The Teenage Years

“I can’t believe they carded me for cigarettes again,” she said, returning to the car. For a woman of 27 she had a face that looked around 16. It didn’t help matters that her chest was almost as flat as a board. I told her she should be thankful, because when she’s 40 she’ll look 27.

She had a Masters degree in social work and was employed by the state, placing children in foster homes. She told me about one family that they were having trouble with. There was possible abuse going on but they couldn’t prove anything, none of the girls would talk. She spoke to the investigative division but there was little they could do. With out proof, there was nothing wrong as far as they were concerned. I could tell it was eating her up inside but she was helpless to do anything.

One evening over dinner I asked her what was wrong. She told me that the whole foster family thing was getting to her. “If I could only get proof by planting a camera or something,” she mused.

“Yeah, and if you got caught there would be a major lawsuit against the state,” I said. “You don’t even know for sure if there is anything wrong going on there.

“I need to get proof somehow,” she insisted.

“Look,” I said, “Even if you visited the house every day, they are only going to let you see what they want you to see. Unless you can get one of the girls to talk, you’re shit out of luck.”

“There has to be some way I haven’t thought of yet,” she insisted.

Becoming irritated, I said, “Look, without you being a foster child inside that house 24 hours a day, your not going to be able to know what’s going on.

“That’s it!” she cried.

“What’s it?” I asked.

“I could pose as a foster child and live in the house,” she replied.

“Are you out of you mind?” I asked incredulously.

“Well, you always told me I looked 16, maybe I could pull it off,” she responded.

“Look, just let it go,” I grumbled. “You’re getting crazy now!” She didn’t say another word and we left it at that.

The next day she came home from work all excited, saying that she had talked to the investigative division and they were willing to give her crazy plan a try. “You can’t be serious!” I scoffed. “I’m dead serious and there’s no changing my mind,” she insisted.

She told me the department was going to take care of all the paper work. “They went into the state computers and changed all of my records. First, they changed my birth year to make me 16 years old and issued a new birth certificate. To keep my cover from being blown I will be processed through another office and placed in the foster home. However, to make this happen, they had to legally make me a ward of the state and listed you as my current foster father. They also had to delete my driver’s license record so that an error flag wouldn’t blow my cover. Well, I guess these are no longer valid,” she said, cutting up her driver’s license and birth certificate and throwing the pieces in the trash.

“Are you insane,” I asked, “When is this all going to happen?”

“The paper work will be done in a few days,” she replied.

“Not the paper work,” I said. “When are you going to be placed in the home?”

“I have three weeks to get ready,” she replied.

“What do you mean by ‘get ready’?” I asked.

“I may look pretty young but I need to not only look 16 years old, I also have act like a 16 -year-old if I’m going to pull this off,” she explained.

“What are you saying, I’m going to have a, four-eyed, brace-faced, pimple-puss teenager running around the house?” I laughed.

“Those are some good ideas I hadn’t even thought of,” she replied thoughtfully.

She also told me while she was undercover in the house she couldn’t take a chance of blowing her cover and was told not to make contact with me. This whole crazy plan was getting out of hand, but I couldn’t do anything except play along with her.

That day, she packed all her things in a box and had me take them to the Salvation Army drop-box. She told me that when this was over I would have to buy her a complete new wardrobe. She also told me she was moving into the spare bedroom and that there would be no sex until this was over.

“You can’t be serious!” I said.

“I certainly am!” she replied. Jokingly she added, According to the state records, I’m now only 16 and that would make it statutory rape! Remember, from now on you are Mr. Jones, my foster father and, by the way, I need you to take me shopping now.”

We drove to the mall and went shopping. She went to the juniors department and picked out a pile of clothes, disappearing into the dressing room and coming out to model each new outfit. Then she would tease me, knowing I wasn’t allowed to touch her anymore. The next stop was the music store where she bought a ton of CD’s. They were all the pop, rap and hip-hop music that a fifteen-year-old girl would be into. She also bought a couple of posters of teen boy-bands to hang on the spare bedroom wall.

We then moved on to the bookstore, where she bought teenage romance books and a teen magazine. We also stopped at a phone store, where she bought a pager and had it activated in my name. As we left the mall, she thanked me for helping her.

On the way home she exclaimed, “Damn, I’m out of cigarettes! Stop at the market so I can buy a pack.”

“Look, you are the one who wants to be fifteen. As you well know, that’s legally too young to smoke and I won’t allow it!” She looked shocked, realizing she hadn’t thought about that. I quickly added, “Without a driver’s license and with no money, I would say you are shit-out-of-luck, my dear.” She knew I had her and dropped the subject.

When we arrived home she put all of her new clothes away and hung her posters on the spare bedroom wall. She spent the evening watching MTV and reading her teen magazine. Before she retired to her new bedroom, she told me she had several appointments the next day that I would have to drive her to.

The next day I drove her to the office of a collage friend of hers who was now a dentist. I was sitting in the waiting room when she came out smiling. I couldn’t believe it; friend had installed a full set of silver braces, top and bottom. “I can’t believe how far you are taking this,” I told her. “It was your idea, if I remember correctly,” she said.

The next stop was the eye doctor. She came out and got into the car, threw her contacts in the garbage and replaced them with a pair of glasses; the cheap plastic frame kind with thick lenses. I looked at her and shook my head saying, “I know. It was my idea!”

She finally made me drop her off at one of those cheap hair salons, the kind that does cuts for seven bucks. I hardly recognized her when she came back to the car; her shoulder length hair was cut short like a boy’s.

As we drove home, she proceeded to bite her long fingernails until they were just ugly stubs. Sitting there in her baggy jeans, Back Street Boys T-shirt and platform sneakers, I couldn’t help but comment on her new persona.

“I can’t believe how far you have taken this,” I said. “You look terrible! With the short hair, glasses, braces, no makeup, and stubs for nails you look like a fifteen-year-old geek!”

“I told you that I was serious about this and would do what ever it takes to make it look real,” she replied.

Jokingly I said, “I suppose you’re going to develop a face full of pimples next.” “Great idea,” she said, “That would be the finishing touch!”

When we got home she grabbed a hand full of dirt from a plant pot. Then, stopping in the kitchen and grabbing a container of corn oil from the cabinet, went into the bathroom. “Now what are you doing?” I asked.

“Developing a face-full of zits,” she responded. She ground the dirt into her face and then rubbed corn oil all over it.

She spent the next three days with this concoction on her face; watching MTV, listening to her new CD’s and hiding in her room reading her teenage romance novels.

She had succeeded in developing a full crop of pimples. She was all excited when I told her how terrible they looked. She told me that before bed every night she was going to repeat the process in order to keep them for the duration of the investigation.

As if all of this wasn’t bad enough, she announced that she was starting a diet to lose some weight. She wanted to get her weight down to that of a fifteen- year-old. She was so thin to begin with I couldn’t imagine her much thinner.

I told her “You may look like a fifteen-year-old but you also have to be able to function socially if you were going to get away with this.”

“Got any ideas?” she asked.

“I’m going to start by dropping you off at the mall for a few hours every day. Then on Friday and Saturday night, I’ll drop you off at the roller skating rink. You need to make some friends and start hanging out with them.”

“But what if some teenage boy tries to pick me up?” she asked.

“Well, if you really want to think like a 16 year old girl, I think having a boyfriend your own age would be appropriate,” I told her. She looked at me with a shocked expression. “I didn’t say you had to sleep with him, just play along,” I assured her. “Maybe give him your phone number and let him take you out on a date or two.”

It took a minute but she agreed that it might help.

“I also have another idea that might help you get into the 16-year-old mind set.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Well, as the manager at a fast restaurant, let me say congratulations, you’ve got the job.”

“You expect me to work in a junk food store?” she laughed.

“Yep, starting tomorrow you’re our newest burger- flipper. All that grease and heat should help your face break out even more,” I said. Reluctantly, she agreed.

I made her take the city bus, come in on her own, and fill out an application, then interviewed her like all of the other applicants. After the interview I told her she had the job and put her right to work. I then made her go to the backroom and don her new polyester uniform, hair net and visor. Observing her being trained in kitchen, I was pleased to see that she looked just like every other teenager in the place. After work I made her take the bus home so no one would think anything funny was going on.

By Friday night, she made plans to go roller-skating with a girl from work with whom she had made friends. The girl’s mother picked her up and dropped the girls off at the roller rink.

That night she said she had met a totally awesome boy and gave him her phone number. By that afternoon he was calling her. The girl friend from work also called her. Between the two of them, she talked on her bedroom phone for hours. I overheard her saying things like “Oh my god!” and “Like, that’s so cool!” and Awesome!” Her pager also started beeping with amazing regularity.

On Sunday I pulled the classifieds from the newspaper and circled an ad for a baby sitter. “I want you to call and find out about it,” I told her. She looked at me strangely but called the number. By the time she got off the phone she had a job baby-sitting for a few hours Monday and Wednesday for the next two weeks.

She worked the whole second week developing more pimples from the greasy heat of the kitchen. She told me on Friday that she was going to spend the night at her girlfriend’s house and meet the boy at the mall.

Saturday morning she called saying, “Mr. Jones, I want to stay another night, her mother said it was ok.”

“I suppose, if her mother says it’s ok, you can stay over,” I told her. “Where are you going and what are you doing?”

She said they were going to go to this really cool amusement park and hang out for the day. They were also going to spend the night camping with her parents at a nearby campground and stuff like that. “I guess it’s all right, as long as there is adult supervision,” I said with a grin. “Ok, Toodle-Doo,” she said and hung up. I replaced the receiver, shaking my head and thinking, “She’s out of her mind.”

By the third week she was starting to unconsciously display the demeanor and vocabulary of a teenager. She had lost so much weight that what little breasts she had were now almost non-existent and her curvaceous ass and beautiful thighs had shrunk to those of a shapeless teenager’s. I let it go, not wanting to interfere and ruin the plan.

She told me she had a date Wednesday night and asked if I would drop her off at the ice cream parlor. I teased her about it and she told me to shut up. I eventually told her “No problem.” I dropped her off and told her I would be back for her in an hour.

When I returned, I parked across the street and saw her waiting for me outside with a boy. I watched as he grabbed her hand and held it. Not wanting to cause a scene, she didn’t pull away. Then he pulled her closer and gave her a kiss. I could tell she was shocked but had to go along with it. Placing his hands on her ass, he pulled her closer and gave her a deep French kiss. Realizing this could develop into a problem, I quickly pulled in the parking lot before it went any further.

She climbed in the car all flushed; I think she expected me to get angry but I didn’t say anything. I asked her how her date was and she merely said it was ok and left it at that. The rest of that week she sank deeper into her role until finally she WAS a teenage girl.

On Monday the department of social services arrived to pick her up. She packed her things in a suitcase and was escorted to the car. They placed her things in the trunk while she settled into the back seat. I watched them as the car pulled away.

After a couple of months she finally nailed the abusive family. When she returned home, I forced her to remain a teenager for a week and made her screw me every day before I would let her change back. I asked her if she had enjoyed her role-playing adventure.

She said, “It was a terrible experience, I never want to relive my teenage years again.”