The Rehabilitation of Miss Little

By Rusty Bradshaw

After years of abuse and bullying from schoolmates, her parents, and most of her siblings, Vicki Little falls into a routine of poor hygiene and appearance and believes her tormentors' opinions that she is unworthy of their love and respect. Her only positive outlets are a focus on her education and the encouragement of her only supporter-her younger brother, Alex. Vicki believes she has found an escape when she enrolls in college in another state. Unfortunately, the players may have changed, but the game is the same. One day on campus, she sees Andy Thompson and then another chance meeting where he watches Vicki being bullied by her main tormentor, a self-absorbed, controlling woman named Sheila with a disturbing secret. Andy follows Vicki home and introduces himself. They become friends, and he takes her under his wing, buying her new clothes and teaching her to improve her appearance and how to gain self-confidence. He introduces her to some new friends. Because he is so nice to her, she falls in love with him, an emotion he cannot let himself return. After Sheila's bullying of Vicki turns to physical violence, Andy lets his anger get the best of him and he lands in jail. Vicki gets a measure of revenge with Sheila and, with her newfound friends, helps Andy out of his legal predicament and, in the process, undercover dark secrets Andy has been keeping from Vicki.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781644240939

Book preview

Chapter 1

The football came to a wobbly rest at her feet. She looked at it pensively for a moment before starting to reach for it. But before she could get her hands within inches of its slightly damp, faded leather skin, a big hand grabbed it and pulled it skyward.

The man holding the ball was tall and well-built. In another time, in another place, she would have considered him attractive, even sexy. His long blond hair hung on each side of his face, with the tips just brushing his tight, round shoulders, bare because of the gray tank top he was wearing.

He looked down at her and smiled. It was not a welcome smile; it was a tight-lipped, cruel, and evil smile, with an edge that made her lower her head. But she kept her eyes on him. The football jumped from hand to hand.

Study real hard now, he sneered. Since you can’t do anything else.

A cackling laugh burst from his mouth, and he turned and jogged back to his friends gathered nearby on the grass field south of the Academic Industrial building, waiting for him. They all laughed and went back to their game of catch.

Finally dropping her eyes, the woman looked down at the books on her lap. A tear filled her eye. It rolled down her cheek and dripped on her open notebook, creating a small pool that quickly wrinkled the paper. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her lightweight, rumpled, faded blue sweatshirt and got up and began to walk away toward her dormitory.

The catch players saw her walking away and began to joke among themselves. She could feel their staring eyes and heard their laughter. Without even looking their way, she knew it was directed at her.

But there were other eyes on her that day. Curious eyes. Those eyes saw the torment and the tears. Those eyes became angry.

The woman sat in her room and looked out the window at the city lights. They were ablaze with night activity. The bright lights near the waterfront reflected in the calm waters of Bellingham Bay. On this cloudless September night, those reflections seemed to create a mirror city on the water, a city just as full of life and excitement as the real thing. But she was not a part of it. She wanted to be, but she didn’t belong there. She believed she didn’t belong anywhere.

After staring out the window for what seemed like an eternity, she got up and got her jacket. It was a cool night, and she wanted to walk. She enjoyed walking. But she didn’t do it much because she received abuse even then.

Her hair was uncombed and stringy, but she didn’t bother with it. She had not showered for two days, and the thin film of daily body perspiration was beginning to emit a slight odor. That mattered little to her as she threw her coat on and left the room.

The sky was full of stars, dimmed only slightly by the city lights and a big, bright fingernail moon. That white moon, hanging low on the horizon to the east, reminded her of a smile, a facial expression she rarely showed herself. There was a slight breeze, just enough to make her shiver despite the denim jacket. The campus was flooded with the eerie pale light of the moon, supplanting the copious decorative lights along campus sidewalks. It made the tall, old buildings look like haunted castles.

After a short while, the woman found herself in front of Wade King Student Recreation Center. The lights were on inside and the sounds of activity filtered out through a door left slightly ajar. She stood and stared at the structure for a moment. Suddenly, as if drawn by an unknown force, she began to move haltingly toward the main entry doorway. She was sure if she went inside, she risked bringing more torment upon herself. But something continued to pull her toward the big glass doors. That same force urged her to pull one of those doors open.

Once in the lobby, she hesitated. She began to turn back the way she had come, but again, that force pulled at her. She turned and walked to the arena entrance and opened the door, standing at the threshold. The sound of activity assailed her, as did the smell of athletic bodies in motion.

All the lights in the gymnasium were on. At the basket nearest her were six girls playing basketball. In the opposite corner were two people fencing. They appeared to be men, but with their masks on, she could not tell for certain. One fencer wore a conventional white outfit, but the other was dressed all in orange. They appeared to be in the middle of a spirited match.

As she stood in the doorway, one of the girls noticed her standing there and stopped playing in mid-drive to the basket. She beckoned to the other girls.

Hey, girls, Dumpo came to play with us.

The girls stopped their game and looked toward the door. One girl stepped forward. She was a good-looking, busty brunette with long, shapely legs. Her tight royal blue shorts were reminiscent of a miniskirt when they were in style. The white T-shirt, emblazoned with Western in curved block letters above a Viking head, was at least one, possibly two sizes too small, making her breasts strain at the fabric. Despite the sports bra underneath, her nipples made not so small bulges in the lettering.

She strode forward with her hands on her hips. She looked straight into the eyes of the frightened woman in the doorway.

Did Dumpo come to play with us? she asked cruelly. Or did she think she might steal some men from us?

At the other end of the floor, the orange-suited fencer had been concentrating hard on his opponent. When the door opened, he threw a quick glance toward it at the same time he blocked a thrust from his opponent. He recognized the woman in the doorway but quickly focused his attention back to his match. But when the first remark from the busty brunette hit his ears, his focus darted back to the doorway.

As his attention turned to the girls, his opponent saw the opening and lunged straight for his unprotected chest padding. But with the quickness of a cheetah, he blocked the lunge near the base of the blade and pushed his opponent’s foil into three full circles before dislodging it from his hand. On the upswing, the orange fencer’s own foil launched the blade into the air. The foil flipped end over end in a high arch before crashing to the floor several feet away.

The girls were startled by the sound and turned their attention away from the woman in the doorway. The sword’s owner began to walk toward the blade, but the orange-clad man stood and stared at the girls through his mask. After a few seconds, the girls turned back to the woman in the doorway.

The woman, also startled by the sound of the foil banging against the hardwood, stared at the fencers. Her trance deprived her of the opportunity to escape another session of verbal abuse.

As his opponent picked up his foil, the man in orange pulled off his mask. His blond, curly hair jumped out to its natural position on his head, a bit matted from sweat. It looked like it could be an Afro style, but it was his natural look. He was a handsome man, clean-shaven and well-built.

His bright blue eyes looked angry, like an approaching storm, and he was frowning.

His opponent returned to his place and replaced his own mask. But the man in orange continued to stare in the direction of the girls.

What about one of them? the busty girl asked, motioning to the men in the corner. I’ll bet you think you can screw one of them.

A no built in the woman’s throat, but she choked it back down. She could feel the sobs coming, but she did not want to be there when they came out. She so wanted to deflect the busty brunette’s almost constant taunts, but the courage had long ago departed her personality.

Fortunately, the fear and embarrassment that was holding her there let go, and she turned and fled. She could hear the girls howling with laughter as she burst through the main doors and headed for her dormitory at a clumsy jog.

When he saw her bolt and run, the man in orange began to walk toward the door.

Thanks for the match, he told his opponent without looking around.

As he walked past the girls, they were throwing the basketball back and forth while, at the same time, leering at his athletic body and its confident and authoritative movements. But it was not athletic skill the busty brunette, for one, was admiring.

He didn’t even look at them. He could feel their admiring stares on him, but he let them bounce off. At that moment, that kind of attention disgusted him. Usually female attention such as this amused him, but not this time.

After catching sight of her just crossing South College Drive into the north parking lot, the man in orange followed the tormented woman discreetly at a distance to her dorm. He watched her walk in the door and disappear. In a second-story window, she appeared again. She was looking out over the city, as she had been earlier.

She looked down and met his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him looking up at her window. She jerked the curtains shut in fright.

But there had been something in those deep blue eyes—something different. She peeked through the curtains and saw that he was no longer standing there. He was walking back toward the recreation center, foil and mask in hand.

She thought back to the gym and remembered his angry look when the girls were teasing her. Those eyes seemed full of fury then. His handsome face was turned upside down with a frown—a disapproving frown.

But no, she said to herself. He had to be like all the others. How could anyone see a run-down, ugly old witch like her any other way than as an object of ridicule? she thought. Why would her life change now?

It had been four days since the humiliating night at the gymnasium. The woman was sitting against a tree east of the biology classroom building. A group of men were walking toward her from the direction of Fraternity Row. Glancing up from the textbook in her hands, she counted sixteen in all. They had a football with them.

Suddenly she froze as she recognized one of them. It was the man in orange from the gymnasium. Again, he was in orange, an orange football jersey with the number seven on it. He turned to catch a football thrown in his direction and she saw the name Thompson lettered on the back of the jersey.

He was just as handsome as he had been in the gym. His curly blond hair shone in the sunlight like the reflections on a pond. His manner was cool and calm, and he was in total control of every move made by his athletic body.

The woman began to gather her books and get up to leave when he caught sight of her. As she looked up from her task, she found herself staring right into his eyes. They seemed to beckon her to stop. Every fiber of her mind told her to get away as fast as possible. She was certain he was no different from the others and would join in their cruel treatment. It was like that always with her.

However, even though her mind screamed at her to leave, her body refused to respond.

Those eyes, as blue as a coral sea, were something she could not disobey. She sat back down and put the books on the ground beside her. She was sure she had seen his eyes sparkle then.

The men separated into eight-man sides on the field where one of the football players, whom she recognized as the teams separated into eight-person teams, had harassed her four days earlier. None of the others seemed to take any notice of her, except for her earlier tormentor, who was on the team opposing Thompson’s. He said something to Thompson as they passed each other going to opposite ends of the field. The reaction was one of anger. That puzzled the woman, and she was curious what had been said.

The man in orange—Thompson—took the ball and his team to one end of their playing area. His team lined up, and he punted the ball to the other team. The ball arched high and long. His form was perfect. The ball contacted his foot right in the instep and shot straight ahead as his follow-through took his pointed toe above his head. He lay back and waited for the runner to go down at the hands of his teammates.

They were playing tackle, and it promised to be a rough game. Thompson played with an enthusiasm as if he were in the professional ranks. He clearly outplayed all the other players. But she noticed he went out of his way to let his teammates shine from time to time.

The only exception was the man who had spoken to the woman several days before. He seemed to target him on every play and gave him a hit harder than seemed necessary to the woman.

As the game progressed, she began to recognize at least five of the others as varsity players for the college. She was impressed, an emotion she had not experienced in some time, by Thompson’s ability.

She barely knew the game, but it mattered little. It was clear by his movements and agility that he knew the game quite well.

Thompson’s team took the ball away and was now on offense. He was playing quarterback. She watched with interest. She was so interested, in fact, she did not notice the busty brunette from the gym and four other girls walk up behind her.

So Dumpo’s here watching the guys, huh, the brunette spat out. The sound of the voice startled the woman and she winced, but she did not turn to face her tormentors.

Do you think you can get a little bit of a fuck from one of them? the brunette asked cruelly. Or maybe all of them since you’re such a beauty. All the girls laughed.

Thompson had just thrown a pass for a big gain when he noticed the girls towering over the woman, still seated on the ground and facing away from the group of girls. He shot an angry glance at them, but none were looking his way. He called a play and had just run it when the busty brunette kicked the woman’s pile of books, scattering them all over. He could see she was so scared she did not even move to retrieve them.

Calling a time-out from the heated game he was involved in, he walked toward the group of girls. They were so intent on their torture they did not see him coming until he was directly in front of the brunette.

Pick up the books, he ordered, working hard to contain his anger.

Only momentarily startled by his voice, the brunette looked him in the eye. Her friends also looked up to see him standing there. The brunette started to protest, but those blue eyes were now cloudy and they bore right into her like a pair of drills. She stood there with an open mouth, but no words came out.

Now, he said forcefully, but with control in his voice.

Without taking her eyes off him, she slowly bent down and began gathering up the scattered textbooks and notebooks. As the task continued, her own green eyes grew colder and she became angrier.

Put them back where they were, he demanded when she picked up the last one. She not so gently dropped them at the seated woman’s side.

Apologize, he told her, still with the forceful tone. She said nothing.

Since the cat has her tongue, Thompson said, looking down at the frightened woman, I’ll have to do it for her. She and her friends are sorry. They ask for your forgiveness.

The brunette found her tongue.

Bullshit we are, and bullshit we do!

Thompson lifted his head slowly and looked directly at the fiery-mouthed brunette.

Since you only have the manners of a pig, I suggest you take a course in etiquette, he snarled.

She swung her open-palmed right hand toward his face, but his hand was cat quick. It stopped her strike just short of his cheek. He squeezed her wrist just enough to cause pain, but not enough to do any real damage. She flinched and tried to pull her hand away, but to no avail. He tightened his grip.

I don’t think that would be very wise, he said.

Transfixed to the confrontation up to this point, the woman on the ground shook loose from the scene long enough to realize she had on open door to escape. She grabbed her books and began to run away.

Wait, Thompson yelled after her, dropping the brunette’s arm, and took a few steps toward the fleeing woman. She stopped dead in her tracks.

What’s your name? he asked.

Her name is Dumpo, hot shit, he heard the brunette say immediately. Hearing that, the woman, who had not turned back toward Thomson, took off again at a dead run.

Thompson turned and walked right up to the brunette, his muscular chest up against her protruding breasts, again clad in a T-shirt too small to fully contain the globes, and his nose nearly touching hers.

When I want something from your pig mouth, I’ll let you know, he growled.

He stared at her with those eyes, now as cold as ice, and fear began to show in her face. That expression never changed as he moved past her and walked in the direction taken by the scared woman, never taking his eyes off the busty brunette until he was more than forty yards away. When he did turn his head in the direction of his travel, he did not see that the busty brunette’s fear quickly faded and was replaced by a fierce rage she could hardly contain.

Seeing him leave the area, his teammates and opponents regrouped to continue their game.

The woman was lying on her bed, facedown, crying, when she heard the knock at her door. It startled her. She was certain it was the girls coming after her. She slowly sat up on the bed. There was a second knock. It was measured and gentle. There was no urgency or anger coming through those faint raps.

Cautiously, she got up and went to the door.

Who is it? A trace of a sob was in her voice.

My name is Andy. What’s yours?

She recognized the voice of the man in orange. It was not fear that rippled through her nerve endings at the sound of the voice. It was a pleasing feeling, but it also startled her.

What do you want? she asked, her caution taking command of her voice.

Can I talk to you?

What for?

I just want to talk to you.

You’ll only tease and make fun of me. She felt the tears coming again.

Why would I want to do that?

Everyone does. The tears were now beginning their slow crawl down her cheeks.

But I’m not everyone, he answered. Can I please talk to you?

She thought for a moment. He had protected her from the girls, and in those two brief encounters, he had never treated her badly. Her caution began to subside and, with it, her resolve. But neither went completely away. She was ready to take a chance, and she slowly opened the door. His handsome face broke into a wide smile.

Come in, she mumbled.

Andy Thompson walked into the room and stood a few feet from her. He was keeping his distance, knowing how scared she remained. She felt very uncomfortable. She left the door open and moved to the window.

Andy surveyed the room. It was very dirty and unkempt. Dirty clothing lay on the bed and some on the floor, which looked as if it had never been swept. He could see dust devils peeking out from under the bed. The desk on the other side of the room was piled with papers and other items in a very disorganized manner.

The woman who stood at the window looked just as bad. Her hair was oily and uncombed, obviously unwashed, possibly for days. It looked to Andy as if she had not taken a shower in a week. Dirt smudges marked her face and arm. She wore an old army fatigue shirt that was dotted with holes. The jeans she wore were in as bad shape. And her feet were encased in a pair of blue sneakers with oil and dirt stains all over them. She wore no socks.

What’s your name? he asked.

Huh? As she had been staring out the window toward the lights shimmering off the still bay water, she had been entranced. She was startled by his question.

I’m sorry, I’d just like to know your name.

Still with her back turned to him, she mumbled something barely intelligible. He took his best guess.

Vicki what? he asked.

Little, she replied, a little clearer this time.

Miss Little, Andy said as he stuck out his hand, my name is Andy Thompson. Please call me Andy.

Vicki looked at his outstretched hand. Even though she did not take it, the hand remained in place. When she slowly extended her hand to shake his, Andy turned her hand palm down, then slowly bent and kissed the back of her hand. She quickly disengaged her hand from his and dropped her