ANOTHER STORY

"Are you the new girl?" this guy in a madras shirt, who I’ve never seen before, asks me.

"Yeah, why?"

"The guys were talking about you in Biology class. They said your eyes are two different colors. Can I see your eyes?"

"See this," I say, and flip him The Finger.

I been hearing that crap since I was a little girl and, frankly, I’m sick of it.

A new high school in a new town in a new state. It's a lucky break, said my mom. A new start. That's easy for her to say. Her husband had the affair that created the scandal. Changing jobs provided their new start. We've had a lot of new starts.

"I don't wanna move," I protested.

"Sure you do," Mom argued. "It'll be an adventure. You can reinvent yourself to be anyone you want at the new school. You can have a new image."

"Is there something wrong with my old image?"

"No, no, no," she said, all flustered. "Hey, maybe in the new town, you'll find your Prince Charming."

Can you believe that she still believes in Fairy Tales and Happily Ever Afters and that her Frog will someday turn into a Prince?

Anyway, I start at this new school, and it ain’t so bad. Mom was right; I got a new image. I morph from the smart, quiet, shy sophomore at Jefferson High School to the tough, wild, cool junior at Lincoln High. I'm not taking College Prep classes anymore, either. Nope, I'm taking business classes. And Art. I'm pretty excited about that.

My art teacher, Mr Ramsey, is a cool guy. He's single and not too old. He's cool. He lets us do our own thing; and in his classroom, we don't sit at desks, we stand in front of our own drawing tables.

We do all kind of neat projects, too. Like the time, we made words into art. I made the word cup into an actual cup, taking the C-U-P and shaping them into a cup and handle. Someone else took the letters H-I-L-L and shaped them into a lovely hillside. Mr Ramsey made a poster using an Enter sign and a piece of coarse rope. He said it was the word "intercourse." I thought that was pretty cool for a teacher.

I think Mr Ramsey thinks I'm kinda cool, too. Sometimes he asks me to model for his senior drawing classes. I stand in all sorts of positions and pretend I can't move for 45 minutes while students draw me. Sometimes I lose feeling in parts of my body. They go numb and fall asleep. Then, when the class is over, Mr Ramsey helps me change back into a moving person. He doesn't know that I've had lots of practice being numb. But that's another story.

I must be doing a pretty good job at modeling 'cause Mr Ramsey is taking me out of more classes. Maybe he thinks I'm pretty. Maybe he admires the way I can stay in position. Maybe he thinks I'm special. I don't tell my parents about all this modeling. I don’t think they would like it.

I like the modeling, and getting out of class, but now there's something strange going on. At first, I think it's just my imagination. The first time it happened, it happened like this: I was standing at my drawing table, concentrating, and Mr Ramsey came by to look at my work. He leaned over me from behind and studied my chalk drawing.

"Nice shape," he said.

Then, I felt someone rub my ass. Right there in the classroom! Right in front of everyone! I couldn't believe my eyes. More accurately, I couldn't believe my ass!

So I forgot about it. I just pushed it out of my mind. I'm real good at that, which is yet another story.

But, now things are really getting out of hand. Or from Mr Ramsey's point of view, things are really getting into hand. The things are my ass and his hand.

He's coming to get me to model again, and as we're walking down the hall, the guy reaches behind me and grabs my ass. I pretend I don't feel it. He pretends he isn't doing it. We dance a real strange dance.

He's doing it more and more. In his class. In the hallways. I'm trying to walk around school carrying my books behind me. When I talk to him, I try to back my ass against the wall. And when I'm at my drawing table and he approaches me, I turn to face him so he can't reach my backside, but even that's kinda scary 'cause how do I know he won't think I'm offering him my frontside?

The next thing I know, Mr Ramsey asks, "I'm teaching an adult education class and I wonder if you could do some modeling for me tonight about 7:00?"

"I don't know if my mom will let me," I say, stalling.

"Why don't I call her and ask," he pushes.

"Yeah, that's okay," I say, holding my purse behind my ass, wondering how I will get out of this one. I mean, he's my teacher, for God's Sake. How do I refuse?

When I finally get home from school, my mom says, "Your art teacher called and asked if you could model tonight. I need you at home, so I said 'no.' I hope you aren't disappointed."

So, now I have some time to figure out what to do. I can't let this go on forever; I have to stop him from grabbing my ass. Asking my parents for help is completely and absolutely one hundred percent out of the question. They have their own problems, and besides, I've seen the way my mother handles problems. She gets all hysterical and makes a scene and then has a heart attack. Not the kind of thing I wanna see at my high school. After all, I got this new image. I don't think my dad would help, either. Mr Ramsey would just say I was a liar and had a crush on him or something. That's the kind of guy who grabs your ass when you're not looking.

So, I go to the only person I can trust. My boyfriend. He doesn't go to my high school. He doesn't go to any high school; he dropped out to help support his family. Fortunately, everyone at school knows who he is and thinks he's a tough guy. Together we come up with a plan.

Sure as one bad thing leads to another, Mr Ramsey shows up the next time I'm at Library. I see him talking to the Librarian, playing all cute and considerate. And then she smiles and nods at him. He walks over to me.

"Could you model for my class?" he asks, pretending he's not up to something evil.

"Sure," I say pretending he's not up to something evil.

I carry my books in my left arm, letting my right arm swing free. We walk down the empty hallway and turn the corner. We head down a flight of stairs. Mr Ramsey walks a little behind me. I move my right arm slightly behind me, near my ass, and just as I start to feel a little rubbing sensation, I make my move.

Like a rat trap springing on a dirty ol' rat, I catch Mr Ramsey's hand. I turn around, squeezing his hand real tight, looking him in the face. He's staring at me. I glare at him.

"See this hand?" I say, lifting his hand up near his face.

"Yes," he says.

"If this hand ever touches me again, my boyfriend, Stan Brown, will be up to see you. He'll come right into this school and beat the living shit out of you. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," says a pale Mr Ramsey.

"Then," I continue, dropping his wretched hand, "I will create the biggest scandal you ever saw. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do. And I'm sorry."

"Yes you are!" I say and walk back to the Library.

I'd like to say that this story ends right here, but it doesn't.

My part ended. Mr Ramsey kept his hands off my ass and I made an "A" in Art. But after I moved to another town and graduated from another high school, I heard that Mr Ramsey got married. He married a pregnant student. And to this day, I wonder if I'd made a scandal, if I could've saved that girl from Mr Ramsey. I wonder how many other asses he grabbed.

I saved myself, but no one else.

Of course, back then, I was just learning how to save myself, and I wasn't even very good at that. And I wasn't very good at telling secrets. But I'm learning.

And, that's another story.

c2009 Linda S Amstutz

MY NEW KEYBOARD

Technology seems to be speeding along. Every day there's a new IPhone ap or a smaller laptop (to emphasize my bigger lap) or a new cellphone that also takes photos, sends texts, makes video and cooks supper.

I'm all for the bigger, newer, faster, smaller, more powerful, more fully loaded. Go for it. I'll buy it. But all those technological advances are leaving one piece of hardware behind the times -- my keyboard.

For how many years has the keyboard read QWERTY? I think the last advancement was the addition of the F keys, and who really uses those? Not me. They sit there collecting dust. And why do I need 2 Shift keys? One would be enough. And when was the last time you used the Home or End keys? I bet not since the last time you raised up off your behind to go change a television channel.

It's like the computer manufacturers consider the keyboard to be some sacred cow that can't be changed. And I think it's time for some changes.

So, I'm suggesting we make some changes. All day long I type in .com or .net. I key it into email addresses and almost everytime I sign in at a website. Why isn't there a key for those two phrases? I bet those keys wouldn't collect dust. And how about the Smiley Face? Hasn't it been around long enough to warrant its own key?

I've played around with a design and I think you'll agree, it's an improvement on the standard keyboard. If you like what I've done, Dell and HP and especially Apple, CALL ME!

c2009 Linda S Amstutz

PLANS FOR MY LOTTERY WINNINGS

I decided last night – when I win the lottery, I am buying my own house. And I’m moving into it.

Don’t get me wrong -- I’m not saying I’ll divorce my husband of 23 years. I’m not even saying I’ll get a legal separation. I’m just saying I want my own house.

A house with a whirlpool bath tub. One of those deep marble spa tubs. Pink. Maybe lilac. And I’ll arrange scented candles all around the edge of the tub. Since I’ll be lottery rich, I’ll burn those scented candles night and day. My bathroom will smell like one giant friggin’ lemon tree.

I’ll have 3-4 bathrooms in my house. One for every bodily function. My bathroom with the whirlpool tub won’t even have a commode in it. No, siree. Probably not even a sink either. Screw it.

My new house will have only bathrooms and a mistress bedroom and one guest bedroom for when my girlfriends want to visit. Maybe I’ll build a little frou-frou parlor in which to entertain …with a juke box loaded with golden oldies – nothing earlier than Bobby Dee. And I want bookcases. Bookcases filled with my favorite books. And stacks of books still in their Amazon boxes. Oh, oh, and I want one of those sliding wooden ladders on my bookcases, which, incidentally will run all the way from the floor to the 9 foot ceilings.

I’ll take my bed with me when I move, too. It’s a king-sized monster with a deep down comforter on it. Only in my new house, I’ll have about a hundred pillows on it. I’ll have chenille pillows and satin pillows and silk pillows and linen pillows and faux fur pillows and I’ll hire someone to arrange those pillows every morning. Maybe one of those ex-contestants from Project Runway.

One wall of my bedroom will be a huge television screen. DVR included. I’ll subscribe to all the channels. Every single one. I’ll instruct Time Warner to hook me up with everything they’ve got. And I’ll pay someone to install Surround Sound. The television screen will be busy night and day. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll remove the On/Off button from the remote.

My television screen will double as my computer monitor.

Bejeweled Blitz all over my wall.

Farmville in the bedroom.

My cursor blinking two feet tall.

I’m getting wet just thinking about it.

Speaking of wet, I think I’ll hang a collection of vibrators on the wall above my bed. After all, it is MY bedroom and I can do anything I want. The vibrators will come in all colors and shapes from that silly bunny thing to the Pocket Rocket to some serious giant big boy thing. They’ll be the only splash of color in an otherwise White Room. Buzz on that!

No kitchen. No family room. No play room (unless you count the Wall of Wonder in the bedroom). No dining room. No office. Just me and my bedroom and my bathrooms and my little frou-frou parlor.

I’m going to live there alone. I won’t have to share anything with anyone. And I’ll sleep all day and stay up all night. I’ll eat when I want to eat and I won’t ever wear a bra or make-up again. Not in my new house.

I’ll live all alone.

Except for when I see a spider.

Or need a roach killed.

Or can’t reach a book from the top shelf.

Or my pop-top breaks off.

Or my back itches in that impossible-to-reach-spot.

Or I need a hug.

Then my husband can move in.

c2009