Ep8: Framed and Feminized

What could be better, Tommy Boyd thinks to herself.  It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon in Lincoln Heights and she’s happily jogging down the block, the picture of female health and unspoiled sexuality in her trademark shorty-shorts and white undershirt.  After a brief flirtation with sports bras, which she ultimately found constricting, Boyd went back to being braless whenever possible, even though a large bouncing bosom proved physically awkward at times and prompted wolf whistles and catcalls from mocking male opponents.  Amusingly, “…my big boobs make the little boys drool.  Fair enough,” Tommy laughs to herself while jogging.  “While they’re staring, I take the dummies off guard and beat the crap out of them!”  Leave it to always-resourceful Tommy the tomboy to turn an apparent female disadvantage into a most effective method of attack!

Nearing a corner, the pumping Boyd notices some familiar young faces at a local basketball court.  It's time for a familiar ritual, and she runs toward them.

"Hey, hey!  There she is!" one of the boys yells cheerfully.  "Hiya, Tommy!" another boy chirps.  "We've been 'spectin' you!  How are ya!"

“Hi guys!  I'm just great!  Okay, now - throw it my way!"

The boy with the ball begins dribbling in place, faking out an unsuspecting opponent, while Tommy circles that half of the court.  Then he snaps the ball to her.  TB catches it with one hand, does a figure-8, and shoots from well outside the three-point line.  The turbo-charged teen doesn't even have to watch for the result: feeling like a million, she knows what to expect!

"Nuthin' but net!" one of the boys yells, and they all raise their hands as if celebrating a shared victory.  “They're good kids,” the pleased tomboy muses after saying goodbye, energized by the mini-workout.  “I hope they stay that way, no matter how old they get.”

Resuming her dash through Lincoln Heights, Tommy heads over to the Old Town district, a great "retro" place of nice little bistros and coffee shops, up-scale teen clothing places, a contemporary art gallery/studio, and other businesses.  “I'll just take a quick look around to make sure Frankie and Pimples aren't bugging anyone,” the self-anointed community protector decides.

But apart from her usual guardian angel-style motivation, Tommy has a special reason to visit this particular art studio.  As she told best pal/reluctant co-adventurer Harold Pinter earlier in the day, “It’s closed this Sunday because a relative was ill, but if I peer through the window, maybe I'll spot that big portrait of me somewhere in the shop. Honestly, I wouldn't have agreed to let that eccentric artist guy paint it, but the idea of a life-size picture of a girl athlete who can keep up with the boys was too important for me to decline.  After all, maybe the picture will inspire some younger girls to pursue athletics - and we'll all be better for it!”

Commendable sentiments indeed.  Tommy finally reaches the art studio and peers through the glass plate window, exploring the darkened shop.  No sign of the Tommy Boyd painting, but… wait a second, there's somebody moving around in there!  With the CLOSED sign still on the front door and the shop owner definitely out of town, this suggests trouble.  Right here in Lincoln Heights Square!

None other than local bad boy greaser Frankie, Tommy’s most persistent arch-enemy, is shuffling around in the unattended art studio, along with his equally reprehensible friend and colleague Pimples.  Apparently nobody on this lazy afternoon noticed these two cretins breaking in through the back way. 

Suddenly… OUCH!

“@#$#@!, man!  You stepped on my goddamned foot!  Watch it!” snaps Frankie.

“Sorry man, it's so dark in here…” Pimples replies lamely.

“Gotta hand it to Marcia and Chad,” Frankie tells his pal.  “Their money's always welcome in my pockets, man.  Not that they'd even have to pay me to do something like this.   Destroy a portrait of that obnoxious retard Tommy Boyd?  Shit, I'd do that for free -- but hey, I'll take the bucks...!

The leather-clad boys check for outside onlookers, proceed further into the shop, passing all kinds of creative works along the way.  Finally, standing dramatically before them, is the full-figure rendering of Tommy Boyd, fists-on-hips in her iconic girl power stance.  Or, as Pimples explains aloud, “Wonder Dyke.”

Relieved, Frankie grabs the Tommy portrait and promptly disappears into the recesses of the studio with it, Pimples right behind him.  “There we go -- nobody noticed!” grins the self-satisfied badass.  “Let's just get it over here...” Frankie carefully turns the painting so that he can get a better view.  “Whadda we got... let's take a look...”

“Shit,” Frankie surmises.  “It’s Tommy f------ Boyd, in all her musclebound glory.  Let me barf right now!  Maybe I should just kick my foot into her smug little face, and -- huh?

“It's her!” Pimples suddenly yells.

“Who?”

“Her, Tommy Boyd!  The broad with the muscles.  I just spotted her outside...  I think she's gonna come in here for a look around!”

“Alright, alright... don't panic.  I'm gonna make me a phone call -- where's that friggin' cell phone? -- and then, uhh –“

“Yeah, what??”

“Don't worry.  We're gonna be all ready for Blunder Woman when she makes an appearance.  As a matter of fact, this'll be even better than Marcia and Chad were figuring.  C'mon, help me get this portrait deeper into the studio... and find me some paints and a brush!”

Tommy tries the locked front door, realizes that the interlopers didn’t get in through the art studio’s main entrance.  So she finds her way to the alley… and indeed, the back door’s been forced open.

“Hmm... just as I suspected - they don't work here.  Something tells me these uninvited customers are about to "make my day!"  And, with that, she slips silently through the door…

Waiting for that “wiseass do-gooder” Tommy Boyd to make herself known, Frankie and Pimples set up her portrait on an easel.   “Supposedly some fag artist with a reputation painted the damn thing,” Pimples explains.  “Gotta say, it sure caught the virgin queen's obnoxious attitude.”

But any work of art can use some improvement, Frankie decides.  To this end, he dons a nearby cap and adjusts it carefully.

"Ha-ha-ha!  You look real funny in that little hat!” offers Pimples.

"It's a beret, stupid."

"You supposed to be French?"

"Wee-wee, mon-sewer.  And this -- this shall be my greatest masterpiece!  Regard-a-voo..."

With a flourish worthy of the flakiest French artist, Frankie grabs a paint brush and brings it over to the portrait.  Tommy’s confident, ultra-proud visage stares back at him.  “Okay, so she's a sexy-looking bitch with great tits, I never said Boyd wasn't worth banging.  But so help me, she looks like a friggin' superhero in this painting, with the fists-on-hips thing and that disgustingly superior attitude.  So...”

As Frankie approaches Tommy’s portrait to make some “really cool” adjustments, he hears sounds emanating from back of the studio.  The greaser hesitates...

...and then, in the corner of his eye, he catches Tommy Boyd herself in a mirrored surface.  She QUICKLY DUCKS DOWN.   “Right.  And perfect...” Frankie laughs to himself.  “The little bitch is here, watching... just like we hoped.  Now to smoke her out…”

"Zis woman is too arrogant, too... how do you say?... haw-tee,” the F-man proclaims with cartoon-like panache.  “She needs ze lesson in humility.  Do you not agree?"

"Oh yeah, sure..." Pimples blandly responds.

Now their fun really begins.  Frankie dabs the brush in some black paint and brings it up to Tommy's upper lip in the portrait...

“Stop right there, Frankie!” TB demands, jumping before them.  “You can buy a paint-by-numbers set down the street!  But this one is way outta your league!  So how about I brush you two off?

Tommy grins with total self-confidence, exactly like her painted counterpart.  She thought it was a nice day before, but hey, this is delicious icing on the cake!  Getting a chance to teach Frankie and Pimples yet another lesson while protecting her “girl power” portrait . . .what could be more satisfying?

“Hello, boys!” Tommy announces in her iconic power pose, a picture-perfect duplication of the displayed rendering.  “I'm glad to see you're taking an interest in the arts!”

"Well, well, well... if it isn't Little Miss Martial Arts... in the flesh!” sneers back Frankie.  “Now ain’t that a coincidence… you look exactly like this bimbo in the picture.  We were just about to improve it a tad -- by painting a mustache and beard on Broadzilla here!  Now we can do the same thing for the original!"

Sporting a smirk, Tommy is clearly unfazed by the greaser’s threat.  “Maybe when you hit puberty you'll be able to grow your own full beard and mustache, Frankie.  But until then, you'd best just leave that painting alone, you pimpled Picasso wannabe!”

"You won't be laughing in a minute, freak!"  The unsmiling Frank man approaches her with clenched fists and a clear willingness to use them.

UGGHH!  Tommy ducks Frankie’s ham-fisted swing.   So he swings again and – “WHAT?  Where is she, I -- UGGGHHHH!”  The tomboy swings about and delivers a perfect punch, knocking her opponent right on his ass.

“C'mon Frankie!  I don't wanna paint with broad strokes.  It's time for some detail!” shouts a gleeful Tommy.  Pissed but undaunted, he stumbles to his feet, and soon the two game figures are squaring off.  Frankie throws a couple of powerful punches that Tommy easily deflects and dodges.  Frustrated, he growls and finally lunges at his adversary, but lithe Tommy gracefully spins out of the way and - whoops! - he crashes directly into his pal Pimples.  They both hit the floor hard.

“I'd say right about now the only colors on your boys' palettes are black and blue!  HAHAHA!!!!”

Wobbly but unrelenting, Frankie and Pimples get up from the floor and charge a bemused Tommy.  Welcoming the attack, she grabs a nearby large frame and tosses it right over them like a lasso.

"HA-HA-HA!!  You boys have just been framed!  But we need to spin your story just right,” TB quips.  Looking around, she grabs a large loaded paint brush and starts spinning the boys in their frame.  Then she slaps them over and over again with the brush, occasionally dipping it into cans of various colored paints.

"A unique artistic creation.  Multi-colored morons!!" Tommy laughs.

Finally -- CRASH!  Frankie, Pimples and the frame hit the floor, a tangled mess of bad boy defeat.

And that tears it.  Old Frankie’s been pushed too far: “I'm blind with rage, man, a tornado of hate!”  He gets to his feet, yells at the top of his lungs, then rushes like a locomotive toward his “@#$#$%! tomboy bitch” opponent!

But, unfortunately for the Frankster, Tommy sassily sidesteps him.  “JESUS!  What the... whhhoooooaaaaaaa!

The free-falling greaser crashes into a work table and lands face-down in a huge glob of modeler’s paste.  “UGH!” he groans, lifting his head from the sticky, gloppy stuff.  “What is this shit?”

"Looking good there, Frankie!” giggles triumphant Tommy, thoroughly enjoying the show.  

Suddenly Pimples takes Tommy by surprise, catching the girl in a powerful bear-hug from behind.  Almost instantly the resourceful female devises an escape move.

"Sorry, Pimples, but you've missed your goal by a foot!"

SMASH!  Tommy brings her sneakered foot down hard on Pimples’ sandaled toes.

"YOW!" the big doofus yells, grabbing his assaulted foot and hopping around on the one that’s still working.  "You cheatin' bitch!  OOOHHH!"

"Pimples, you always were more fun than a barrel of monkeys!" comments Tommy, shaking her head at the pathetic sight.

Meanwhile, unknown to the combatants, Marcia Sloan and Chad Parker have sneaked in through the back entrance.  They watch wearily as hired “muscle” Frankie and Pimples are beaten about.

“Those jerks!  She always gets the better of them,” fumes Chad.

But Marcia shushes him.  Her alert, icy eyes quickly dart about the place, even as the not-far-off fisticuffs continue unabated.  She settles on an aerosol can of ARTIST'S SUPER ADHESIVE sitting on a nearby table.

Delighted, Marcia grabs the can, turns to a nearby wall with no pictures or decorations, then freely sprays the entire surface area of the wall with adhesive glue.  When she’s finished, she turns to Chad, indicating her purposeful handiwork.  Chad looks at the sticky wall trap she’s created, gets Marcia’s message, and returns a knowing grin. 

Meanwhile, all the ZAP! POW! BAM!s have apparently concluded.  Last-man-standing Tommy Boyd slaps her hands together as if brushing dust from them after a dirty job. “Geez, I do good work!” she beams, surveying the crumpled, moaning bodies of her two goony adversaries.  Then she walks a few yards away, moving closer to the wall that’s been secretly spray-glued.

Marcia, on her game as always, keeps Chad quiet and they both duck down behind some statuary as their adversary approaches.  The girl athlete finally stops walking, stands right in front of the prepared wall and looks back, pleased with herself.

“Now!” Marcia whispers to Chad.  And, in a flash, he emerges from seemingly out of nowhere and sends a perfect right to the pretty victor’s chin that sends her careening backward!  Before Tommy even realizes what’s just happened, she’s stuck fast to the wall, with both sleekly muscular arms raised and glued into place!  The tomboy shakes her head, regaining her senses... even as harsh laughter greets her current predicament.

“Ha!  Nailed the bitch!

“Excellent work, darling,” Marcia coos.  She calmly walks over to the formidable athlete who has caused her and sports star Chad such aggravation in recent times.  "Well.  Comfortable?"

Tommy writhes and squirms for all she’s worth, but can’t budge an inch.  Perversely, she’s become something of an impromptu wall decoration in this art studio, and a voluptuous one at that.  Perspired from her extended physical battle, Tommy breathes heavily, her twin endowments heaving, the girl's practically transparent white undershirt stretched to the max.

“Bastards!” she snaps defiantly.  “What are you gonna do to me?”

“Turn you over to the authorities, of course,” Marcia explains matter-of-factly.  “Isn't that usually what happens to lawbreakers?”

“What?!”

“That's right,” Chad pipes in.  “You obviously broke into this place to steal that portrait of yourself.  These two idiots, I mean, these two innocent bystanders tried to stop you.”

“Are you kidding?!  Nobody's gonna believe that!”

“They already do,” Marcia assures her.  “Did you notice that Frankie and Pimples were wearing gloves?

Tommy looks at their still-vanquished, slowly recovering bodies.  “So?”

“So we have YOUR fingerprints on the painting, not theirs!  And here, this might interest you…”

Marcia lifts a cell phone to Tommy's eye line.  Appearing on the screen is Boyd''s no-nonsense guardian, Aunt Edwina Strickland.  She looks truly disgusted.

Says Edwina: “Marcia just told me what you've been up to.  If it weren't for her connections with the local authorities, you be spending this evening in a prison cell!  Oh, the disgrace…!”

“Liars!” Tommy shouts.  “Frankie and Pimples already broke in, so I entered the place and –

Marcia takes the cell phone back and holds it to her own ear, carrying on the conversation with Aunt Edwina privately.  Tommy, meanwhile, continues to struggle against her wall-gluing, but gets nowhere.  And now the two winded greasers are getting to their feet, barely helped by an indifferent Chad.  As they start to focus, both are delighted to see their opponent in such a delightfully compromising position.

“I agree, Aunt Edwina,” a slyly smiling Marcia speaks into the cellphone, loudly enough so that Tommy can hear.  “But it’ll be up to Miss Merribrook and the advisors at Proper Little Miss to take reorientation and obedience training to that next level.  In the meantime, I’ll square things with the studio owner and local police.  That’s right.  Oh it’s no bother at all, Aunt Edwina… When we’re all finished with her rehab, Tomasina Boyd will be an entirely different person.  I guarantee it!”

“Haw!” laughs Pimples, joined by a leering Frankie, as they stand beside a bemused Chad and Marcia in front of the glued-in-place tomboy.  “Not so dangerous now, huh Boyd?”

Captive or not, Tommy glares at her foes threateningly.  She won’t be restrained forever and payback will be forthcoming, which is the thought that keeps her confidence up.

“MERCY!” snorts Frankie mockingly as he stares at the female athlete’s heaving, practically exposed breasts.  “Now there’s a sight to behold!  Two large scoops of vanilla with a cherry on top of each one.  Just the way I like ‘em!”

Groan.  All three of Tommy Boyd’s male enemies roar with laughter at this sexist taunt, and even Marcia can’t help chuckling out loud.  

“Why, you -- !!” an enraged Tommy spits defiantly at her gloating enemies, but the baddies manage to duck away.  

“Awright, let’s get down to serious business,” announces Frankie chillingly.  With that, he stands before captive Tommy, grabs the bottom of her sweaty undershirt and begins rolling it up.  “It’s time for a little… penetration!”

For a terrible moment, Tommy Boyd is frozen in fear.  Sure, greaser opponent Frankie’s punched her often enough, knocked her out cold on numerous occasions and done all kinds of outlandish and demeaning things to punish his feisty hoyden antagonist, but he wouldn’t…  he just couldn’t…

“Here it comes, sweetie!”

Tommy braces for the worst; instead, all Frankie does is poke his finger in and out of her exposed bellybutton!

“Aw man, this is the best!” Pimples laughs.  “Let me try!”

Frankie offers his pal a “be my guest” gesture.  Seconds later Pimples is sticking his own fat finger in Tommy’s navel as well, back and forth.  Everybody cracks up… especially Marcia, who is almost embarrassed at how much she’s loosing it.  As for Tommy, she’s helpless in the grip of her playfully nasty enemies, the girl’s flushed face rapidly turning red with humiliation.

“That’s not right, Pimp,” Frankie interrupts his friend.  “Here’s how to do it!”

Bemused Frankie takes over once again, this time pushing his finger in the babe’s belly button at rapid speed… as if he were having great sex!

“Stop it!!” Tommy shouts.  “No fair!  I’m gonna – ohh… mmm… !”

In spite of herself, the sexually repressed seventeen year-old can’t completely check feelings of arousal, which soon become embarrassingly obvious.  “What's the matter, Sports Star?” asks Chad, staring at the young woman's anything but boyish-looking chest.  “Don't you know it's not polite to point!”

Marcia checks her watch.  "Fun is fun, but we have work to do," she nonchalantly declares.  "Tommy, the boys will deliver you to Proper Little Miss, where you'll remain for an indefinite period.  An appropriate punishment for your “disgraceful behavior” will be decided upon before week's end, along with some amped-up adjustments to your rehab.  In case you're wondering, while Chad here is impressing one and all in a televised sports interview next Saturday, you'll be busy rocking dolls and jumping rope with pre-schoolers."

“…and liking it, once that obedience training washes your little brain” adds Chad.

Tommy shoots daggers at them all.  “You'll never get away with this.  I swear, I'll -“

But Marcia’s nasty smile spreads.  “Boys, off the wall with our cliché-ridden crusader!”

“Are you kidding?” gasps Tommy, suddenly apprehensive.  “Hey, wait a minute, you better not --!”

“C'mon, Pimples… let's get a good grip on the bitch.  You yank her arms and I'll pull her legs…

“Okay Frankie… got 'em.”

“Let go of me!  NO!  I - AHHHHHHHH!!!!”

Poor Tommy goes all crossed-eyed as Frankie and Pimples yank her from the glue-sprayed wall.  “That’s gotta sting, right?  Ha-ha-ha!” offers Chad.

Tommy, dazed, clearly down but still not out, struggles in the grip of her captors, trying to wrench herself free.  “Creeps!  Get your hands off of me!” she shouts to unsympathetic ears.  Then, summoning inner reserves of strength, she suddenly jabs Pimples in the stomach (OOFFF!!) and pushes a taken-by-surprise Frankie into some stacked boxes.  Way to go, Tomboy!

But the girl’s revolt is notably short-lived, as a karate chop from Chad, delivered from behind, sends her sprawling to the floor, unconscious.

“See, babe?” Chad smiles to Marcia.  “She’s not the only one who’s been studying that martial arts stuff.”

Marcia returns the grin.  “Glad to hear it, Jackie Chan.”  Then she happens to glance at the wall that held Tommy fast and focuses on what remains there.  “Hmmm… looks like Boyd left a bit of herself behind.”  Amused, she walks over to the sticky surface and looks at a patch of dark curly brown hair that’s been left where the femme athlete’s head got stuck.  Marcia pulls some of the strands off the wall and holds them within her fingers, before discarding them.

Meanwhile, recovering from Tommy’s mini-attack, pissed-off Frankie and Pimples bend down near the tomboy’s prone body.  Hearing Marcia talking about her hairy discovery, Frankie notices that TB’s curly mane has been shredded somewhat from behind, due to it sticking to the glue-sprayed wall.

Then Marcia catches sight of something else on the wall, a few feet in either direction from where Tommy’s head was.  She reaches out and touches what appear to be little dirt streaks.  “Why, it's the peach fuzz from her forearms!” Marcia suddenly realizes with a titter, announcing this ridiculous fact to one and all.

Hearing this, Frankie grabs one of sleeping Tommy's arms, and sure enough, it's miraculously free of little hair follicles.  Almost automatically he checks out the other forearm.  Same thing.  “Well whadda you know” Frankie proclaims with the biggest of snarky smiles.  “Looks like we’ve saved Proper Little Miss the cost of some shaving cream.”

“Dumb lezzie,” Chad points out, lighting up a cigarette.  “Serves her right for not waxing like normal babes.”

“All right, we’ve had our entertainment for the day,” declares Marcia with finality.  “Throw Boyd in the trunk and deliver her to PLM.  We’ll follow in our car.”

“Here… “ Frankie tells his bent-down gorilla of a partner, scooping up the lithe female athlete from the floor and practically tossing her onto Pimples.  Without missing a beat, Pimples rises with unconscious Tommy slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour, and soon both guys are following Marcia and Chad out of the art studio.

It's a half-hour later.  The Proper Little Miss Finishing School is a conservative institution for pre-schoolers that drills students on the basics of classic etiquette from the earliest age.  Marcia convinced Aunt Edwina that Tommy was in desperate need of the severest makeover imaginable, so the teenager’s entire rehab/deprogramming operation is based here.

In the headmistress’s office, an infuriated Tommy is held fast by Frankie and Pimples.  Off to the side, Marcia and Chad exude patience and maturity as always, although they’re both sadistically pleased to see Tommy Boyd in so much trouble.

And standing there like something out of a Louisa May Alcott story is prissy Miss Merribrook, headmistress at Proper Little Miss.  She’s anything but pleased this fine Sunday afternoon as she faces her oldest and most disappointing student.

“First, sports.  Then, actually fighting with boys!  And now…breaking and entering with intent to steal!” Miss Merribrook scolds poor Tommy.

“That’s a lie!” the young woman shouts, causing Merribrook to gasp.  “I didn’t do anything.  They’re the ones who were up to no good.  They’re trying to frame me!!”

“Silence, silence at once, do you hear?!” a horrified Merribrook commands.  It’s clear nothing Tommy says will ever convince this woman that she’s telling the truth.

The picture of rationality, Marcia walks over to the headmistress, shakes her head and sympathizes.  “I worked things out with the local authorities,” Ms. Sloan explains.  “Tomasina won’t have to do time, so long as she’s severely punished for her criminal actions by us.  And, as Edwina Strictland has pointed out, we’ll have to step up the rehabilitation program substantially.”

“This isn’t fair!” Tommy cannot help but shout, her arms twisted behind her back by Frankie and Pimples.  “Owww, I’ll get even with you guys for this, that’s a promise!”

Miss Merribrook closes her eyes in utter horror, almost to blot out the misbehaving wretch before her.  Then she opens them again.  “Get her out of those ‘clothes’ and then burn them.  I’ll have Gwendolyn prepare a new dress.”

"A dress?" Tommy exclaims in horror, repeating the dreaded word.  "Not again, please!"

SPLASH!

A stripped Tommy is dumped into a large barrel of piping hot water by Frankie and Pimples.  Almost like clockwork, she bobs to the surface, spits out a stream of water, struggles mightily to get out...

Once again we’re in the backyard behind the main Proper Little Miss building for the latest forced bathing of neighborhood hoyden Tomasina Boyd, something of a regular ritual.  She and Chad watch with satisfied smiles as harsh industrial soap is rubbed into the girl’s face before she’s abruptly dunked again.  As usual, a bunch of kids and their moms gather around, enjoying the outdoor fun as Lincoln Heights’ most famous case of arrested development is again scrubbed to ladylike perfection. 

Also present: Miss Merribrook, who shakes her weary head… and standing right next to her, Gwendolyn Joffe, Tomasina’s ten year-old supervisor at PLM, a miniature version of the same prissy headmistress, who shakes her younger head in exactly the same manner!

“About next Saturday,” Chad finally asks his bemused significant other, mind turning to upcoming social/career responsibilities.

“That picnic at Lincoln Heights Square is the biggie, along with the televised interview,” Marcia explains.  “Our visiting agent will be judging some baton twirlers and you need to be there as a role model, representing the athlete of tomorrow, a future Olympiad.  So just be your irresistible self.”

“Am I ever any thing else?" he says casually.  Chad and Marcia exchange wily, co-conspirator smiles, then hug each other.  They’ll achieve their mutual goal of total commercial success yet!

It's an hour later, and fast asleep in a small guest room is Tommy Boyd.  She cradles a teddy bear under her bosom with both hands, hairless forearms on full display.  Proudly suspended on a hanger is a frilly pink dress, adult in size but designed for a toddler.  And watching from a crack in the door is Tommy’s youthful ‘supervisor,’ Gwendolyn Joffe.  After a moment of shaking her head, she shuts the door closed… locking it from the outside.  As Gwendolyn looks up, Miss Merribrook stands in the corridor before her.

“Is Boyd still asleep?”

“According to Marcia Sloan, the drugs she was given should last at least 24 hours.”

Miss Merribrook sighs big time.  “Let’s keep this problem child unconscious for as long as possible…at least through the rest of the weekend.  On Wednesday Lincoln Heights High reopens, and Tomasina with be attending regular classes as usual…”

“But…won’t that interfere with her rehabilitation?” asks Gwendolyn, alarmed.

“Not to worry,” Merribrook calmly assures her.  “Instead of competing with boys after class in the schoolyard and making a fool of herself, Tomasina will be legally obliged to come directly here, for her ongoing rehabilitation lessons and drills.”

“Her re-doubled lessons and drills,” Gwendolyn says with folded arms and an exasperated expression.  “Not to mention that experimental behavioral therapy she desperately needs.”  Merribrook philosophically pats her prize junior supervisor on the back, and both women walk away from Tomasina’s door, down the long corridor…

It's about five o'clock at the Boyd residence, which is currently run with an iron fist by old schooler Aunt Edwina Strictland while her brother, Colonel Boyd, is away on an extended mission.  But this fine afternoon, Edwina is entertaining a quartet of unexpected guests.

“That impossible child, she’ll be the death of me!” an exasperated Edwina confides in Frankie and Pimples, who, along with equally disreputable girlfriends Celine and Dora, are having a very civilized tea session with the old lady.  “Correcting a lifetime of deviant behavior certainly isn’t easy,” she tells the foursome, before turning to Frankie with grateful eyes.  “Which is why I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve doing for Tomasina, Franklin,” she says earnestly.

Pimples, Celine, and Dora all snort as they try to stifle their laughter.  “Yeah, Franklin’s a real humanitarian!” Celine chimes in, teasing her greaser boyfriend, who promptly shoots her a dart-like “watch it, bitch” look.

“Well, don’t you worry Aunt Edwina,” Frankie responds with the practiced hypocrisy of Eddie Haskell.  “Tommy – er, Tomasina – has a lot of feminine potential, and it would be a shame to waste it all on meaningless masculine activities.” 

“Oh, I do so agree, Franklin,” replies Aunt Edwina.  “More tea?  How about for all of you?”

“Why, thank you, Aunt Edwina,” Frankie says smoothly.

She happily fills the young man’s cup and makes her rounds to the others.  “Thank you, Aunt Edwina,” Celine and Dora nearly whine in unison.  Poor Pimples looks like he’s going to vomit as she fills his cup as well, because he can’t stand tea – and he can’t stand Edwina.  None of them can.  But Frankie looks angrily at him, as a warning to suck it up.  After all, he and his entourage are at the Boyd place for a reason.

“Oh, it’s so pleasant having you here, all of you,” Edwina gushes, resuming her seat.  “I’ve always suspected that Tomasina has exaggerated all the mean things she’s said about you.  And the fact that you’re sitting here with me confirms my suspicion.  You’re all so well-mannered,” she says.  Then she looks to Celine and Dora, “and though I don’t quite understand your choices in clothing, you DO at least look like young women, unlike Tomasina.”  She sips her tea.  “Perhaps you two might take Miss Merribrook’s course The Proper Young Lady’s Attire, and learn some valuable fashion tips.”

Celine and Dora look at each other with incredulity, then turn back to Aunt Edwina.  “Yes Ma’am,” answers Dora agreeably, “That’s certainly something to think about.”

As Edwina prattles on, Pimples has to put a hand to his mouth to stop himself from snickering.  “My misfit niece…  As I see her coming and going, wearing those dreadful short pants and that awful undershirt, I can’t help but fear for what people might be thinking of her, and what they must think of her father and me.”  She brings a tissue to her eyes.

“Now, now,” Frankie says, his voice dripping with faux encouragement.  “You’re a good and respectable lady, and all Lincoln Heights knows it.  And I can tell you, no one blames you for Tommy – er, Tomasina’s rebellion. And you mustn’t blame yourself.”

Aunt Edwina is relieved.  “Oh thank you, Franklin,” she sniffles.  “I only wish Tomasina could be as ladylike as you are gentlemanly.  But I just don’t know what I can do.”

Frankie looks at his companions, grins devilishly, then turns back to Edwina, his face nearly angelic.  “Maybe we should change the poor child’s living environment – her room, I mean – into something that suggests more feminine sensibilities.”

“You mean -- making it over to reinforce what she’s learning under Miss Merribrook’s tutelage…”

“That’s exactly what I mean.  Anyhow, Miss Merribook is truly making a silk purse out of  -- I daresay -- a sow’s ear.  So why would we want Tomasina to return to a trough?  Providing her with the correct surroundings is a moral imperative!”

“A moral wha--?” Pimples tries to say, but Dora slaps her hand over his trap.

An inspired Aunt Edwina gazes into the air as if looking into the future: “I could clear out all that… that… stuff, and make her room into one fit for a proper young lady!"

"Yes indeed, but you’ve been through a lot lately,” Frankie continues quite rationally, “and your poor nerves must be in a shambles.  And though you are a strong woman – and I hope you’ll take this in the intended spirit – I don’t think it’s a job for you to take on now.  Tomasina will be coming home one of these days, and you should be gathering your strength for the job of carrying on the work of her rehabilitation.”

 

“But I should do something about that mess of a room.  Might you have a suggestion?”

Frankie glances at his quietly attentive companions, then back at Edwina.  “Why, yes, I believe I do!” he announces with a hale and hearty smile.  Frankie then proceeds to lay out a focused plan that calls for himself, Pimples, Celine, and Dora to first fumigate, then redecorate, Tommy’s boy-themed room.  “It’ll require time and a little elbow grease, but it’s a task we’re happy to undertake for the benefit of a socially maladjusted waif.  And it’s one less thing that you’ll need to worry about, dear lady.” 

Overwhelmed with such selflessness, Aunt Edwina is giddy with excitement.  “Wait right here!” she says, and then promptly leaves the room.  Just as promptly she returns, carrying a check which is fully signed and made out to Frankie Krump, except for the amount.  She gratefully hands it to Big F.  “As you young people say these days, ‘Go for it!’”

Upstairs.  Once the four friends enter Tommy’s room and shut the door, Frankie flops down on the bed, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion.  “Son of a bitch!” he exclaims, “I thought I’d never find a way to sucker that tight-ass prude into this!  Marcia’s coaching didn’t come close to preparin’ me for that ordeal!  Next time, she can do it herself!”

“Oh, but Franklin,” Celine chimes in mockingly, “You’re just so charming!  I want you now!”  Pimples falls to his knees, laughing.  Frankie throws a pillow at her.

Meanwhile, Dora is surveying Tommy’s boyishly unkempt room.  “Sheesh!  Will ya look at this place?  It’s like a pig-sty!”  Pimples and Celine join her in checking things out, leaving Frankie relaxing on the bed as he gets a second wind.  They take in Boyd’s baseballs, each commemorating a home run; the trophies from basketball, baseball, motorcycle racing, kick-boxing, and several other sports; the posters of current sports superstars; the framed certificates acknowledging numerous sports accomplishments; and Tommy’s most prized possessions, pictures of her with Colonel Boyd.

“This could be ‘Joe Jock’s room,’ Pimples points out.  “I’d never guess it was a chick’s room.”

Frankie lifts himself to sitting on the bed.  “That’s the point, muchacho.  Marcia says we gotta get rid of all of Tommy-Tits' sports crap, so you two ladies can redecorate.”

“And I know just what to do!” Dora chirps, grinning.  “First, we paint – a nice bubblegum pink.  Then, we replace this sports-team-logo carpeting with something girly… maybe some nice bunnies or teddy bears or something.”

Not to be relegated to second-fiddle, Celine jumps in: “Yeah.  Then we can talk furniture.  How’s ‘bout one of them four-post beds, painted white, with that thing over the top, that… that… damn!  What’s that thing called?”

“It’s a canopy,” Pimples says, looking kind of excited by the prospects.  “We’ll do a real sweet canopy of pink and white plaid gingham, with a white lace trim.  The bed coverings will match the pink of the canopy, and we’ll put lots of pillows on it, pillows of every shape, and of complimenting accent colors.”

When Pimples stops talking, he sees Frankie, Celine, and Dora staring at him in something like disbelief.  “What?” he says.  “So I watch a lot of Trading Spaces and While You Were Out.  So what?”  The other three are still staring at him.  “uh… uh… but I stopped watching those a while ago, yeah.  Now I only watch American Chopper and American Hot Rod, right after I watch America’s Next Ultimate Fighter.  Yeah.  I like those."

After a little more staring, Frankie breaks in: “Yeah, yeah, right that’s all good.  But before any of that happens, we gotta gut this place.  Let’s have a little music and get at it.”

A finger pushes the button of a CD player as Frankie and his wrecking crew get to work.  Ironically, what plays is an instrumental version of the bouncy, sassy Tomboy theme, suggesting girl power and female empowerment even as this aspect of Boyd’s personality is being exorcized with total glee.

The four friends begin demolishing Tommy’s sports-themed room with reckless abandon: pulling down the curtains and blinds, ripping posters off the wall, jumping up and down on the bed.  Then they pull the drawers out of her bureau and dump the contents on the floor.  Frankie grabs a pair of panties and puts them on his head.  Pimples snatches one of Tommy’s bras.  “Hey!  Hey!  I got an idea!  Check this out!” he says excitedly.  He gives each end of the bra to Celine and Dora.  He then takes as many baseballs as he can carry, and places a ball in each bra cup.  “Fire one!” he yells, and then pulls the bra back and releases it.  The two baseballs slam against a wall, one of them shattering a frame with a certificate in it.

“Damn!” Frankie exclaims, “Lemme try that!”  He takes his position, yells “Bombs away!” and launches the balls.  They slam into a shelf, knocking most everything off of it.  “Oh, no!” he says.  “The dreaded 7-10 split.  Well, there’s nuthin’ to do but try!”  He loads the bra again, aims, and lets go.  The balls miss their targets, but crash into more pictures and certificates.  Everyone laughs, even as the Tomboy musical theme continues to play sassily in the background.

When they run out of “ammo” they open the girl’s closet.  Frankie quickly scans the contents and gets an interesting idea.  “Hey, check this out.  We might be able to make some money with this little job, beyond what we’ll pocket from the old broad’s check.”  He then tells his partners to begin sorting things into piles of trash (such as clothes, pictures, books), sports equipment, and anything else they might be able to sell on eBay or however.  “And save all the trophies,” he makes a point of saying.  “We can sell ‘em for scrap metal.”

While in the closet, Dora comes upon some boxes holding back issues of Sports Illustrated and The Sporting News.  Pimples takes the magazines and starts looking for the swimsuit issues.  He gets mad when he finds none.  “That freak!” he growls as he throws the magazines all around the room.  Dora then finds a couple of boxes holding several notebooks full of baseball cards.  She hauls them out and dumps them on the trash pile.  Frankie sees them, and turns pale.  “YOW!” he yells.  “DORA, STOP!”  He charges to the trash pile and gently picks up the notebooks.  “Son of a bitch!” he says in amazement as he turns the pages.  “Dora, this ain’t trash!  What they are… is mine!”  He sets the priceless notebooks in a corner.  “Don’t anyone even think about touching these!”

Meanwhile, Aunt Edwina is downstairs in the parlor, trying in vain to read a book to distract her from the awful noise coming from Tommy’s room.  With each crash, bang, and boom she jumps, startled.  “Oh, dear,” she says to herself.  “Well, I suppose they know what they’re doing.”

Pimples continues to explore the besieged closet, pulls out a decent-size print of the acclaimed painting of Tommy they were trying to desecrate in the art studio.  “Aw man, look what we got here!” groans Pimp, handing the “girl power” fists-on-hips portrait of their enemy to his buddy.  “Sorry,” Frankie says, instantly tearing the print in half.  "Sends the wrong message.  Next.”

"Holy crap, it’s Tommy’s personal diary!" exclaims Celine, pulling out a small journal and opening it.  Frankie suddenly gets interested in this discovery.  “Hey, lemme see that” he tells Celine, taking the book from her and reading from one of its pages.  “Aww man, this is rich!  That retard is scared to death of sex, says so right here… take a look.”  He shows the diary to Pimples.  “Hilarious.  And look at this part…  she’s still pissed off she wasn’t born a boy!”

“I thought she was,” adds Dora scornfully.

“You know, we oughta post every page of this diary on the internet,” Pimples recommends.  "Let the whole world see what a loser Boyd is.”

“And we sure as hell will, after we’ve had a little fun with her directly,” decides weasel-faced Frankie, temporarily closing the teen girl’s diary and pocketing it.

CRACK!!  Ten year-old Tommy Boyd in her Little League uniform hits a homer, all in nostalgic slow-motion.  She tosses her bat away and begins running bases.

“Tomasina, Tomasina, Tomasina,” Colonel Boyd’s voice breaks through.  “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve failed you.”

“Oh, SIR!  NEVER!” comes the little girl response.

“Hey, Diamond Dyke!”

In contrast, a very adult Tommy Boyd, still wearing her baseball uniform, turns a capped head.  Oh, no, Tommy frets, it’s grinning arch-enemies Frankie and Pimples, right behind her, and clearly up to no good as always.  They’re obviously trying to embarrass young Boyd in front of her visiting father – “Figure the odds of that happening, Tommy reasons to herself.

“Yeah, it’s us,” Frankie hisses.  “Come to piss on your little parade.  Looks like you got lucky out there, Miss Swings Like a Rusty Gate!  A one-armed blind man coulda swatted that hanging curve ball.  So don’t pull your shoulder pattin’ yerself on the back!”

Tommy gives her foes the dirtiest look she can muster and walks slowly and threateningly toward them.  “Now you listen to me, you two weasels!” she snorts.  “I slapped that ball because I pictured it as your zit-covered and pock-marked faces.  And if you don’t scram, I won’t need to imagine I’m hitting your faces – I WILL be hitting your faces!  GET OUTTA HERE!”

The intimidated goons slowly walk backward, then start running away… backing into a nearby bench they don't see and falling right over it!  Discombobulated Frankie and Pimples hit the ground hard, scramble back up, then take off again.  Watching them flee a short distance away is none other than Chad Parker and Marcia Sloan, who most likely put them up to the hazing.  Tommy energetically sticks her tongue out at both of them, then heads back to the Colonel.

“Sorry about that, Sir,” the sporty female explains.  “Certain low-lifes occasionally feel the need to insert themselves into other peoples’ fun.  They won’t be back.”

Even so, Colonel Boyd’s head is lowered, and he’s shaking it in disapproval.  Suddenly, Aunt Edwina comes out from behind him.

“Tomasina!  It’s bad enough that you traipse around these baseball fields and baseball courts,” the old lady rants.  “But that you insist on actually playing in the boys’ leagues is nigh unbearable to me!  Now, your father, the Colonel, has entrusted me as your guardian while he executes his duties and responsibilities.  And when he returns, he expects to see that you have become what I promised him you would become... a proper young lady… a proper young lady… a proper young lady…”

“SCREW THAT!” shouts Tommy, bolting upright in bed.  Shaking cobwebs from her head, she recovers from what was obviously a nightmare, then realizes she's at Proper Little Miss once again, all washed up and under blankets for the night.  Noticing the dumb teddy bear that was placed in her hands while she slept, Tommy grabs it and throws it across the room.  It hits and rattles a small clock that reads 10:10 pm.  Then she jumps out of bed, makes her way over to the guest room door and listens.  The coast seems clear…

Outside Proper Little Miss, Tommy gingerly opens a window.  Not far away is a huge tree that stands alongside the prison-like school building.  Still wearing her girly nightgown, the teen tomboy leaps onto the tree and grabs hold, then carefully makes her way downward, startling some birds in the process.

Reaching the bottom, Tommy explores a gaping hole in the tree.  Her lovely eyes sparkle – she’s found what she was searching for!  Elated, Tommy pulls out a plastic bag, and inside this bag are a white undershirt, a pair of shorty-shorts and sneakers.  “Thanks, Harold,” she says aloud, grateful to her nerd buddy for coming to her rescue with an extra set of “work” clothes.

Tommy Boyd beams her familiar, inescapable payback smile, clenching a fist and girding for full-scale retaliation.  Take care, Frankie and company... it's going to be a bumpy night!