Chapter Four: Your Mama is Calling You, Man.

The phone rang, and the call came bursting in on me, while I was driving home from Mira's. It was Mama calling again. She said that she was wondering what had happened to me and wanted to know if everything was okay. "How come you haven't come home as yet?" she inquired. She further wanted to know what "other mother" I might have that she doesn't know about.

"Oh! That? It's my other mother from another era," I said. "None other than Ms. Brodbendt from my primary school days."

Ms. B was calling for me, again. Ms. Brodbendt seems to think of herself as my mother and has always treated me like a son. Bubbles was to butt into my conversation again here like he's always done: "Yeah, a son, eh? Right," he said.

Ms. Brodbendt was the headmistress at Sunnyside School. That was the place where I'd transitioned from a shy and insecure little Mama's boy to becoming one of the most feared, bad-ass dudes, ever.

That was after I was done fixing Bobbie Nooks' business good and proper, with a busted head and a bloody face. The girls then came calling, and I would have transitioned even further to become, as it was common to refer to dudes like me in those days: the girls' delight, "the girls dem sugar," and more, you name it, they have it.

After more words started getting around that I'm a no-nonsense-taker, girls-heartbreaker, and the despicable, girls them (dem) puppy dog, to name yet another few more that were popping up here and there on their list of names. My reputation was hitting the stars, both for the good and for the bad, but mostly for the bad. Man, I loved every minute of it.

Ms. Brodbendt kept me over the following afternoon because I would have gotten sent off to the office for a fight with Bobbie Nooks. This was then followed up by another incident between Mrs. Taylor and me in class. Mrs. Taylor wanted a two-thousand-word essay on the virtues of a good education. She reminded me, "That is what you are here for, have it, (the essay,) on my desk first thing tomorrow morning," she said, I was being punished for the inattentiveness of my ways and boisterous and disruptive behavior in class as well as other places on school grounds. She said further that I needed to focus more on the things that matter in life. "The things that 'really' matter."

I should have been more careful to put the pictures in an envelope before placing them in my notebook. But they were meant for her eyes only. Of course, I did the assignment. Two thousand words she had said. But it was Mrs. Taylor herself who'd imparted to us, all of us in her class mere days earlier that a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, she's now in possession of not two, but three of my finest selfies ever, in the nude of course. What else did you expect? The extra picture was intended as a bonus, just for her. Just for the fun of it.

Well, there was more to my plan than what was to meet the eye. A method to the madness one might say. The pictures fell out of the folder and to the floor in front of the entire class when she'd popped open the notebook, she'd picked up off of the desk in front of me. No, I did not bother to place it on her desk first thing in the morning as she had asked of me. If I did all of that work to get it to her, the least that she could do was pick it up off the desk in front of me, right? Maybe she was somewhat peeved by that and therefore did not exhibit the usual grace, charm, and caution when she'd popped it open.

"Whoa!" the whole class exclaimed as they all buoyed up and became instantly interested in the business of learning. More about me, than in what Mrs. Taylor was teaching. This surely did seem to conform more to their idea of what learning was about, to them. If only they could be made to become so stimulated by the prospect of seeing an "A" or A-plus beside their names on the end-of-term exam papers. But yes, you know where this is going to lead me, right? Straight to my most favored place in the entire world. My teenage world: the most principalest officette of them all? Yes, miss Brodbendt's office. Mission accomplished.

That, as you might have already figured out, wasn't the beginning of my encounters with Miss B and her office, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be the last.

Ms. Brodbendt sat me down that evening and talked to me. Trying to figure me out, this I'd assumed. She'd concluded that I needed more and better adult supervision. She also said that, with proper guidance, I could indeed become a fine young man. She promptly offered herself up to "keep a close eye on me."

Mom's blessings were always one of those most valuable commodities for one to have around these parts, as it would apply to me and all her children. But something that was never very easily obtained. She must have okayed the headmistress' interventionist schemes though because off to Ms. Brodbendt's care, her office, and to her home, I ended up going. Although it was not on as regular a basis as I would have liked, it was regular enough. As it turned out, that was the beginning of something wonderful between the headmistress and me.

It started quite innocently indeed, with some special sessions between her and me, like, time spent in her office. At other venues on or off school premises too, they became more and more jovial and light-hearted as time went by. I even started to look forward to it, imagine that! I'm now looking forward to going to the principal's office, "Hmm!" Then she took it a step further, home we went, to her very own home.

Ms. Brodbendt lived alone in her fabulous home on the waterfront on Montreal's West Island. A two-story brick on top of a cut-stone house on a grass-covered woodland mound off Lakeshore Road. A property that mounts up straight out of the riverbed. She didn't have to ask me home more than once, I was in, for the long haul. Ms. Brodbendt's home quickly became my favorite place to be, and then, she just as quickly became my favorite person to be with, for a thousand more reasons than one.

She'd said that she's got something to do that evening that would require my helping hand, I obliged. What's not to like about helping Ms. Brodbendt? She was by then my most favored person in the whole wide world, after my mother of course. I was even taking to calling her mom by then. So, mom, as it turned out, wanted to nurse her newborn (or more like, newly found) baby, me, into what her idea of a fully developed and rounded young man should be. If one is to care for the baby? Then one must start at the beginning, with the very basics, I supposed, and that was just where she would have gotten it all started, right there, in the mammary regions, yes. She "babied" me.

"You just sit back and relax," she said, "there isn't much for you to do today really. I just want to have a little chat with you about a few minor subjects."

"No, no," she protested when I headed towards the single chair in a far corner of the living room. She then picked up a pillow off the large leather sofa. Fluffed it around in her hands, like this. Then with just as much care and tenderness, she propped it up in the left corner of the leather couch. Pat it again with her hands, "sit, sit," sit she said, "make yourself comfortable. Want something to drink? Help yourself.

I helped myself as it had become as normal and regular as anything else of late for me to just help myself to whatever it was that I wanted to eat or drink, whenever I was at any of Ms. Brodbendt's places. Be it in her office at school or as it now is, in her home. I helped myself to a glass of iced tea and a handful of Ritz biscuits. I sat back down rather nimbly on the couch, not wanting to spill any of the biscuits or the drink droppings on the floor, or worse, on the couch.

I could hear the shower going from behind the bathroom door, Ms. Brodbendt was taking a shower, in plain earshot of me sitting there in her living room. Imagine that. Yes, my overgrown, over-sensitized teenage boy's imagination started running as wild as Bigfoot the ape-man, upon the suspicion that one of those humanoid kinds was venturing into his roaming territory, perhaps. Then, that's when Bubbles spoke up again: "You're the principal man, Manley," he said. "She wants to do you, buddy!"

"Be off with you Bubbles," I said, "you're not real."

"Hey, which red-blooded teenage boy doesn't want to do his rather beautiful and charming schoolteacher?" Bubbles wanted to know.

"You're looking at him."

"Really? Tell me you don't secretly fantasize about knocking up Ms. Brodbendt? Or even that sassy little eye-treat of a form teacher of yours? If I were you though, I'd settle for the principal, because you ain't never going to get on the inside of Mrs. Taylor's pants. Not now, not ever."

I couldn't argue with the bugger on those points. Not so much because I didn't know the answers to his queries. But even more so out of realizing that: incredulous though it might have seemed, all of that! Bubbles was right. "You know me just a little too well, B." I cautioned the little annoyance but? "We're going to have to do something about you, and soon."

Ms. Brodbendt came back into the living room wearing what looked like pajamas to me. A rather warm and cozy-looking pink panther jumpsuit sleepwear, with a long zipper in the front that ran all the way down from under the throat to just about the groin area, yes, right there. A fluffy puppy dog-headed, black-nosed, red-tongued bed slippers on her feet.

The large round friendly-looking black and white insert served as the ever-shaking shaky eyes of the "puppy-shoe." It seemed to be watching me from wherever in the room they were at any given point in time.

"I spoke to your mother again this afternoon," she said, as she re-entered the living room. She walked past me and headed towards the kitchen, reached inside the cupboard for a wine glass, and then another.

"Would you like to try something a little different, something a bit more mature than iced tea?"

"I, I don't know if I should do that, I've never had anything stronger than that before. I mean, iced tea. Well, I mean, not really. I did manage to down a beer or two once or twice before, but... um, what are you offering?"

She didn't bother to answer, she just poured the liquor in both glasses, picked them up and came back towards the couch where I was sitting, handed me one of the glasses, then went and sat down at the other end of the couch.

"Don't gulp it down," she said, "take your time, sip it, and savor the flavor." I was watching her closely though indirectly. She stirred the drink around with one finger, rolling the ice cubes in circles around the glass, then licked it, (her finger,) and shook the glass in a circular motion.

The ice in the liquor was making a clinking, rattling sound in the glass. I shook my glass in somewhat of a similar manner, or as close to it as I could get. I didn't stick my finger in though, I lifted the glass to my lips and took a tiny sip, held it in my mouth for a little while and then slowly swished it around in my mouth and all over my tongue. After confirming that it was not a bigger bite than I could chew, I swallowed it. Not bad, I thought. Not bad at all.

I took another sip, holding it for longer; long enough to taste the flavor this time. I noticed the hint of sweetness and a slight tingly feeling on my tongue, I swallowed and felt the warmth within.

"As I was saying," she continued. "I spoke to your mother earlier this afternoon. She said that she has noticed the changes in you and is quite happy with the improvements. She seems to think that I've got something to do with it and wants you to spend more time with me."

While talking, she reached up for the zipper head and pulled it down a couple of inches. Then shuffle her body into a more comfortable position, lift her legs onto the couch and place them one over the other between us. The bottom of the puppy dog shoes is now right in front of my face every time I look around. Which was, like, constantly.

"Do you like the drink?" she asked while pulling down the zipper head yet further.

"It's, it's okay," I mumbled this and took another sip. I wanted to quit and split right there and then, but no, I had to protect my rep.

"What rep?" Asked Bubbles. I rebuked him, from within.

The big black fluffy meowing pussy cat came hobbling over and hopped up onto her knees. Its butter-like, buttonhole eyes were busily watching me with suspicion, while she, (Ms. Brodbendt,) gently stroked its head, smoothing out the furry fluff. I would surely like to be stroking her pussy cat too, but I ain't that lucky it would seem.

She'd picked up the lazy-looking bundle of fur, bedded it out on top of her arm and supported it by the plump roundness of the breast against the pink bunny jumpsuit. She got up and went back into the kitchen, carrying her pussy... yes, the fluffy ole cat along with her. I suppose it was to replenish the glass. I didn't wait long enough to find out. I took the opportunity at that point to bolt into the washroom. By then, I had some very urgent teenage boy types of issues to tend to, and fast. My teenage boy's mind had suddenly started to wonder. Am I here hinged on paranoia?

Everywhere I looked around I'd see, weird piercing eyes staring back at me, from the fake puppy dog shoes to the furry overweight pussycat sitting on her knee, it was like the whole blinking house was a-watching me, though I'd much rather be busy, cuddling up with Miss B. If ever, I am to be found "cuming" to Ms. Brodbendt's home on any type of a regular basis. I'd figured that: we, meaning me, myself, and I. We're going to have to do something about this wretched old pussy cat. No?

To be continued.