Leech Hoose, part two

While Leta's 15-year-old daughter Vivian knew that she was not to stop and talk to boys on the street, she had very few defenses when an incorrigible youth, in this case two, obstructed her. She had tried to ignore them; she walked briskly; she held her books tightly against her bosom. But there she was, standing on the sidewalk in front of the house where men and boys loafed day and night, being accosted by two teenaged boys who refused to let her pass. In fact, one of them just knocked the books out of her hands.

“Don’t she look nicer now?” her attacker asked.

The other was too mesmerized by her heaving breasts to respond, so his friend smacked him in the back of his head.

“Hey!”

“What?” the other howled, rubbing his head.

“Get yer mind out of the gutter!” he ordered. “Teacher is refined. She don’t appreciate your filthy mind.”

“I can’t help it,” the other whined. “Just look at ‘em. I’d love ta—“

“Watch your mouth!” the first snapped and raised his hand again.

“Okay, okay,” the other agreed, cowering slightly.

Although their exchange was brief, Vivian had taken the opportunity to start edging away from the boys. She hated to leave the books behind, but her understanding of the danger presented toward her person superseded her dedication to the books. Before she got to where she could actually start running, however, the first boy grabbed her arm.

“Hold on, teacher,” he said. “Nobody dismissed you.”

He gripped her hard.

“Please,” she requested, “just let me go.”

Her mother had told her never to cry when she was in a confrontation. Crying was weakness. Crying showed inferiority. Crying indicated defeat. The only time a woman used crying was strategically, to win an argument. So instead of crying, Vivian arched her back and drew herself even taller.

Although she was naturally a gentle person, she assessed the strength of her attacker by his grip. His bare arms were thin as sticks, all bone and sinew, but when she flexed slightly, his grip grew tighter. He was stronger than she. Her only alternative was to kick him. She had hard shoes. A swift strike to his shin should smart enough that he released her. But she would only have one opportunity. He would have to be in the right position.

“Ain’t she got purty arms,” her assailant said, raising the arm he held so tightly and running the other along it. “Her skin is soft as rabbit fur,” he told his confederate.

His hand was rough and calloused. She imagined a snake running up and down her arm, and her hair stood on end.

When the other youth reached for her free arm, she jerked it away, inadvertently pushing herself into the first.

“Oh no?” the second boy smirked. “Then hows about a little kissy-poo.” He puckered his lips and pushed his face toward hers. She turned ahead away in disgust, only to find that the boy who held his arm had assumed the same expression.

To be continued.