Burying The Lead

Foreword

This story is set in CelestialSecrets' alternate world invented for the story Thorns and Roses. In this setting, there was a Transition in the 20th century where genetic editing allowed the United States to make their citizens sexually dimorphic — men have arms, women do not. It's just that simple, until it's not. My interest comes from the cultural changes that come with half the population being what we would consider disabled, and many of those women being chastised for any attempt at independence. This side-story is set in a very conservative part of the country, where the Transition is not discussed anymore, and where its values are held in the truest form.

Thanks to CelestialSecrets, Slothargy, and TheBrentwoodSociety for reviewing and inspiring this exploration!

Chapter 1

Dozens of chairs squeaked and shuffled, wood and metal meeting, echoing in the massive space as Gwen Cartwright eagerly squinted toward the wall of her school's gymnasium, lit up by a projector beam. The light flickered and a new question appeared.

"What is the ideal ratio of flour to yeast in the making of a simple leavened bread?"

Gwen knew this one, and knew the button board by her feet well enough to tap the 'A' button below her without looking, using one of her best mary janes, buckled tight. She was confident about this.

"Where is the proper following position when walking on the sidewalk, against the flow of traffic?"

Some of the questions on her graduate exam were absurdly simple — it was meant to cover her seven years of schooling in cumulative totality, after all — but this one was just common knowledge! C:

A conscientious woman follows behind her guide or chaperone, away from the traffic.

Whether the cars were oncoming or passing didn't change a thing, that was a red herring.

"A door in the masculine style has a knob or a latch. How long should you wait before trying to open it yourself?"

Gwen was getting a little miffed with these trick questions! She answered B:

A patient woman will always wait to the side, or return with a chaperone to open it for her.

That was even more basic! There were exceptions, of course, but not many. If a door was built in the masculine style, it was probably not appropriate for an unaccompanied young lady to be entering regardless! Even with some free-swinging doors in public, a classy American girl didn't just go barging through with her shoulder or her chest!

"A man falls and accidentally rips your dress or top, exposing your shoulder. What's the first thing you do?"

D:

Retreat to a private area out of sight, request his help to repair your image. It is his responsibility.

"A new family has moved in across the street, and you want to help them get oriented and familiar. Is it appropriate to use your feet when giving directions to a stranger?"

B:

Gesticulation of any sort is unbecoming of a woman. Animation of the shoulders is suggestive and dexterity of the toes is a sin. Use your eloquence illustratively.

"What is the verse number of this passage? 'You husbands... live with your wives in an understanding way, as with someone weaker, since she is a woman; and show her honor as a fellow heir of the grace of life, so that your prayers will not be hindered.'"

Gwen knew this one, it was important! It was the biblical guidance for a man to take his guardianship gently, their God-given duty to care and hold girls like her in trust. But she sure as heck couldn't recall the verse number! Gwen squinted harder, read it again, and the four answers, but the light flickered and the question changed, she was too late! She had got caught being cocky, confident. That was unbecoming no matter how assured she felt by her Dad's hint the night prior, that he had already lined up a match for her, that he had something important to tell her this weekend. She still had to get through her finals and get her school approval slip for any of those preliminary arrangements to hold true.

A slight clearing of the throat came from a matron behind her, walking the well-spaced columns for cheaters or layabouts. Gwen looked up at a wise face minding her with a cocked eyebrow, and immediately realized she had been leaning forward, her shoulders scrunched and tense, slouching as if that would help her read better. Luckily the elderly woman was just a volunteer monitor, not a teacher who could dock marks for bad posture, so the student mouthed a 'Thank you' and sat up straight, her shoulders pulled back and chin lifted.

She tapped 'C' for the next one, everyone knew it was most likely to be 'C'.

Gwen squinted again. She wished her Dad would get her glasses. They vacationed on Canyon Lake once or twice a year so they couldn't be hurting for the money, but he was particular. With her schooling coming to a close, his warm words that frames would "tarnish her good looks, just to see distances," or "be too cumbersome for how little she'd need them," were said in the way Gwen recognized should not be questioned or debated. Wise words, for her own good. And of course she hadn't mentioned contacts for two solid reasons; wanting to respect that resolute answer with her best interests in mind... and not wanting her cousin Peter's clammy fingers touching her eyeballs.

Oh! That bible verse had been 'Peter 3:7'! Dang!

Compared to dates and passage numbers, Gwen was far more confident answering the questions about mental math: multiplication tables and such. She probably could've been an accountant if handling money wasn't a sin for women's work, but oh well. God would take advantage of Gwen's other confidences and strengths through the hands of men, He always did.

Then again, modesty was a good quality too: like all tests, missing a few questions got her farther than answering incorrectly. But she had never taken any pride in being so meek and mild as to be thought dim or dull. By her age, the young graduate knew full well when to behave and when to open her mouth, take a risk and potentially charm her way forward in life. It seemed to work even better now that she had grown up a bit, and the many glances her way weren't just for being precocious.

Still, she had to admit some of her wild guesses might bite her in the butt later on.

The multiple choice section of the test finally over, the gymnasium lights thunked on and every girl in the room winced their eyes closed from the sudden brightness. Gwen didn't drag her feet though, hopefully done with those clunky quiz pedals forever. She rose promptly, well poised, waiting diligently for a chap to come along and unhitch her waist leash from the chair spokes, along with the other girls in her little pod, and escort them to oral interviews. The tethers were long enough to mill about, chat, and socialize... usually, but practically the whole class held their tongue. Finals were too important.

Gwen smiled gently to one girl in the next seat over, Tegan, who she knew had a tough time with memorization, but the girl was far too nervous to return the gesture, rubbing her navy blue uniform on the chair back with her hip in vain attempt to get a wrinkle out before her session with the proctor. She was crouched awkwardly, knees bent, hips moving... unbecomingly, but Tegan was far too focused on looking her best to actually do so! Gwen wanted to let her know that fidgeting was going to get her docked further marks, but it wasn't worth it. She wasn't going to risk speaking out of turn when the chaperone might be—

Sure enough a chap strolled up and started with Tegan, lifting her chin with the crook of his index finger, looking down at her, giving her a few words of encouragement Gwen couldn't quite make out, and taking a red sharpie to her white collar, adding a tally to the two already there. Probably for poor diction (she had a tendency to mumble) and presentation (the wrinkles and lack of eye contact). It didn't seem to help but the young man didn't get much enjoyment from it either. In the end he collected about 8 girls — Gwen included — and put their folded report cards in their breast pockets, sticking out like a hall pass, before leading them out of the gym.

Not recognizing him from the many boys filling their home ec class requirements, she nonetheless followed the new boy politely, only brushing him with her chest once — which was a record for her — but no one dared chitchat. It wasn't usually off-limits, but the Henry Ford Preparatory School was quite precise, and well-considered, and they had made it this far! Now wasn't the time to devolve into gossip and ruckus. Gwen bumped shoulders with a few other girls following his lead, but most of them were too haughty to take notice of her while a new guy was present. They were unpromised and competitive, so she tried not to frown about it. A couple of them only spoke behind closed doors anyways, strict girls from stricter families.

The end of her leash ended up on a pegline like all the rest, a rolling conveyer of vertical handles up on the wall, higher than her shoulder. Sure if you really wanted, you could grab the end of the strap in your teeth and pull it up and off the line, but Gwen hadn't tried that since first year, when anyone but her Dad pulling her leash felt so... wrong. Oh, and a fire drill last winter.

The chap gave her a second look and a smirk, and Gwen beamed her pearly whites before he had to go to the head of the line, turn the handles, grab a lead or two and guide the students attached to their exam booths.

She remembered asking once — when she was much younger but old enough to know better — why they couldn't learn to write out long-form answers like the boys did across the yard at the full 12-year prep school. That had garnered a paddling, as well as a gentle lecture about why: it being quite wrong for a girl to write or type when a good-mannered man would gladly record her thoughts for her. Of course her Dad was too busy and Peter couldn't be bothered unless it was for an assignment, but that was beside the point. Orals were as much about the way you recited your answers as much as what you said, and boys would've been lucky to get the same one-on-one tutelage. Of course she had thanked the teacher for that lesson, as much as it stung.

Gwen watched the boy walk out of her sight, and found Tegan's eyes on her, finally returning the goodwill from earlier. Staring, honestly, so she smiled, blushed, and turned toward the window lining the hall. Gwen hoped she would be assigned to his pod to escort her home, and luckily she was.

Chapter 2

Eventually it was just the two of them, walking down her street in the hot Texas suburbs, gnarly oak and pecan trees giving spotty shade where they could. The gaggle of other students had all been deposited at their front doors, one by one, leashes handed to fathers and brothers and house-minders and au-peres, and even a "home guidance system": a carabiner clip descending from the ceiling to lead the girl inside and keep her busy until her family returned home. Handoff was important but apparently that counted. Looked expensive, and a bit lonely, Gwen thought.

Every one of them had little green approval slips poking out of their breast pockets, and even though Tegan lived in the opposite direction, her leash picked up by another chap, Gwen had caught a flash of green on her chest too.

"You must be awfully happy to be done with school," her guide spoke, turning back. "What's your name? You look practically ready to skip and jump!"

Finally he speaks,

she beamed. "Yes, sir! Yes I am! I mean, it's a lot of pressure off my shoulders honestly. I'm Gwen by the way, and you are...?"

He could've found her name between her Dad's and the Cartwright home address, on the sewn patch on her leash loop, but he had asked her instead. Gwen wasn't the only one here trained in manners.

"Charlie. Charlie Young. You're my last leash for the day, so I thought I'd skip the formalities. You've probably had enough of 'em too, right?"

Gwen batted her lashes and beamed, and actually

did

a skip and jump, before a little twirl and squeal. "Yes sir-ee! I'm finished!! I did it!!! School... is... oooout!!!!"

Her legs spread as far as the propriety hobble between her thighs would allow, and her school uniform bloomed and swayed, the sleeveless wrap tight as she turned and twisted energetically.

So unused to being unabashedly loud, even outside, Gwen caught herself with a blush, realizing he hadn't given her

explicit

permission to break that many rules. Making sure her tether wasn't tangled, Gwen twisted back the way she came and followed its length with a shy gaze to find Charlie smiling vicariously, fully approving.

Yet beyond him was a man, stock still on his porch, hands on his hips, eyeing the two of them dancing on the sidewalk. "You mind your woman there, son!" he called, and Gwen immediately demurred, curtseying mid-step, eyes to the pavement.

But Charlie pulled her cord to skillfully and silently indicate not to bother. "I've got her handled just fine!"

Snark aside, the pair sped out of the geezer's sight then started giggling again. "Don't mind him. I think you deserve a little reprieve, Gwen. I've just started helping out at Ford recently, and I don't think I've ever seen a school so strict!"

Gwen followed, head up, back in lockstep with her leash-holder. She didn't have much to compare it to beyond her church's daycare when she was a kid, but she knew the sales pitch. "I think it's worth the trouble. Dad says the national registry of women is a mess of false certifications these days, and there's not many finishing schools that still actually fail their students, they just give those failures a do-over. The Ford School has an impeccable reputation!" She held her chest proud, the green slip finally showing her worthiness.

Charlie chuckled, "Failures? That's a little harsh! What if all your hard work was shot to high heaven by one wrong question on that exam? Or you came down with a flu this week? Wouldn't you want a do-over?"

"Sorry..." Gwen checked herself, "I guess the Ford method is kind of intense." She had to admit the school's habit of pitting girls against each other had really seeped into how she spoke. Which was why, even after seven years, there weren't many classmates she was more than cordial with. But she was proud to have come out on top, she was!

He shifted, obviously well-mannered enough to not let her dig a hole with her own tongue. "I've seen the national registry though, your pa's right, it is such a mess. Plus, scrolling through hundreds of girls on offer does things to a man. It just becomes a blur, y'know?"

He twirled her leash. She didn't know. Choice was on his side of the lead.

"Anyways, the point is I don't want my wife to be from the listings, I want us to have a real connection."

So he was a gentleman, and a romantic. "That's so sweet. I would want that too, if it were possible."

"What about getting on a local church board? Let someone from around here contact your pa?"

Her chin raised a bit, "I don't know... church matches are mostly local boys who can only afford promises to public school girls — you know, four-year bare-minimum sort of thing."

Just enough to know where the baby pops out

, Gwen kept to herself. "And though I'd be lucky with any promise that's made to me, Dad has bigger plans. My sister and I have to be appealing to college graduates and young professionals. Providers."

Charlie was quiet, and Gwen had an awkward moment to ponder if she was being overzealous again. Like all Ford students should, she turned the conversation back to him.

"I haven't seen you around before. First day as a chaperone? You saw us at our best and boringest, I'm sure it gives an impression. You're... not from the Boy's School, I gather?"

"Oh me? No no." he laughed but kept on, refusing to elaborate. Now that she could actually admire him, instead of peeking from behind the rest of his flock, he seemed a little older than the usual high school senior filling his timesheet. Not by much, but something lean and assured in the jawline told her he wasn't a student.

But he didn't say it in a way she could lead into further conversation, the thread of permission implicitly dropped, so Gwen followed him for the next block and a half in pleasant silence and curiosity.

Charlie led her past her fence and up the path to the porch, before hitting the doorbell.

They waited... but no one came to the door.

"Very nice place," he offered to break the silence, and she thanked him. This had never happened before.

Charlie hit the doorbell again and knocked loudly, rapping on the solid door, and finally,

finally

a scampering could be heard from inside.

"Gwen! Gwen!" a muffled voice, high-pitched, just made it past the door. "Mom went to work with Daddy today, there's some fancy lady from Austin teaching an art class in town, and she left me with Peter, but Peter said you were dragging your feet so he just went out biking!"

The elder Cartwright sister looked at Charlie, her eyes wide and worried as she listened, ear and shoulder pressed to the door. Harriet was only eleven, and it wasn't okay to leave a girl alone in her own house; eleven, twelve, or twenty! The worst part was that Peter knew better, but Gwen also couldn't tell him off. Even her fifteen-year-old cousin, rooming with them to supposedly understand his responsibilities in running a household and caring for the lesser sex, naive and careless in so many ways only a teenage boy could be; even he superseded her.

The two young adults heard a rustling inside, and Gwen took a second before she realized what was happening. "Harriet Eleanor Cartwright, you better not be trying to open this door with your shoulder!"

A garbled reply came quickly, "Who haid ah wah u-hing my holder? Wais uh tyhn!" as the knob rattled.

"Harriet!" Gwen cried, her sister not even aware how humiliating this was for herself! For Gwen! For their family name!

Charlie didn't say a word, he just touched her waist and nodded reassuringly and took action, waving her leash loop by the doorknob so they could all hear the little safety pin fire inside, the electric whirr of a motor drag the deadbolt open. He gripped the knob with his hand, turning to open the door slowly, careful not to knock the precocious youngster down. Without arms, that would've been one heck of a fall.

And that's the day a strange boy escorted Gwen into her own house.

Chapter 3

Peter took forever to get back, even after Charlie got his cell number from the fridge and gave him a stern reminder of his responsibilities. It was odd having a stranger chew out your family like that, but more awkward than insulting. Since even her Mom had to defer some respect toward the adolescent caretaker who tied her shoes, it was really only Gwen's Dad or other men who could put the boy in his place, on the women's behalf.

Even though Gwen really really wanted to sometimes.

Luckily Harriet was unbothered now that she wasn't alone, and happy enough to go back to watching TV; something about ballet dancers from New York City, their feet stepping so hurriedly that their elegant floral figures glided across the stage. The man on screen was speaking about how dangerous their leaps and jumps were, it taking years to perfect using wire harnesses and floorpads and other safety equipment so that they could perform Swan Lake or the Nutcracker without a misstep or a fall. Harriet was enraptured, eyes glued to the screen while her bare foot came up to pull a lock of hair out of the way.

Gwen's went wide. "I swear we're not that kind of family," she promised to Charlie, who stood across from her barstool at the kitchen island, cutting celery and carrots and preparing a basic ranch dip with dill and some other mixins.