Throughout history, dire circumstances breed vigilantes. The Minutemen of the revolution, the Texas Rangers, the Guardian Angels of New York, and now: High School Varsity Lacrosse Girls!
Ruthless, mysterious, and frustratingly misunderstood, these girls fight crime in their town because there's just nothing better to do after school-plus, their parents usually aren't home.
It was a deceptively quiet afternoon. The varsity lacrosse girls lounged around an outdoor table, languidly munching french-fries at their secret hideout, Up-and-Down Burgers, hoping for a call from the 'Little Brothers.'
The Little Brothers was a secret network operating throughout town. Their job was to alert the varsity lacrosse girls before trouble happened. And did they have a nose for trouble! The Little Brothers could virtually predict it. You might say the Little Brothers were one with trouble.
The Captain of the team-The Vigilantes-was the inestimable Diché. No one knew her actual name. Like the other girls, she kept this a close secret.
Diché's cell phone rang. She growled in annoyance, for her steaming pile of french-fries had just finished marinating the required minimum time in ketchup and were at maximum deliciousness. She opened the phone.
The other girls stopped eating and leaned closer hopefully to hear.
Diché blinked, said, "We'll be right there," and snapped closed the phone.
"Ladies, let's ride!"
Grabbing sticks, they sprang to their feet. Quickly forming a circle, as one, the girls slammed the butts of their sticks to the patio with a loud crack. Then they raised their mighty lacrosse weapons on high, inward, all touching together, accompanied with a spine tingling cry of, "All for ball; and ball for all!"
They leapt to their cars, the motors left running for just such quick flights.
But at the parking lot exit their was an immediate problem: The Junior Varsity girls. Standing in a row, sticks held at the ready, they blocked the exit. Their captain, Tor, also a pseudonym, approached the tricked out Honda Civic in the lead, the trusty steed of Diché.
Tor spoke, "Can we come, too?"
Diché turned away from her and spoke: "No!"
Tor began to whine and wheedle. But it was no good; Diché gunned her engine loudly to drown it all out. Tor took her place in line again, a sour look of determination framed by her golden hair. Her hair fluttered slightly in the breeze. It was a standoff.
Diché rose up through her sunroof. "Tor, get out of the way. Don't make me call Mom!" She waved her cell phone threateningly.
Sweat trickled down the side of Tor's face but she held her ground - their was no one more stubborn in all of lacrossedom.
However, Diché knew what to say. She'd used this ploy many times. She threatened not to recommend her sister to the varsity team next year.
Crushed, her Achilles' heel pierced, Tor motioned to her junior varsity team to relent.
The Vigilantes roared past, especially Diché's monster Civic with its four-foot-high wheels.
It was an impending disturbance from downtown. One of the Little Brothers had sensed an impending crime just outside the Palace of Pasta restaurant.
A group of middle-aged ladies emerged, laughing and weaving back and forth, one absentmindedly still holding a wine glass. The others laughed anew upon noticing this. She turned to set it down. And that's when he struck.
The young hoodlum flew past them grabbing a big fat purse, yanking the strap so hard that the owner whirled around three times, landing flat on her butt.
He ran down an alley and ducked around a dim corner. He looked around and, seeing no one, with a big grin opened the purse.
There was a sound.
He looked around again. Saw nothing.
Whack!
The next thing he knew, he was waking up in a strange bed. He put his hand to the side of his head; there was an enormous lump.
A cop rose from his chair, a big, menacing grin spreading across his face.
It was evening. It was Saturday night. She knew she shouldn't have gone to the library with him, but he'd seemed so studious and cute; glossy black spiked hair, eye-catching diamond ear studs, and his very own minivan; or so he claimed; the stench of rancid baby formula should have tipped her off.
It was now too late.
Parked at the quiet, dark end of the library parking lot, he was attempting to have his way with her. She tried to fight him. But he just kept saying all the right things. She cried out in a tiny voice, "Stop! Somebody help!"
He grumbled, "What?! I don't need help…"
There was a sound.
He lifted his head, eyes scanning back and forth.
"Who's got ball?!"
And from very nearby: "GOT BALL!"
He chided himself silently for leaving the window open.
WHACK!
The next thing he knew, he was waking up in a strange bed. A big burly cop was standing beside him, slamming his fist against his hand. The boy in the bed demanded, "Who are you?! Where am I?!"
"Emergency room, kid. And she was my daughter."
"What?! Who? I don't remember anything."
The cop chuckled roughly. "That's what they all say, kid." He reached around and with meaningful determination slowly closed the curtain.
