Ep10: Baby Boomed

Lincoln Heights High School, mid-afternoon on a sunny day.  Emerging from the front entrance are waves of seemingly indifferent, soon-to-be-seniors.  These young people have just attended a “welcome back” orientation session held in the auditorium, standard practice at the beginning of every school year, which officially starts in a week.

Walking alongside a blond-haired student named April, Tommy Boyd is dressed in jeans and a blouse for the session, as opposed to her usual athletic attire.

“Looks like more of the same this year,” April casually observes.  “Right, but with added pressure,” a frowning Tommy points out.   “It’s going to be tough balancing senior responsibilities with basketball practice and working at Chester’s.”

“You didn’t make it any easier on yourself by volunteering to give that address next Thursday,” says April.

“Somebody in this regressive community has to speak for woman’s rights, even if it’s just to an assembly day audience,” Tommy proclaims with edge.  She's determined, as always, to break through the pervasive conservatism of Lincoln Heights.

“But they’re expecting a speech endorsing traditional female challenges, such as child-raising –“

“Exactly.  What I have to say should be a real eye-opener!”    

Suddenly Tommy’s cellphone rings, and she explains to her friend that she’s been waiting for this particular call.   April smiles, nods, takes off with a wave.

A focused Boyd walks down the block, phone to her ear.  Then her face brightens.

“That’s awesome news!  Do you really think she’ll change her mind?”

“After a dinner at the finest French restaurant in Beverly Hills, along with a chauffeur-driven ride about town, I can practically guarantee success!” a silky male voice answers.   It belongs to Anatole Andreas, painter of the acclaimed Tommy Boyd portrait Tommy herself has been accused of stealing.  He reclines on a couch in a ritzy-looking room, holding a champagne glass filled with mineral water.

“From what you’ve told me, your Aunt Edwina is a throwback to provincial times best forgotten.  The 'sugar and spice' mindset.   She’ll need to be convinced that letting you remain your athletic self is actually a blessing in disguise.”

“How are you going to convince her of that?!” asks Tommy, making a face in amused disbelief.

“Leave that bit of parlor magic to the master,” Anatole reassures her as he downs his drink.

Encouraged, Tommy continues to walk as she listens... even as two familiar, grinning, greasy faces emerge from behind some nearby bushes.  Once again up to no good, local cretins Frankie and Pimples rise quietly – the Frank man shushing Pimp – and cautiously creep up behind their apparently unaware and preoccupied target. 

“Thanks a million, Anatole.  You’re the best,” Tommy beams.

Pleased with good news for a change, she puts her cell phone away… and then looks straight ahead, something suddenly catching her attention.  Tommy’s super-alert eyes detect a pair of would-be captors sneaking up behind her – and then the fun begins.

A lightning-fast female elbow jab suddenly knocks he wind out of Pimples!  Stunned by his target’s possum-playing, Frankie can’t recover in time to dodge Boyd’s follow-up move, a picture-perfect right, which sends him sprawling to the ground.  Still out of breath, hapless Pimples gets kicked in the face and goes crashing down on top of already-crumpled Frankie.

“Awww…  You two look so cute down there, just like itty bitty babies!” Tommy coos derisively, her eyes aglow with the thrill of this sudden contest.  “Come on!” she shouts, clapping her hands and grinning from ear-to-ear.  “Snap out of it, fellas!  You can’t get a girl all excited and then go to sleep on her.  I simply won’t hear of it!”

Amazingly, Tommy helps a groggy Frankie to his feet.  “Wha…  My head’s spinning,” the greaser groans, his bearings shot.  “Take it easy, you’ll be fine in a minute,” she reassures him.  “Here, let me have a look at the damage…”

Angel of mercy Tommy checks out both sides of Frankie’s chin… “Hmmm, seems okay to me,” she concludes.  Then a wicked smile spreads across her pixie face.  “Maybe this will kill the pain!”   POW!!  She belts Frankie’s chin a second time, the poor slob landing on the ground with a thud.  Having unrestrained fun as usual at the expense of these two ham-fisted clods, Boyd laughs robustly.

But even as she enjoys herself, Pimples shakes his rattled head awake.  Seeing an opportunity to turn things around, he creeps up right behind the girl dynamo with gorilla arms extended –

OOOFFF!!!  Aided by eyes in back of her pretty head, Tommy nonchalantly kicks the poised Pimp in his stomach, spins around and double-wallops him in the face.  Ding!  A second leather-jacketed cretin plops on the floor, on his way back to dreamy oblivion.

The revved Boyd smiles, instinctively places fists-on-hips in a power pose, then glances at fallen foe Frankie.  She bends down beside him.  Lost in thought for a moment, the tomboy grins and shakes her head… how many years has she been putting this chauvinistic dope and his equally crude buddy in their place?  How many times must she demonstrate her athletic superiority by outfighting and humiliating them?

“Maybe you’ll have better luck in dreamland, Frankie,” Tommy tells her dozing foe.  He appears to respond to that with a sudden snort, followed by some very audible snoring.

“Yuck, gross!” chuckles Tommy, who promptly gets to her feet and happily scampers away… leaving behind two ignominiously bested, fast-asleep adversaries.

The Boyd residence.  On the phone with an uncharacteristic blissful smile is Aunt Edwina.  The elderly matron is downright giddy, reduced to a dazzled schoolgirl.  “Why I’d be honored to discuss future commissions, Mr. Andreas, ” she coos.  “You’re not only a celebrated artist, but a true gentleman… I can tell!”

Returning from another room, visitor Marcia Sloan notices Edwina enjoying her little chat.  What’s the old biddy up to, always-suspicious Marcia seems to be thinking.

“Dinner at eight it is, then!” Edwina chirps.  “Good-bye, Mr. Andreas…  I mean,   Anatole!”

“That’s the artist who painted Tommy’s picture, the one she stole from the gallery,” sums up Marcia.  “Is he looking to press charges?”

“Oh, no, no…  As a matter of fact, he says he gave the portrait to Tomasina as a gift, just as she claimed.  I suppose I owe my wretched niece an apology ---“

As usual, Marcia thinks fast in an emergency.  “Why that’s… nonsense, Aunt Edwina.  Tommy’s history of lying and misbehaving made believing her simply impossible,” she assures the older woman.  “You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“I suspect you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.  Besides, the entire event turned out to be beneficial in the long run.  It set us on a more focused correctional path for Tomasina that was long overdue.”

This seems to convince Aunt Edwina, who nods her head pragmatically.   Within minutes, alone and up to no good, Marcia pulls out her cell phone and dials.  “Miss Merribrook?” she says forthrightly.  “Better call our friend Dr. Swail.  We’ll need to move up the next phase of Tommy Boyd’s rehabilitation ASAP…”

Proper Little Miss, early afternoon.  Dutifully playing an innocuous childhood ditty on the school piano is Gwendolyn Joffe, Miss Merribrook’s youthful PLM aide and the snooty pre-teen in charge of “problem child” Tomasina Boyd. 

Her decade-older charge is only a few feet away, decked out in a typically dumb child’s dress.  Humiliated and frustrated, poor Tommy’s expected to dance to this nursery-style tune, and like it.  Cleverly, she takes advantage of Gwen’s turned back, not to prance about like a mindless pre-schooler, but to exercise her torso and limbs with the rhythmic professionalism of a trained athlete or gymnast.  It’s really quite an accomplished performance, worthy of an Olympics pre-game workout…

Not very impressed, at least not favorably, is no-nonsense PLM headmistress Miss Merribrook.  Entering from the hallway carrying a tray with a single glass on it, she catches sight of Tomasina’s athletic exercise and stops dead in her tracks.  Such impudence!  Boyd is disobedient, dishonest, and sassily rebellious as always.

But Merribrook herself is up to a little deception this afternoon, and, with an uncharacteristically mischievous glint in her eye, she ducks behind the hallway wall.  “Refreshment time!” her overly-happy voice loudly announces.

Upon hearing this irritating voice, Tommy instantly switches from advanced gymnastics to frolicking like a fool, matching Gwendolyn’s kindergarten piano playing.  Miss Merribrook enters, full of good cheer.

“You seem to be coming along quite well, Tomasina.  Dancing is strenuous work, of course.  Here, have some lemonade…”

“Sure, right…  I mean, thank you, Miss Merribrook.”

Tommy downs the glass of lemonade, even as Merribrook and Joffe exchange a quick conspiratorial glance.

“Now,” the headmistress blissfully continues.  “Time for your doll-rocking exercise.”

It’s just a few minutes later, in Tommy’s PLM cubicle.   Sitting on the floor like a seven year-old child, rocking a doll mindlessly to actively “feminize” herself, Tomasina Boyd bides her time.  “Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree-top,” a resigned Tommy sings foolishly, as she dutifully tends to her plastic offspring.  “When the wind blows – YAWN – the cradle will rock… “

Peeking through the slightly-ajar door, Miss Merribrook and Gwendolyn observe Boyd’s every move.   Sure enough, feeling the effects of a doped glass of lemonade, Tommy begins slurring her singing words.   

“When the bough breaks, the cradle will – YAWN – fall,” she manages to blurt out, sleep clearly overtaking her…  “And down will come baby – YAWWWNNN!  --  cradle… and all…”

With that, Tommy passes out completely, the doll hanging from her now-limp hands.

Merribrook and Joffe grin, nod to each other, then make their way into the room…

About a half-hour later, unconscious Tommy lies strapped onto a portable lab table, which has been set up in the PLM upstairs observation room.  Electrodes have been fastened to the young woman’s forehead and monitoring consoles wait patiently beside her motionless, bed-sheeted form.  Hovering above this machinery is a dial-twisting Dr. Swail, flanked by Headmistress Merribrook and a curious Gwendolyn.

“It’s really quite simple.  Instead of responding to stimuli as a seventeen year-old woman, “ Swail explains, “this procedure will reduce the subject’s emotional and intellectual range of expression to, say, a two year old pseudo-infant.  That way, she’ll be easier to dominate, discipline, and influence with feminine values.”

“I wish I had your confidence, Doctor,” Miss Merribrook says skeptically.  “Even with those infant-dependency factors we’re programming into her, I imagine Tomasina Boyd will always find a way to be a rebellious nuisance.”

Gwendolyn sighs in defeated agreement.

Meanwhile, helpless Tommy’s round and angelic, Sleeping Beauty-like face pouts adorably, even as her waiting-to-be-washed brain absorbs all the maturity-sapping and “girlie girl” programming Swail can pump into it.  Looks like the challenges of Senior Year are going to be even more dramatic than Tommy Boyd initially thought!

Chester’s Garage.  Pulling up in a snazzy sports car is none other than Randy Starr, Tommy’s secret crush and all-around nice guy, at least as hunky sexist jocks go.  At the moment, Randy is stunned to see not his gas-jockey pal Tommy manning the pumps, but old man Chester himself. 

“Got a call from her guardian this morning,” Chester starts chatting nonchalantly, leaning against Randy’s car.  “She says that Tommy’s undergoing treatment over at that correctional school, so looks like I’ll be needing another gas jockey.  And where I’m gonna find a mechanic good as she is, I’ll never know. “

“What kind of treatment?”

“Attitude adjustment, what else?” Chester continues.  “Guess they figure there’s something really off track when a healthy and beautiful young woman of seventeen would rather trade blows with a handsome buck than date him.”

“Tell me about it,” Randy answers with a gentle smile.  “But, you know, it’s kind of funny…  Looked at a certain way, Tommy makes sense… Those ideas of hers, about everyone having a fair shot at reaching their potential, regardless of how ridiculous it looks when a girl tries to behave like a guy.  I mean, a babe is a babe, but  ---“

Chester, moving toward the pump, keeps a wary, bemused eye on Randy.

“This babe has always been a little different,” Starr concludes, almost wistfully.  “Deeper, more far-thinking than the usual bubble-brained teenage female.  So much more… I dunno… mature.”

Ironic choice of word, at the moment.

Wearing a ridiculous baby bonnet and dressed in a diaper, her fulsome breasts barely concealed under pink infant wear, Tommy Boyd sits on a floor pillow in a corner of her equally revamped room.  Beside her are some scattered baby blocks and a rattle.  Seemingly lobotomized, the young adult woman looks mindlessly in both directions, sucking on her finger like a one-year old, as torrents of harsh laughter greet the sight.

Observing the clueless “tombaby” are Marcia Sloan and Chad Parker, who have considerable trouble controlling raucous, near-hysterical guffaws.  “Game over, Tommy Boyd,” Chad finally blurts out, fully triumphant over his despised athletic adversary.  “You’re just an overgrown rugrat, now!”

“I know a mind is a terrible thing to waste, Tomasina, but in your case I’m pleased we made an exception,” observes Marcia with contemptuous glee.

“Hey Tommy, I hear you’re giving a speech next week,” Chad taunts.  Your pal April told us.”

Upon hearing her friend’s name, Tommy’s infant brow suddenly furrows.  Although her thumb’s still planted in her mouth, the mentioning of April seems to have triggered a memory.  And Marcia couldn’t be happier.

“Perfect,” she grins.  “That means she's aware of what’s going on, even if she’s responding like an infant.“  Marcia leans in closer to her thumb-sucking opposite number, finally taking Tommy’s free hand in a mock-comforting gesture.   “Don’t worry, Tomasina, I’ll deliver that speech for you.  It won’t be turned into a feminist rant as you intended, of course, it’ll be what the school originally wanted, a celebration of family and motherhood.  That’s why you’ll be on stage, as well… in a high chair, as your friend Frankie spoon-feeds you baby mush!”

“Ha!  What some videos of that!”

“Already taken care of, Chad.  Everyone on the school board agreed that Tommy should be punished for what she was planning to do.  Hopefully the little wretch will learn a lesson in appropriate behavior.”

At that very moment, Aunt Edwina is heard shuffling across the hall, about to enter Tomasina’s room.  Marcia and Chad instantly compose themselves.  The usually dull-looking Mrs. Strictland appears before them all dolled-up in a frilly outfit, which, not surprisingly, seems far better suited to an earlier era.  Marcia is aglow with false compliments, while Chad does what he can to keep a straight face.  Then Edwina notices Tomasina sucking her thumb.

“I thought so!” the old woman proclaims.  “Naughty, naughty, Tomasina!  It’s a no-no for babies to suck their thumbs.  I’ve the solution for that right here…”

Edwina produces an infant’s pacifier, then proceeds to grab Tommy’s hand and yank it from her gaping mouth.  Without missing a beat, she sticks the pacifier where Tommy’s thumb just was.  “There,” Edwina proclaims with a satisfied smile.  “Much better!”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Marcia says sweetly, but with a sassy edge that Chad grins at.

Tommy lunges forward, her muscular arms maintaining her adult body at crawl level.  Then she glances up at her three adoring gawkers.  They all laugh at the tombaby’s attempts at infant assertiveness, and the undeniable cuteness of Boyd’s current, outrageous incarnation – is she grown-up or infant?  Whatever she is, Tommy’s quite a precious sight in that baby bonnet, gown and diaper, with a pacifier wedged in her mouth… and with two half-visible, very adult female breasts swaying freely between an athlete’s solid arms.  

Marcia then turns to Edwina, attention now shifted to the old lady’s upcoming dinner date.  Both women fuss over the particulars of her “look,” and Edwina can’t help giggling at the evening’s romantic prospects.  Along with Chad, they finally exit Tomasina’s room and head down the hall, toward Edwina’s private abode, for some last-minute preening.  “Chad, go back and keep an eye on the baby,” Marcia eventually tells her bored companion, who yawns and does just that.

Re-entering Tommy’s room, Chad is surprised to see no sign of the "baby" they just left.  He soon spots her diapered backside sticking out of a closet, where the child-minded tomboy is now busily rummaging.   Despite her mental regression therapy, feisty Tomasina seems to retain certain vague memories from her previous “adult” life… she’s apparently checking to see if all of her prized possessions have been confiscated by Frankie and Pimples, something Harold put her wise to a few days earlier.

Chad couldn’t care less.  “Get outta there, ya little freak!” he shouts, grabbing Tommy roughly and throwing her out of the closet.  Scrambling awkwardly, the tombaby finally manages to right herself and rises to her knees, defiantly facing her enemy.  With moxie to spare, she spits out her pacifier. 

“Chad…  BAD!” Tommy suddenly shouts, leaping upon the surprised sports star and actually knocking him to the floor.  Unrestrained by adult reason, Boyd’s formidable fists pound Parker right in the face, over and over again.  “Chad Bad!  Chad Bad!  Chad Bad!!!” she shouts as she punches.

Almost reflexively, Chad manages to use his considerable weight to roll his adversary over, finally pinning her to the floor.

“Chad BAD!” she shouts one final time, before Chad’s powerful fist connects with Tommy's chin, sending the baby-garbed teenager straight to dreamland.

It’s about five minutes later.  Stuffed into an adult-sized rocking cradle, her lean muscular arms barely fitting, Tommy is still unconscious from Chad’s punch.  Marcia leans over and sticks the pacifier back into Boyd's mouth, completing what amounts to an absurd parody of infant adorability.

“Between your fist and the sleeping solution I put on that pacifier, our little friend should be out for the next few hours,” Marcia notes with a titter.  Then she checks her watch.  “Better get going, we have that cocktail party at the Sports Center to deal with.”

Chad grins.  “A little irresponsible, don’t you think?  The old lady’s off on her date. We can’t leave a baby alone in the house without adult supervision.”   

“She won’t be alone for long,” Marcia assures him.  “Frankie and Pimples are stopping by later, along with their girlfriends.  I think they have something special planned for Tomasina.”

“I can imagine, the way she cleaned their clocks this morning,” Chad adds.

“Well that sort of thing won’t be happening again, thank God," concludes Sloan with some relief.  "Boyd will be in diapers and out of our hair from this point on.”

“Yeah, fantastic.  Come on, let’s split.”

And so Marcia Sloan and Chad Parker head for the door of Tomasina Boyd’s room, a pink-enshrined nursery that was, until recently, the dwelling of a sports-loving, hard-playing neighborhood jock.  Before she leaves, Marcia can’t resist one last look at her defeated, infantilized enemy, asleep in a baby cradle.  Delighted at the humiliating sight, she blows Tommy a kiss.  Then both she and Chad laugh and exit the teenager’s room.

Can this really be happening?  What cruel punishments have Frankie and Pimples in mind for their most-hated adversary, now that she’s helplessly handicapped by an infant’s behavior and limitations?  Spankings?  Invasive thermometers?  The worst-tasting oatmeal imaginable?  And how far will they get before rebellious Tommy turns the tables and busts a baby bottle over somebody’s head?

To Be Continued --!