That year had the girls in mini-skirts (sigh - remember mini-skirts?).That year had the girls in mini-skirts (sigh - remember mini-skirts?). Since our school was pretty strict, we also had a dress code. Skirts below the knee. No sleeveless shirts. No jeans. No T-shirts for the guys. Ask any red-blooded kid what they do when school pushes too far. "Easy," they'll answer with a smirk, "Rules are made to be tested, stretched and broken." She sat in my math class. Tall, about five nine. Blond, with long straight hair. Athletic and captain of the girl's junior varsity b-ball team. Now some say that she was no beauty, what with her braces, the fading scar from a long-ago fish-hook on her left cheek, and the flatter-than-flat chest, but to me -- well to me, she was better than Christie Brinkley, Cheryl Tiegs, Cybil Shepherd, and Raquel Welch all rolled into one. The day of the final she walked into class wearing a skirt that was no longer than Hulk Hogan's WWF championship belt (so much for the dress code!). It ended about a foot above her knee and hugged her taut, endless thighs. Her white knee socks looked like they were painted on her calf. Her blouse was white and you could make out the faint outline of her bra underneath if you tried. Her hair fell loose around her neck and shoulders. The windows were open and the warm spring breezes blew the smell of the shore in. The pounding of the pile drivers putting the foundation of the new boardwalk building hammered in the distance. She took the desk in front of me to my left, just in my line of view to Mr. B., our pudgy, balding Trig teacher. Every time I looked up, there she was. That skirt, short as it was standing up, was even shorter when she sat down. It would ride up, at times showing the edge of her panties on her firm bottom. |