A to Z - 55. Chapter 55 Stalkers

March 15 – Wednesday Afternoon

I have not enjoyed the past two days. Not at all. My stomach has been a nervous stew nearly every minute. For one thing, Monica and Garrett insisted that Zander and I split up at night. In fact, Zander has moved down the hall to Monica's little office and project room which Garrett pointed out to Ms. Chandler. Garrett explained that if Family Protective Services did another surprise inspection they would find Zander and me having separate rooms, and me with a private bathroom. Apparently, that's a big deal to FPS. They don't really have the right to inspect the house, at least, not according to Garrett. But it would look really bad if we refused, so we had to be ready.

Rather than move everything down the hall for a rapid redecoration, I just moved into Zander's room. I haven't slept well without Zander, but at least I got to sleep in his bed, where I can still breathe in the scent of him.

As it happened, FPS actually did come to the house last night, but not until they had tried to take me away from Zander. And I wouldn't be surprised if they keep trying, though they haven’t succeeded yet.

Tuesday morning, it was business as usual. Zander knocked on the door to wake me up from a rotten night's sleep. Back to swimming early; Coach Simpson met us and did most of the teaching again. He made me concentrate on the getting the kick right. At the end, Coach taught me to kick hard and then roll over on my stomach, blowing a stream of bubbles out my nose as I glided along. I thought this was seriously weird, but Coach seemed pleased. I wondered what this was leading up to.

School breakfast was kind of tense, but nobody bothered us.

Zander and I had to part ways – we didn't share any classes until after lunch – but I couldn't let him go without a quick hug. "Good luck this morning. I love you. See you later." At least being outed means we can hug in public, now. At least, as long as none of the teachers are around.

And then he was gone.

I got some strange looks in the hallway and in class, and I heard the word 'faggot,' muttered softly once or twice, followed by suppressed laughter. Compared to what I put up with in Carlsberg, it wasn't much. I shrugged it off. Instead, I imagined what Zander was going through, and my heart ached.

Terry caught up with me at the end of Physics, all bright and bubbly and cheerful as sunshine. I needed that ray of hope, and I managed to smile. I realized I'd been tense all morning. Zander and Kaz arrived at lunch shortly after we did; I was pleased to see Nick and Alyssa sit down with us, too. Jeff Ellison, my new friend from the party, shyly pulled up a chair. And they weren't the only ones – we were joined by a couple of guys from the swim team, and some friends of Terry's. There was an actual crowd at the table. The situation looked – normal.

There was no repeat of the spectacle from the day before. Bruce Mack was absent from lunch, apparently doing some sort of community service thing. I didn't mind at all.

I realized I hadn't been listening to the conversation. Zander was speaking to Terry:

"…but what I want to know is how this woman from Family Services knew about there being a 'homosexual' in the house." He made air quotes with his fingers.

I'd wondered that, too.

Terry made a face. "That's too easy, Zander," she said, "pay attention. You do know that Bruce Mack's aunt works for Family Services, right? It's not a coincidence. I doubt anyone at Family Services reads posts about you on Facebook. Bruce got pissed off at being faced down at lunch by the two of you and decided to play dirty, that's what happened." Her tone of voice betrayed anger that her face didn't show.

Zander and I both wore blank expressions. So it was Bruce who pushed Family Services into paying us a visit Monday night. Someone told him I lived with Zander, and he called his aunt. For some reason, she must have agreed to make trouble.

After lunch, in Trig, I noticed a pair of strangers, a man and a woman, dressed in grey professional-looking outfits, sitting two rows behind me. If I had sat with Zander up front, I might not have seen them, but I had kept my comfortable seat at the back of the class even after meeting Zander and moving in with the Stevensons. I just figured they were observing the class. But then they followed us to Art class.

In the hall, I whispered to Zander, "Don't look, but did you see those people following us? They were in Trig."

Zander laughed. "I think you're being paranoid. It's probably just some visiting teachers or something."

But I watched them take up seats in a convenient corner of the Art studio where they could watch both me and Zander. I found it hard to work, feeling as if I was under scrutiny. Finally, I got down to concentrating on a sketch I had been assigned to do. Late in the class period, almost to the end, I saw a shadow loom over my work. I looked up to see the man, middle aged, with short cropped hair peering down.

"Nice drawing," he said quietly.

I said nothing, but nodded.

The man spoke again, very softly, looking at me very intently with bright green eyes. "You know, you don't have to wait until tomorrow for that court hearing. You don't have to go through all that legal stuff. We can get you out right now. All you have to do is voluntarily walk out of school with us. Come of your own free will, and there's nothing your foster parents can do." His hand gripped my right elbow, just firmly enough to know there was plenty of strength behind it. "Come on, let's go now," he said firmly.

I got a sudden chill. The man's face was human, but I beheld a monster. Someone was out to get me. I felt a surge of panic. I had to flee, get out before they took me away. My thoughts raced. Shaking free from grey-suit's grip, I raised my hand and got the attention of Mr. Karpus. My tormentor smiled and returned to his seat.

"Mr. Karpus, can I go use the bathroom?" I asked, trying to control my voice.

"Sure, Andy," he smiled, completely unaware of the danger to me in his classroom.

I stood up swiftly and headed for the classroom door. I saw the grey suited man smile and start to get up. Suddenly, I banged the door shut in his face and bolted down the hallway. It was a good thing classes were in session because I absolutely sprinted the length of the deserted corridor and sailed around the corner. I heard a voice distantly calling out in alarm behind me, but I had no idea who it was, or what they were saying. I knew where I was headed.

In a matter of seconds, I burst into the Library, chest heaving. The few students scattered at the tables there looked up, then returned to whatever it was they had been doing. Mr. Donaldson, the librarian, glared at me, held his finger to his lips, and turned his attention to the computer screen at his desk. Silent as a ghost, I floated to the back of the library. Hidden behind the shelves, I slipped quietly into my old lair, and lay down in the dust behind the paper boxes in the closet.

I tried to control my breathing, tried to quell the fear and anxiety. Scared, I curled into a little ball and tried to be as quiet as I could. Who the hell were those people? Family Services? Whoever they were, they weren't my friends. They wanted to take me away. Into custody; to jail, maybe.

I felt my phone vibrate. Shit. The noise would give me away. It vibrated again. Irritated and distracted, I pulled it out of my pocket to shut it off, when I stopped. Instead, I checked to see who had sent me a text.

Zander, of course. "R U where I think U R?"

I couldn't help letting a small smile tug at the corners of my mouth. "Yes," I texted back.

"Don't worry, help coming," popped up almost instantly.

Then I waited. What did Zander mean by that? Help was coming? I didn't have long to lie there in my hiding spot. The bell for the end of the school day rang, and I heard the clamor of everyone trying to get out of the building, going their separate ways. A couple of minutes later, I heard the closet door open, and the light was switched on. Who the hell was it? Had I been followed? Whoever had entered was not being very quiet about it.

"Andy?"

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Kaz was out there on the other side of the box barrier, looking for me.

"Kaz? Wait a sec." I called out to him. I saw the surprise on his face as I emerged from my hidey hole. I stood and the giant wrapped an arm around my shoulder.

"Zander sent me," he said simply. "You okay?"

I shook my head. "Better, but still shaky," I explained what had happened after lunch, in Art class. I tried to get across how frightening that man in grey was, and why I had panicked.

"Sounds like some scary shit, man," Kaz agreed. "But you don't have to worry anymore. We've got you covered, Andy."

I was shocked; Kaz never swore. I almost forgot to ask, "Covered? How?"

"Well, Zander figures those guys are going to follow him. That's why he sent me." I blessed my incredibly intelligent boyfriend. Kaz went on: "You and me will head out to Track practice, and I'll stick close. Zander will meet us there. They won't dare mess with you in a big crowd of kids. Oh, and Zander picked up your stuff from Art class, by the way," he added.

It seemed like a workable plan. I felt reassured to have my big friend at my side, and even better that I'd be safe in a sea of Track people.

Track practice was about as foreign an experience to me as any experience I've had. I couldn't help searching the landscape for the grey clothed pair the moment I stepped outside. I counted at least forty kids there, and I know there were more. People were everywhere, talking, stretching, jogging, getting ready. Kaz shepherded me out to the track, where I found Zander waiting for me.

"You okay?" he asked, while we stretched out on the unnaturally green artificial infield turf. "You were right about those people. They were watching both of us all through Art class. I saw that guy talking to you, and you just took off. What happened?"

I took a minute to tell him what the grey suited man had said and done.

"Shit, Andy, this is bad. You sure you're all right?" Zander looked at me carefully.

"I'm fine now. I just got spooked by that guy," I said, looking around for the stalkers one more time. They seemed to have disappeared.

"I'll say. That guy was after you in a hurry, but the woman just stayed in her chair, watching me. I lost her when I went into the locker room. Anyway, that's why I texted Kaz to go get you. "

The big man just grinned at the mention of his name. "Thanks for coming for me, Kaz," I had to put in.

"No problem," he smiled. "Anything for you two." And I really knew he meant it sincerely. "So who were these people, anyway?"

"I don't know," I shrugged, "but I guess they must have been from Family Services or something."

I saw Zander stiffen. He was pissed. "I'm gonna kill Bruce Mack," he hissed. "He's out of community service, and he's here for practice, somewhere. I'm gonna kill him."

"No, you're not," soothed Kaz. He took my boyfriend by his shoulders. "Look at me, Zander. You’re gonna go out there, do the tryout race, and run that bastard into the ground. You’re gonna be the great guy, the smart guy, who's my best friend, not the hothead who gets himself into trouble. Tell your dad about this, and let him sue them until they bleed."

I couldn't help laughing at that, and the tension eased a little.

A sharp whistle blew, and everyone crowded around the coach. I stuck close to Zander and Kaz, so I was at the back of the pack. I had a hard time seeing the coach, because he's a short man. I could see the shiny top of his bald head, but I only caught a glimpse of the rest of his face.

"Okay, so it's great you're all here today. For anyone who doesn't know, I'm Coach Pat Shanahan. You should have all the information you need about practice time and proper gear in the packet you got yesterday. So," and he paused grandly, "the snow's all gone, it must be perfect running weather," I heard the largely disembodied voice shout. Laughter greeted his last remark. "There's going to be a timed tryout race for boys, while the girls do a circuit on field events. Then the groups will switch. Everybody got that? Good. We start in five minutes."

I looked in confusion at Kaz. "Two quick miles. You gotta come in under eighteen minutes to make the team. Nothing to worry about, buddy, I've seen you do that practically asleep."

Zander nodded encouragingly. "No problem, Andy. Let's forget about everything and just do it."

I tried to smile, but I didn't feel the same confidence they did. I'm not a living sneaker commercial like Kaz. And then I saw another face in the crowd. Jeff Ellison, my own special running friend, stood there, looking very much alone and lost. His sister must have abandoned him. Despite my troubles and nervousness, I felt bad for him. I walked over, watching him tentatively trying to stretch.

"Hey, Jeff." He brightened to see me. "Good to see you. I joined, like I promised."

"Hi, Andy. Getting ready for my one and only race," he said, shaking his head.

"Nah. Don't let your mind beat you before your body's had a chance to compete. Come on over with Zander and Kaz," I invited. "Stick with us, and we'll both make the team."

He followed me back, and I introduced him to Kaz and Zander. Zander greeted Jeff politely, but I was surprised when he didn't warm up to him right away. On the other hand, Kaz was delighted to make a new friend and running disciple. I predicted Jeff was about to be initiated into the early morning running club.

Soon, about two dozen boys were gathered at the starting line, jostling for position.

"Hey, fags go the rear," I heard a voice call out behind me. Bruce Mack.

"Why? You want your butt in front of my dick?" Zander yelled back. Laughter rippled through the group at his joke.

"Okay everyone, hold the chatter!" The coach arrived, and strode to the starting line. He held a starter's pistol in one hand, a timer in the other. For a second, I imagined it was real. "Thirty-two hundred meters. That's eight laps. Eighteen minutes is the goal." He raised the pistol high. The air split with a sharp crack, and we all took off.

I fell in behind Zander and Kaz, letting them set a moderate pace. Jeff ran at my side. He seemed nervous but kept up all right. By the time we finished the first lap, I noticed he was beginning to labor a little.

"You're doing great," I called out to Jeff, encouraging him, just as Kaz had done to me. It seemed a lifetime ago. "Catch a rhythm. Remember, it's not your body that quits, it's your mind."

Ahead of me, Zander glanced over his shoulder in our direction and nearly stumbled.

I concentrated on running. Two laps later, Jeff was still with us, breathing steadily, eyes focused ahead. Another pair of laps, and Jeff was clearly tiring. His breathing was much more audible. I wasn't scared for Jeff, but I wanted him to make it, to feel what I felt when I got something right.

Kaz dropped back beside Jeff and motioned me forward to take his spot next to Zander. "Jeff, buddy, you're doing fantastic," I heard him say encouragingly.

Then, on edge of my vision, I saw a blond body – Bruce – passing us on the outside lanes. "Hey, faggots," I heard him call, "too slow to catch my ass?" And he seemed to accelerate with the taunt.

Something inside me got just plain mad at that. Without glancing at Zander, I sped up, moving to the outside, and closing the distance between me and Bruce. In a few seconds, I found myself running in step with the big blond bastard. A few more moments, and Zander joined me. We ran three abreast for a short space of time. I looked at Bruce and smiled wickedly. Running with Kaz since last fall gave me the confidence to play a dirty trick.

I accelerated again, slowly, subtly. Bruce had to keep up with me, or fall behind. Zander managed it effortlessly. He'd run with Kaz forever; he could handle this. Bruce didn't seem to realize that I was making him work harder and harder with every step, as we first gained on the leaders, then overtook them at the beginning of the last lap.

Now I heard Bruce begin to labor. I don't think he'd ever worked that hard at running before. I have to admit that Bruce didn't want to give up; his pride made him try to keep up with me and Zander, but I could tell that every stride was getting harder and harder for him. Time to break his heart.

"Come on, Zander, let’s go," I said, gathering myself.

I saw him nod, and I took off. This was my second sprint of the day, and I tried to make it better than my dash down the corridor earlier. I saw Bruce try to match our sudden acceleration, try to speed up step for step with me, but then a few moments later, he just wasn't there. I was a long way in front of everyone, even Zander. I wasn't running away from someone; this time, I ran towards something I couldn’t easily define – power? Confidence? The joy of leaving Bruce in the dust? I don't know.

What I do know is this: I came in far ahead of everyone else in the tryout race, with Zander sailing in at a distant second. I know that Bruce felt a sudden pain and had to limp off the track with a bad muscle pull. We'd successfully run him into the ground in a tryout race. I know that Jeff and Kaz finished with plenty of time to spare. I figured Kaz would have seen to that. And I know that the coach came up to me afterwards to ask where the hell I had been the last few years.

Later on, I had to try out all the field events. Zander got to stick with his best event, the long jump, but I had to do them all. Nick Lewis insisted I try out the pole vault twice. He might be right, it was kind of fun, even though I messed up badly both times.

Later still, I got to tell about my harrowing experience with the grey-suits all over again – first to Dr. O'Shea, and then to Monica and Garrett. Dr. O'Shea set her mouth in a tight, thin line as she asked me how I felt about the experience.

She interrupted my response a few moments later with, "I'm sorry Andy, but I can't help feeling angry myself. It's unprofessional, I know, but I'd better confess to being mad about this now, rather than later. Now, where were we?"

That left me wondering. Dr. O'Shea was cool, never flustered. She was angry? Angry for something someone was doing to me?

Monica and Garrett had no such hang-ups, and both got really mad when I told them about what happened at supper. "Why didn't you call me?" she demanded. "I would have come for you."

"I'm surprised you didn't call 9-1-1," Garrett chimed in.

"I know. Maybe I should have called you, but what would you have done? And I don't want to get the police in on this," I explained. I thought they'd understand. "Besides, Kaz rescued me pretty well," I added.

"That was a smart move, Zander," his father agreed. "But next time, Andy – God help us, let's never have a 'next time' - use the phone. I want you to call me or Monica right away."

"Okay," I said, humbled.

After supper, the wisdom of having Zander move down the hall was proven. Ms. Chandler reappeared, demanding to do an inspection. Monica and Garrett seethed, especially knowing what had happened that afternoon, but courteously showed the woman around. She found me at Zander's desk, working on Trig homework; Zander was down the hall, in his very separate bedroom, reading his English text on his bed. Ms. Chandler scrutinized everything she'd seen the night before carefully, but was unable to find anything immediately wrong.

Last night, I just couldn't sleep. Zander and I slept apart, and my mind was miles away from him, anyway. I mean, Zander was great, and his hugs after Ms. Chandler left were medicine to my unhappy soul. But my brain worked overtime, beset by doubts. What if Judge Harrison turned me over to Family Services? Would I get arrested immediately? Should I pack up my backpack and slip out the door now, before they could take me away? If I hustled, I could get a long way from Blackburn by dawn.

Today, my day in court, dawned clearer and warmer; but it started no differently than yesterday. Again, we went to swimming; again, Coach taught and Zander demonstrated, and I tried to learn. Two more days, and we'd be done.

Honestly, I didn't hear or see anything out of the ordinary in school. No stalkers in evidence. A few more funny looks, but that was it. Maybe everyone just forgot about me and Zander. Maybe we're just not that big a deal.

Partway through Physics, Mr. Hopewell tapped me on the arm. "You're wanted in the Principal's office," he told me quietly. I felt the eyes of the class on my back as I lifted my pack and left the room.

I entered the main office and leaned on the counter to catch the attention of the secretary. "Andrew?" she smiled up at me, "Your parents are with Mrs. Vetter. They'll be ready for you in a second. Have a seat."

I sat. I wasn't in trouble, I didn't think.

But I was. A few moments later, my grey-suited acquaintances from the day before let themselves into the office and sat down, one on either side of me. No escape this time; the man on my left could block my flight easily. "Hello, Andrew," he said conversationally.

My heart beat a million times a minute, but I said nothing.

"You ran away yesterday," he said more softly, so the secretary couldn't hear, I suppose. "That wasn't very friendly to people who are just trying to help."

Help? Who was he kidding?

"You know, you don't have to go through all of this court nonsense," the man said smoothly, "you could just come with us, and save everyone a lot of trouble."

I stared back at him.

"We'll find a nice home for you, Andrew, someplace where you'll be safe," he went on.

I could feel my eyes getting wide. I wanted to run, to sprint out of there, and get to a hiding place where I couldn't be found. I started to reach into my pocket for my phone.

"I'm happy where I am, thanks," I managed to get out.

Who were these people? Did they think they were just going to grab me out of school or something?

At that moment, two things happened to save the situation. First, Zander walked into the office. Ignoring the two agents on either side of me, he strolled right up to me and took my hand, hauling me to my feet. I picked up my bag. The second thing that happened is that the door to Mrs. Vetter's office opened abruptly, and Monica and Garrett stepped out. He looked very sharp in his dark suit and briefcase. Just like a lawyer.

"Thanks again, Mrs. Vetter," I heard Garrett say.

Monica walked over to us and gave me a hug, while the grey-suited pair looked on unhappily. "Time to go to court," she said cheerfully. "Don't worry, Andy. You're gonna be just fine. You'll be back at school in time for Trigonometry, you'll see."

Funny how that sounded so reassuring.

Garrett signed both Zander and me out, and we headed out to the car.

The other pair rose from their chairs and watched us as we pushed open the office doors. I heard the secretary ask something about their business at the school. Even with them out of sight, I had trouble forgetting about them as we left the school.

While we rode, I told Garrett and Monica what had happened in the outer office while we sat. I could tell Monica was burned, but she held her tongue. In just a few minutes, we found ourselves in the county court building. I expected we would go up to Judge Harrison's cozy, wood-paneled office, but instead, we filed into a grey, sterile-looking conference room dominated by a large, oval table.

A slim woman in a brown suit and short red hair stood as we came in. Garrett wasted no time introducing us.

"Heidi Graber, I'd like you to meet your client, Andrew Stevenson." My inquiring look was met with a steady examination from bright button-black eyes.

I held out my hand, and got a brisk, firm handshake. "Good to meet you, Andrew. You must be Zander," she said turning to my boyfriend.

"Heidi, here are the school records you wanted. You have copies of everything you need?" Garrett asked.

My lawyer took the folder he handed her and looked inside, briefly. She nodded. "That's great. Thanks." She turned back to me. "Andy, I'm sorry to rush, but I need a quick, three minute summary of your life with the Stevensons."

I stood there, stunned, for a few moments. Then I told her what I could, concentrating on my time in Blackburn. I could sense she was listening intently, nodding from time to time. Once, she asked me to repeat something, but I can’t remember what it was.

Then Garrett had her attention, as he wanted to tell my lawyer about the county family protection people stalking me in school. And that really did get her attention.

Not a minute later, Judge Harrison himself walked into the room, followed by a small parade of people: a woman who looked like a secretary of some sort, Ms. Chandler, and a thin, black suited man with a matching black briefcase and equally black, slicked-back hair. This had to be Ms. Chandler's lawyer.

We arranged ourselves around the table, Ms. Chandler and her lawyer on one side, our family and my lawyer on the other. Judge Harrison sat at the head of the table.

I was so nervous I could hardly inhale; I practically held my breath the whole time.

"All right, everyone, let's get this going. Let the record show that this hearing is being held at the instance of Ms. Phyllis Chandler of Family Protective Services. Ms. Chandler? Proceed."

It wasn't Ms. Chandler who spoke, but her lawyer, who talked in a flat, almost bored tone of voice: "Your Honor, we argue that the child, Andrew Stevenson, is inappropriately placed in a foster home in which he may be in danger. Under the foster statute, Family Protective Services can remove any child from any situation at any time without notification or stated cause if the agency believes the child to be in danger. We are here as a courtesy – and only as a courtesy – to Counselor Stevenson. We are prepared to take immediate custody of the boy."

The words seemed almost antiseptic, but they chilled me to the bone.

"Mr. Kowalski," Judge Harrison glared at the lawyer, "exactly what danger does the Agency believe Andrew to be in?"

The black suited lawyer leaned over and listened to Ms. Chandler for a moment. He made a face, then replied: "The Agency believes the child to be in danger because it has come to the attention of the Agency that there is a homosexual person domiciled in the foster home."

God, he made it sound so awful.

"And the danger in that is specifically, what?" Judge Harrison asked.

"Well, the child might be subject to unwanted attentions…advances…" the man trailed off uncomfortably.

I heard Ms. Graber, my lawyer, snort over to my left.

The county lawyer, looking increasingly irritated, went on, "In any case, Your Honor, it's clear that such circumstances are plainly inappropriate, and the Stevensons should never have been allowed to be approved as foster parents."

Judge Harrison waited a moment. "Ms. Chandler, has Family Protective Services visited the Stevenson home?"

"Yes, Your Honor. Twice."

"Please be aware that I am acutely aware of the requirements for foster homes and families. Please tell me: is the house spacious enough?"

A pause. "Yes."

"Do the bathrooms and bedroom arrangements conform to the code?"

A longer pause; she nodded grudgingly. “They seem to.”

"What about family income? Did you check that? Does there appear to be adequate food for a teenage boy? Were sufficient clothes provided?

There were no replies to the rapid fire questions.

"Have you consulted the medical and school records to see if there is evidence that the Stevensons are anything other than caring and compassionate foster parents?"

"No, Your Honor," Mr. Kowalski conceded after another long silence.

"You aren't suggesting that Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson are homosexuals, are you?"

"Of course not, Your Honor."

Then you are contending that because the Stevenson's own son might – might – be gay, the Stevensons are disqualified from acting as foster parents?"

"The law doesn't specifically allow fostering with gay persons. We think the situation is clear – if it's not mentioned in the law, it's not permitted. Even if it were ambiguous – which we do not admit - the situation should be treated with the utmost caution and discretion," the county lawyer said, carefully.

"So, to be clear, is it your contention that it is the very presence of a gay person in that residence is the sole disqualification? That's it? That's your case?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Chandler, stoutly.

The county lawyer mumbled something.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Kowalski, I didn't quite catch that," Judge Harrison said coldly. I almost felt sorry for the guy. It was clear Judge Harrison was about to come down on him like a ton of bricks.

"Yes, Your Honor. That's all," he admitted.

"Hmpf," Judge Harrison allowed himself, sitting back in his chair. In that moment, he reminded me of Eustace Whitley.

But the Judge surprised me by what he did next. He turned to my lawyer and asked, "Have you anything to say in response, Ms. Graber?"

"Your Honor, I have so much to say on this that it would take too much of your time. Has Mr. Kowalski read the Judson or DeCamillo decisions? The ones that clearly legalized same-sex couples to adopt in this state? There are a dozen cases like them, and I can provide copies for Mr. Kowalski if he hasn't seen them." She paused a moment. "Has Mr. Kowalski actually reviewed the school records for either Andrew or his foster brother Alexander? He might be interested to know that they are both honor students. Alexander is a statewide champion in swimming. Is Mr. Kowalski aware that Andrew holds down an after school job, or that the Stevensons have provided…"

"That's enough, counselor," the Judge interrupted. "I doubt Mr. Kowalski has examined the record if Ms. Chandler hasn't bothered to do so."

Mr. Kowalski was very busy studying his legal pad in front of him.

Meanwhile, my lawyer continued: "Your Honor, the law is very clear in allowing same-sex couples to adopt; the law also allows straight couples to adopt gay children. There are even several precedents in which the state has allowed gay couples to adopt gay children. Does Mr. Kowalski need the necessary citations?" My lawyer smiled sweetly in his direction. She went on: "However, while we agree that there is no law, no regulation, and no statute that expressly allows the adoption or fostering of a minor child into a home in which a gay person who is not the parent is a resident, neither is there any such prohibition in the law. It is utterly clear that the only reason the legislature did not provide for this is because the previously cited decisions make this a moot point and settled law. Mr. Kowalski has no case, and his request should be dismissed with all speed."

There was a pause.

"Mr. Kowalski? Anything you need to add?"

I could tell Ms. Chandler was fuming. She burst out, "Your Honor, we both know that this is ridiculous. Family Protective Services has complete jurisdiction…"

"Ms. Chandler!" Judge Harrison snapped. "Mr. Kowalski, I advise your client to keep silent unless addressed by the court, or I shall hold her in contempt. Now then," he continued after a moment, "several things seem clear to me. First, Mr. Kowalski has not proven that the minor child Andrew Stevenson is in any sort of danger. Unlike Ms. Chandler, I have examined the records. My reading and my own observations reveal quite the opposite. Second, I cannot believe that the mere presence of a gay person resident in a foster home renders that domicile unfit or unsafe. That assertion borders on the sort of bigotry this court cannot accept or condone. That the law is mute on this point is hardly a reason to begin constructing prohibitions on our own initiative. Third, if Mr. Kowalski will consult the record, he will find that the minor child Andrew Stevenson was not placed with the Stevenson family under the foster statute, but under the foundling statute, an entirely different part of the law. Contrary to claims made by Ms. Chandler, she has no jurisdiction at all under that statute unless this court shall grant it to her agency – something this court is extremely unlikely to do under the circumstances. Ms. Chandler, I don't know what axe you have to grind, but this court is hardly the place to do it. Really, Mr. Kowalski, you should be ashamed of yourself getting mixed up in something like this. Next time, do your homework. The complainant's case is dismissed, complainant to pay all costs." The Judge banged his gavel. "Now, unless there is anything else…" he said, rising.

"Actually, Your Honor, there is," my lawyer began.

"Oh?" Judge Harrison sat back down heavily. He peered at my lawyer and sighed. "Proceed, counselor."

"I've learned that staff or agents of Family Protective Services have been shadowing Andrew in school, and they have actually made suggestions to Andrew that he should voluntarily leave the Stevenson home in order to save FPS the trouble of going to court. This has happened twice in the past two days. Frankly, this is pure harassment, Your Honor. I'd like to ask the court to enjoin the staff or agents of Family Protective Services from approaching, contacting, or addressing Andrew or his foster brother Alexander, or any member of the Stevenson household unless I am present."

"Do you mean to say someone from FPS actually went to Blackburn High School and propositioned Andrew about leaving his foster family?" the Judge asked, shocked.

"That's our assertion, Your Honor." Ms. Graber nodded.

"Mr. Kowalski?"

The county lawyer looked a lot less sharp and dapper than when he walked in. He whispered unhappily with Ms. Chandler. Then he cleared his throat: "We do not deny that FPS staff shadowed the boy and his foster brother in school. It was legitimate fact finding; we have no record of any conversations," the black suited lawyer answered.

Judge Harrison turned to me. Shit. I was hoping to be a silent observer to all this. "Andrew? Did someone approach you?"

"Yes sir," I said nervously. "A man came up to me in Art class yesterday afternoon. Said if I walked out of school with him, Garrett – er, Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson – couldn't do anything about it. He grabbed me and told me to come with him."

"Your Honor, this is ridiculous…" the county lawyer started.

"Mr. Kowalski, be silent. I warned you once," the Judge said icily. "Go on Andrew. What did you do?"

"I ran," I said simply. "I got up and ran out the door. It's not a secret – the whole class was there."

The Judge turned to Zander. "Were you there for this?"

Zander nodded. "Yes...Your Honor. It happened just like Andy said."

"I've heard enough," Judge Harrison growled. "Ms. Graber's request for an injunction is granted. I’ll have the order written up immediately."

My tormentor started to open her mouth in protest, but the Judge snapped, "Ms. Chandler, this is an embarrassment. I'm sending a note on this matter to the County Commission. In the meantime, I suggest you and your staff have a deep, soul-searching training session on appropriate contact with clients and minor children. That's all."

This time, the Judge stood swiftly and strode out of the room.

Ms. Chandler shot us a nasty glare, and then rose and followed. The county lawyer just sat there, looking at his notes. I didn’t have time to think about it anymore. I was engulfed in a wonderful family hug. I realized I could breathe again.

But something tells me we haven't heard the last of Ms. Chandler.

We really did get back in time for the last bit of Trigonometry. In Art, I didn’t bother doing any sketches. I needed to write, instead. Maybe Mr. Karpus didn’t see, or maybe he didn’t care. Either way, I have to put it down before I can go anyplace else.