ordered when her friend hesitated. "Say it and have it over and done with!"

"Except relief," came out on a half whisper. And then, they cried together. Cried for the boy who needed love and found none - worse, found warped desire fed by hatred. Cried for a soul lost forever.

Cried for what might have been.

Sometime, during that purging, they ended up on the small sofa-bed, Barbie on the inside, Skipper holding on to both the edge of the cushion and to her friend. Eventually, the wave of emotion crested and subsided, and at last physically spent, Barbie fell deeply asleep.

For a while, Anne merely laid there, holding this strangely appealing person who had become her friend in such a short time, and watched her sleep. Finally, satisfied that she'd stay asleep for a good length of time, Anne slipped out of Barbie's arms, collected her dry clothes, and tiptoed from the room.

~-~

It was the clatter of dishes on the tray that started the couch-bound sleeping beauty's slow return to wakefulness. Her eyes resisted opening - *probably dried tears on Sandy's eyelash extensions,* she thought as she reached up to rub at the crusty residues. When her eyelids finally parted, an amazing sight greeted her still barely focused eyes.

It was a skirted bottom.

An extremely shapely and feminine skirted bottom.

A few quick blinks cleared Barbie's vision enough to better appreciate how beautifully presented that bottom was, since its owner was bending over doing something, which in turn, caused the skirt to ride higher and tighter.

Then, Barbie realized that the skirt was soft, stone washed denim, faded to near white where it lovingly hugged every enticing curve of that derriere . . . and she groaned audibly.

~-~

Skipper heard the sound behind her and rose from setting out the light tea she'd prepared to face Barbie. "Awake, at last, are we?"

A strange look flitted across the lovely features. "You took a nap, too?" the supine figure growled.

That elicited a giggle from the standing blonde. "Not really, and you're evidently not one to wake up on the right side of the bed. . .err, couch. C'mon and have something to eat. You skipped breakfast and that Amazonian frame of yours needs feeding."

Muttering dark imprecations under her breath, Barbie pushed herself into a sitting position and then indulged in a long, muscle-loosening, joint-cracking stretch that made Skipper nearly moan in sympathy. "So, what's on offer?"

"Tea, sandwiches, some of those killer cookies Judge Ruth has in the cookie jar."

"She buys them at a local bakery. You don't want to try to eat anything she or I bake. Even Aunt Jane and Tante Marie couldn't teach me how to avoid incinerating anything that goes into an oven."

The smile that lit Skipper's face at that moment almost took Barbie's breath away. "Umm. . . nice skirt," she managed to get out through the incipient lump in her throat. "And blouse," she hurriedly added.

"Glad you think so," Skipper said, still smiling. "It's a favorite of mine - comfortable, but still dressy in a laid-back sort of way. Reminds me I'm a girl, you know? Now, come over here and eat." When Barbie didn't immediately obey, Skipper put her fists to her hips. "Well? What do I have to do? Invite that doll up there? Okay, I can do that."

Words became deed as the venerable doll was quickly deposited at a place of honor at the small food-laden coffee table. "Sit!" she ordered, even as she filled a plate.

For a short, almost panicky moment, Skipper thought that the taller girl might refuse, but then Barbie gave a sassy toss of her unkempt, now-dry mane of blond hair and settled down in front of the heaping plate.

"Now, do you feed dolly, or do I have to do that, too?" Skipper asked in her very best 'whiny-brat-talk' voice.

She managed rather well at it, too, even if she did think so herself. After all, Barbie hadn't quite been able to suppress the wince Skipper had hoped for.

~-~

"Thanks, I really did need that," Barbie said after the pair of them, with only minimal help from the doll, had demolished the very generous tea Skipper had prepared.

"You're quite welcome. So, what shall we do now?" *In order to keep you from starting to think about your Mother, again,* Skipper thought but did not say.

"Do?"

"Sure. I feel the need to be entertained."

A cautious look came across Barbie's face. "I'm not really the most entertaining person in the world, under the best of circumstances. . "

"Oh, I'm not hard to please. Tell me, can you do anything with those chessmen or are they just for show?"

"Do anything with them?"

"Well, can you play the game, or are you just one of those guys who knows the moves, but couldn't tell an end game from an opening gambit?"

"I do all right," Barbie retorted, all insulted hauteur.

"All right then. Pick a hand, then." Skipper extended her closed fists toward Barbie. "White or black, tough-gal?"

"You're on, smartie," the taller girl tapped her friend's right hand and saw the white pawn. "And you should be afraid - VERY afraid."

"Oh, I'm shaking in my pumps - NOT!"

~-~

*Well, one thing is for sure, nobody THAT focused on a game of chess can be thinking about anything other than the next fifteen or twenty moves,* Skipper thought after watching Barbie methodically build a strong, disciplined offensive from that basic first move advantage. She was impressed.

However, she also absolutely hated to lose!

Unfortunately, her mind kept slipping to things more interesting than the mini-war being played out in white and black before her.

Things like that long, tall blonde seated across from her, for instance. *Such a fascinating bundle of contradictions and confusions,* she thought to herself as she again found herself stealing what she HOPED was a surreptitious glance at Barbie. *Lord, look at her,* her mind growled, *just LOOK at her!*

Barbie sat staring with unblinking concentration at the board, her gaze flicking rapidly to various squares, her eyes evidently playing out various moves and strategies, countermoves and counter-strategies. Her elbows were planted on the table, a small, but growing collection of 'prisoner's of war' between them, while her chin rested on her fists. Two long, finely manicured thumbs ran up that elegant jaw-line, pointing their blood-red tips at bejeweled earlobes. The hair, still unbrushed, had been transformed into a shaggy, golden-curled explosion about the perfect, yet expressionless face, thanks to the unconscious finger combing that answered each of Skipper's feints or attacks.

A pink tongue slipped out to moisten crimson lips followed by a momentary biting of the lower. *Here it comes,* Skipper thought with a smile.

"Knight to Bishop Seven, Knight takes Pawn, check." Barbie announced in a firm voice that was otherwise devoid of any inflection, as she moved the selected warrior into place.

Only then did Skipper remember to look at the board again, and what she saw infuriated her. The damned Knight had her castled King in check, and the only way to save him was to move him. Unfortunately, the same Knight had her Rook under attack. Saving the King meant sacrificing one of her three most powerful attacking pieces. She'd get the knight with her Bishop, but she'd lost the exchange and in all likelihood, the game.

*That's what you get for letting yourself be distracted from the task at hand, Barbara Anne Braithwaite. And wasn't Ruth's plan that YOU were going to be the one doing the distracting?*

She moved her King and accepted, with ill grace, the loss of her Rook. When the exchange of pieces was complete, and Barbie settled back into her 'planning the next campaign' mode, Skipper sat back only to have her eyes fall on the satin opera glove thumb tacked to the cork-board. Inspiration flared, and before she could think of reasons not to, she reached up and pulled down the slick garment.

"Judge Ruth never did tell me the story behind this," she cooed, almost fondling the glove. "Care to share the tale?"

Mild annoyance flashed in the taller blonde's eyes as she reluctantly looked up from the board. *A predator denied her prey,* Skipper thought, *Slightly vexed at being momentarily thwarted from her goal, but still confident of dinner. Well, we'll see about that.*

"Nothing much to tell," Barbie mumbled, her eyes dropping back to the board.

Skipper fit her hand into the delicate glove, letting it float above the chessmen toward her opponent as she slowly slid the shiny tube over her elbow and up her arm. "Oh, that's hard to believe," she refuted, letting her voice drop into a husky, teasing tone that had Barbie's brows going up into her bangs. "Surely, such a . . . unique item holding such a place of honor in a young man's room must have a, well, unique story behind it.

"It was, well, a Darla-ism," Barbie said, obviously trying to sound dismissive.

"Oh, you mean your brother had something to do with it? What, he gave you the glove?" Skipper made a show of minutely examining the glove on her hand, and was pleased to see her opponent's eyes on her and not the board.

"Well, not quite, but sort of, I guess," the answer was so uncharacteristic her usually precise friend that Anne almost laughed.

"Come on, give. You can't tease me like that. It's not fair!"

A curious look on her face, Barbie seemed to consider that for a moment, and then shrugged. "If you really want to hear it. . "

"Oh, I do, but it's still your move."

"Huh? Oh, okay." Barbie's reflex move, Skipper was pleased to note, was not the best one available to her, which gave the shorter girl some breathing space. "Umm, you know that Jane has had many students. . . boys, like Adrian, right?" At Skipper's nod, she continued, "Well, one of them, a fellow named Will Decker, Jane-named Wilma, was getting married. He had two problems, though. First, he'd tried to tell his bride about Jane and she hadn't believed him. Pretty hard to believe in his case - Will's a Marine now and to see him, it's not easy to imagine him in corsets, petticoats and pinafores."

Skipper made a quick move on the board to firm her defensive position and pressed on. "And the other problem?"

"His fiancee didn't have any female family of an age to be in the wedding. Didn't have enough friends who could travel, either. Anyway, Will wanted three of his buddies from Quantico to stand up with him."

"Oh my, I think I can see where this is going. Darryl, that is Darla, decides that the perfect way to convince the soon-to-be Mrs. Wilma about her hubby's. . umm. . . silky past is to, ah, fill in the holes in the bridesmaid contingent?"

"Made a lot more sense when Darla presented the idea than it does saying it out loud right now, let me tell you. So, anyway, we met the fiancee for the first time as part of Jane's family at the beginning of the wedding week, as boys," a rueful smile curled at Barbie's mouth. "Lord, Darryl and I were barely fifteen, and it was just before I had my growth spurt. Two days later, Darla and Kendra 'arrived' on the scene, bridesmaid ensembles already in-hand thanks to Aunt Jane's connections."

"Complete with shoulder-length opera gloves?"

"And sexy undies, silk stockings, dyed-to-match killer heels and floppy sun-hats." Barbie made another move that gave Skipper hope she might still pull out a draw at least. "We looked exactly the way Jane wanted us to look - like two fourteen year old girls trying too hard to look all grown up."

"Oh my, that sounds. . . interesting."

The taller girl snorted. "Darla couldn't resist playing the teenie-bopper with over active glands. Teased the living hell out of her Marine, and tried her damnedest to get me to do the same with one escorting me."

"And you resisted that temptation manfully, I'm sure," Skipper all but chortled.

Barbie drew herself up to her full height and looked down at her opponent with an air of outraged aristocratic dignity that would have befit a queen - or a Marx Brothers movie character. "I'll have you know that *I*," she intoned loftily, "was the epitome of mature, feminine grace, manners and breeding. A credit to my teachers in ALL respects."

Skipper lost it and laughed heartily. "Oh sure, right - pull the other leg while you're at it. Is that why there's only one glove here? What happened to the other?"

A bright red blush suffused Barbie's complexion and, for a moment, her eyes fell back to the board. "We don't need to discuss that," she replied too quickly.

"Oh, c'mon, blondie, give. It's not fair to keep me hanging. If you don't tell me, I'll have to imagine something really sexy about it."

Thoroughly vexed, Barbie locked fiery eyes with Skipper. "Okay, he took one, okay? Kind of like a knight taking a lady's favor."

"He what?"

Sighing, Barbie sat back in her chair. "He was going overseas, and evidently, despite Kendra's best efforts, found her attractive. He was only twenty one or twenty two, and thought she might be worth, well, waiting for. At the end of the reception, he cornered me, caught me unawares with a surprise kiss and stole the other glove."

"Wow!"

"You think so? Well, to make things even worse, guess who saw us and has NEVER let me live it down? Three guesses and the first two don't count."

Somehow, Skipper managed not to laugh, but the effort cost her and her next words were a squeak, "Not Darla?"

"Yup. She can be quite the little bitch when she puts her mind to it. That's why I kept the glove - to remind me what happens when I let myself get too carried away by one of darling Darla's madcap enthusiasms."

The smile Skipper saw on the other girl's face said something completely different, but she let that ride. It was sweet to see how much her friend loved this Darryl/Darla. "So, you saved the wedding by stepping into the nearest phone-booth and selflessly standing in as Super-Bridesmaid. Did you help with the other problem?"

"Wilma telling Patty about Jane's Winsome Girls' School for Wayward Boys? Well, we did 'unmask' ourselves to her during the preparation of the bride for the big getaway. Had to, you know? Captain William Decker, United States Marine Corps is one dangerous fellow, and he would have killed us if we'd seen his lady in her bridal unmentionables. I'm not sure she still doesn't think we were plants, but we tried."

"And lived to tell the tale, too."

"I don't tell it very often, and don't think I don't know what you were trying to pull here, cutie."

"Why, whatever do you mean?" Skipper asked, her eyes wide with innocense.

A sly grin lit Barbie's face. "I've been conned by Jane Thompson, Darla Thompson-Smith and Her Honor, Judge Ruth Walinkiewicz in my day. In other words, by the best con-artists in the civilized world. I may be, well, male, but I recognize the devious female mind at work as well as anyone, and better than most."

"And your point is?"

"My point, sexy-lady," Barbie cooed as she reached out to move her Queen, "Is that your sneaky gambit didn't work. Queen to Queen eight, Check and Mate."

Stunned, Skipper stared down at the board. It was Checkmate, sure enough. Barbie had attacked with her Queen from the diagonal with her Rook guarding the Queen so that Skipper's King could not attack directly. There was no where to run nor was there any other piece she could interpose to block or defend. "Damn, but I hate to lose," she muttered as she tipped her King in surrender.

"Me, too, babe. Me, too."

~-~

"Let me do that," Diana said, as she sauntered up behind her wife and took the silver-handled hairbrush from Jane. She loved the way Jane's still-auburn locks turned to golden-red fire in her hands when she slid the natural-bristled brush through them. She was more than rewarded by the husky purr that answered each long, slow stroke.

"That's mmmmarvelous," Jane sighed, leaning her head back.

"I gather, since you haven't pulled it out by the roots, that your little interview with Adrienne went well?"

"She agreed to the bargain, if that's what you mean. I just hope this idea of yours works. I've never asked a boy to pretend to be happy before. Usually, they sort of have to figure that out for themselves."

"Well," Diana answered in what Jane thought of as her mate's 'professorial mode', "There is a good deal of research and anecdotal evidence to support the strategy. It is an interesting aspect of the human condition that playing a part - simulating a particular set of emotions - often gives rise to those very emotions. Look at all the movie actors and actresses who convince themselves they are in love when they play lovers on the movie set."

"Then fall out of love as soon as they aren't playing lovers anymore."

"True, but you don't want Adrienne to be a girl the rest of Adrian's life, either. That works to your advantage, too. Assuming this gives you the response you need, it just may take a little longer to tear down Adrienne than it does with other students."

"God help us if we end up with another Caitlyn, Philips," Jane warned. "Barbara Anne will have our guts for garters."

"Adrienne is not Caitlyn," Diana said firmly. "Caitlyn was a girl before she ever came to you. Adrian is male - a small male to be sure, and one who is overcompensating for that lack of stature, but male nonetheless."

"Well, it will be different."

"What's on the docket for tomorrow?"

"Shopping. We need some mime-clothes - nice feminine ones - and I also want her to pick out a new dress. I suspect she will need. . . practice enjoying that experience."

"Nasty," Diana laughed huskily, as Jane stood and turned into her lover's arms.

"And you love it! Take me to bed, wench!" the Mistress of Seasons House ordered.

 

 

 

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