Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned

Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned By Scott Turner

Chapter Two

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. It occasionally contains scenes describing sexual activity between consenting adult men. If it is illegal for you to possess such material, or if your parents don't want you reading it, please find another story. This story is copyrighted, 2008, and all rights are reserved by the author. It may not be reproduced, reposted or published without the expressed written permission of the author.

"Greg! I was gonna call you tonight and say thanks!"

"Hey, stud. Glad the plant arrived safely. Had the chance to kill any kids yet?"

Scott snickered as he opened the car door. "Not yet, but I've only met a couple of them." He slopped some coffee onto the top of his hand as he tried to negotiate getting into the car. "Hang on a sec. I'm at a gas station and want to get back into the car." He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel before setting his cup in the holder and picking up the receiver again. "So, thanks again. That was really nice. How are ya'? I miss you."

"I miss you something fierce."

"So what's on your mind?"

"Your cock."

"Perv. Don't get us going. I don't need to be sitting here in my car a half hour from home with a big ol' woodie." Somehow their conversations nearly always deteriorated into the pornographic. Scott loved it, but mostly when he was in the privacy of his own bedroom.

"I'm sure the soccer moms cruising through the parking lot there would love it. Your sweet package all bulged out and tenting in your shorts."

"Bastard! God, you are such a dick tease, even over the phone. Did you just call to use your sexy voice to give me a frustrated boner at the end of my first day? I have one when I go to sleep thinking about you. I have one when I wake up in the morning..."

"That's just `cuz you gotta pee."

"And because I miss you. I dreamt about you the other night. We did outrageous things." They both sighed. "But really, Greg. What's up?"

"My dick. But besides that, I have a Friday and Saturday off for the first time in months. And Nicky's gonna be gone for the weekend, He's goin' home for a cousin's wedding, so I have the place to myself and I don't have to work `til noon on Sunday." Nicky was Nick Torres, Greg's roommate. They'd been one-time fuck buddies, as Greg put it, but that neither one of them was looking for a romance. Rather, he'd explained, it was merely a convenient arrangement. Nick was at Minnesota State in Mankato, Greg was moving to Mankato...it made sense. Besides, he'd said to Scott so many times, "nobody's gonna take your place as long as you're willing to put up with me."

Scott smiled. "Okay. Thanks for the rundown on your professional life. So what's on your mind?"

"I told you what's on my mind." He giggled in that familiar way that made Scott's groin stir. "Here's what I got in mind. You come up here on Friday. We mess around a lot, get all caught up, and fuck like bunnies some more. On Saturday we do something out and about in Mankato, and then fuck like bunnies some more."

"What, no fucking like bunnies on Sunday?"

"Aaahh, maybe. We'll see. I'd probably be worn out by then, and find walking pretty difficult. And I gotta be in to work the buffet brunch at noon."

Scott took a gulp of the sludge he'd just bought and winced as he swallowed. "Aaah...not a real good weekend for me to travel. I'm figuring I'll be moving on or around Labor Day weekend, but figured I'd spend a good chunk of this weekend sorting and packing shit."

"You have a new place already?"

"No, not yet, but I'll be looking around seriously this week. But since I don't actually have to be at school until next Monday, I was already thinking of taking this Friday off. If that heap of a truck you bought is still running, why don't you come to Madison? You can give me a hand with the shit and we can fuck like bunnies at my place."

"Weeeelllll...that could happen." Scott's eyes widened a bit. Greg had come to Madison exactly three times since he moved to Minnesota, and one of those trips had been Scott's graduation the previous spring. "I mean, I really do want to see you. We ought to celebrate your new job right, and I might have some news for you by then, too."

"Oh ho! Like big league news?"

"Can't say for sure, yet, but coach Bidwell said he wants to meet with me and this talent scout-recruiter guy on Thursday."

The fattest cat in the world greeted him at the top of the stairs with his usual `feed me' glance before leading the way to the food dish. Brett the Dog, a handsome chocolate lab who'd once had a name worse than Brett the Dog, scampered into the kitchen when he heard the food hitting the cat's dish. He was greeted with a scratch on the head from a smirking Scott. "He never comes here to visit. Methinks something is afoot, noble pooch."

The following morning, Scott was back at his desk filling out the paperwork necessary for his medical and dental insurance. He'd been hearing lockers, both near and far, opening and slamming shut from the moment he'd sat down. Jim Daley had come by just after Scott poured his first cup of coffee and extended a dinner invitation for the following evening, which Scott eagerly accepted. Jim explained that the football team was going through their two-a-day practices, the boys and girls cross country teams were meeting with their coaches after a full morning's run, and the marching band would be working on the practice field most of the day. The cheerleaders were working out in the gym and the commons. In other words, according to Jim, it was a normal mid-August day at any high school in the state. Never mind that the legislature had, in its infinite wisdom, made it impossible for a school district to start classes before Labor Day. But they weren't going to screw with the sports teams' or the marching bands' schedules. "We can start em playing ball or playing trumpets," Jim had said, "but we dasn't ask them to start reading and writing before Labor Day. That would muck up the labor pool of the farming and tourist industries who want to keep these kids at their minimum wage jobs til the last possible minute during their big seasons." So, over two hundred kids who wanted to play their sports or other activities were at school weeks before the first bell of the new school year rang, just not to do school work.

A young man's voice echoed down the hallway, "Hey, the door's open. Let's go check it out. C'mon, `Topher! You're gonna wanna meet this guy!" A moment later two guys, obviously athletes, stood in the doorway. The tall one smiled. "Hey, Mr. Turner, remember me?" His dark brown hair was matted to his forehead just above his thick eyebrows, either from a recent shower or the sweaty workout the football team had just completed. As he approached, it became fairly obvious that it wasn't the shower.

Scott stood and waved them both in. "Zach Jacoby! My able tour guide. How could I forget?" The second young man was quite a bit shorter, about five-foot-eight, but was also very well built, stretching the limits of his "NAHS" tee-shirt at the chest and the short sleeves. He had curly, sand-colored hair, just a shade or two lighter than Scott's, and he gave hint of a limp as he cautiously entered the room.

"We just finished morning practice and picked up our schedules in the student office. Your name's on both them and it's the only one we didn't know already." Zach shrugged. "Well, I kinda do know you a little, and I got you for AP History all year and then again for government second semester." Then his grin widened and his dimples deepened. "Dude! I'm so glad they hired you!"

Scott stuck out his hand and Zach impressed him again with a firm grasp. "Well, Zach, I hope you're in good hands in here. Sounds like we're going to get to know each other pretty well this year." He looked at the other. "And you are...?"

The lad's shyness was evident when his eyes went to the floor and he meekly accepted Scott's handshake. "Uhm, I'm Chris...uhm, Propst."

Scott tried to put him at ease. "Good to know you, Chris uhm Propst. Are you going to tackle the AP class too?"

Chris grinned and blushed a bit as he rolled his eyes. "Oh heck no!" He relaxed and nodded toward his buddy. "He's the brainiac. I got you for government first semester `cuz it's required to graduate.

Scott smirked. "Sounds like you're really looking forward to it."

Chris snorted. "Hardly. Sorry, Mr. Turner, but I hate that crap."

Zach pointed a thumb toward his friend. "When we're not out on the field, `Topher is mister theater and music and art and all that crap. But he can draw or paint like a son of a gun, and his voice isn't half bad."

Chris rolled his eyes and swatted his buddy's arm.

Scott's face questioned. "Topher?"

Chris mugged and shrugged. "Yeah. My older sister is Christina and I'm Christopher. So around the house the folks started calling us Tina and Topher. That way they're not always hollering for just Chris.

Zach wiggled his brows. "And Tina is one serious hot babe. She got all the looks in this generation."

Chris sneered. "'Scuse me? That's my sister you're talking about."

Zach nudged him. "C'mon bud, you know she's hot."

He gritted his teeth. "Sisters are not hot to their brothers!"

Scott sized up the shorter kid again and changed the subject. "Forgive the stereotype, but you look more like a wrestler than a fine arts guy. Not that one automatically excludes the other. I had a buddy in high school who was a state champ in wrestling and was also selected to sing in Wisconsin's high school honor's choir. They even went to the White House to perform."

Chris nodded and smiled with wide eyes. "Very cool! And I do wrestle, prob'ly at the 165-pound class this year. But, yeah, I have a better time with art and choir than I do with the textbook stuff."

Scott gestured toward a couple of desks and propped his butt on the edge of his own. "Grab a seat, guys." He folded his arms. "Nothing to be sorry about there, Chris. A lot of folks don't like that political crap, as you said. I guess I'm kind of a politics and history nerd. It just doesn't mean much to most folks your age. Not your fault. I'll try to make it as pain-free as I can."

They chatted for about twenty minutes. Both young men were going to be seniors this year. Scott learned that the two had been best friends since the second grade, when Chris's family moved into the house whose back yard abutted the Jacoby's. Zach exuded an enthusiasm for the AP class, as well as the government class, and he shared that he was in the process of applying for an appointment to a couple of the military academies. His dream was a call to the Naval Academy in Annapolis, and hopefully a job in Washington D.C., following whatever tour of duty he might be called to. Zach was one of two quarterbacks for the Raiders and Chris was their center.

Scott nodded. "You're built like a center, Chris. Low to the ground. Wide and solid."

Zach giggled as he glanced to his side. "You mean he's got a fat ass that can't be moved once he's snapped the ball."

Chris's face reddened a little and he poked his friend with a finger before looking back at Scott. "You a football fan, Mr. Turner?"

Scott's eyes widened. "Big time! Never played in high school, but I'm a die-hard cheesehead and a rabid Badger fan! I played some baseball when I was your age, but wasn't up for taking the kind of hits you do. From the looks of your walk coming in, Chris, I'd say you took one today."

Chris just shrugged. "Just wrenched my ankle a bit. Nothin' serious."

Zach reached over and slapped his buddy's shoulder. "He never let's `em get by to lay some hurt on me when I'm behind him, and he can plow through a line and create an opening whenever we're gonna run the ball. The dude's a machine." Chris rolled his eyes and blushed yet again.

Scott smiled and nodded. "Home opener's already coming up next week, right? That's even before classes start."

Zach nodded. "Yep. We've always opened the season the Thursday before Labor Day. All the other games are on Friday nights. The Beechfield Bombers are coming to town to get crushed."

Chris grinned a nasty grin. "They really suck. Always have. Good way to start the season."

Scott chuckled. "Sounds like you're smelling blood already, Chris."

Both guys nodded and snickered. Chris added with a scowl, "They're a bunch of pussies who like to take cheap shots `cuz they ain't got no talent."

Zach wore a sly grin. "Chris is kind of on a mission here, Mr. Turner. He took a knee to the nuts last year from one of their inside linebacker, and it was after the whistle. Took him out of the game that night, and he was peeing blood for a week. It's gonna be all I can do to keep him on a leash and not let him do anything too stupid at that game."

Scott raised a brow. "Too stupid?"

Zach smirked. "Well, nothing obvious, anyway. A little stupid I can live with. But I think I'm gonna start in that game and I can't do it without my ball handler in front of me." He glanced to his right. "So he'd better not do anything TOO STUPID."

Chris's eyes darted to his left. "You gonna bail me out if I go to jail? I am gonna lay that guy out, ya' know."

Zach laughed. "Hell, no, I'm not gonna bail your big ass out of jail! Just don't fuck things up." Then he caught himself. "Oh, sorry Mr. Turner."

Scott laughed. "I'm a big boy, Zach, and I know all the naughty words. Even use them myself from time to time. But let's keep it to a minimum. Shootin' the breeze like this is one thing. But the rules will have to change when we get to class." He winked. "I mean, what the hell?"

Both young men laughed with him.

Scott stood up and away from the desk. "Well, gents, I'm glad you stopped by. But I need to get this paperwork into the central office by lunch time, so I'm gonna have to throw you out. Otherwise, I'll go through this next year uninsured."

Chris nodded. "Yeah, and we're gonna run out and grab lunch before the afternoon workouts."

"Two-a-days. Ouch. That must be tough."

Chris nodded again. "The first couple days are a real pain, til you get used to it. We got another couple hours this afternoon, and then I gotta drag Studly McWonderful' here to the weight room for another hour on the equipment."

Zach swatted Chris's beefy upper arm with the back of his hand. "Only one more hour, right? Cuz my mom's making her chicken n' wild rice tonight and we don't wanna be late."

Chris bobbed his head. "Coach said an hour with the weights, and you know they're keepin' track." Then he thought for a second. "So that means we're doin' the dishes, huh?"

"You know the rules. She cooks and we clean. That's why she lets you come over to eat."

Chris looked at Scott. "My ma's a great lady but a terrible cook, and both she and my dad work second shift at the MetalFab plant on the south end of town, so I chow down two or three nights a week over at their place."

Scott shrugged. "Sounds like a good arrangement." He walked them to the door.

The teens ambled down the hall and Zach looked over his shoulder. "Gonna be at the game next week, Mr. Turner?"

"Wouldn't miss it. And I'm not gonna bail you out either, Chris, if you do something too stupid in that game."

Chris held up a hand and waved over his shoulder. "Not to worry. Catch'ya later Mr. T."

Scott chuckled. Mr. T.,' he mused, and he chuckled again to himself recalling the old A-Team' reruns he'd seen on TV. He sneered as he walked back to his desk, "Ah pity da fool...!"

The following morning, Scott walked straight to the office and looked at his mailbox. Millie was busy shuffling a stack of envelopes and loose sheets of paper from this office or that, popping them in the boxes. "Good morning, Millie! Beautiful day today, huh?"

"It is if you're outside I guess." She reached to the top shelf and tossed an envelope in Dr. Watson's box. When she stepped to the side, Scott took about half the stack out of his box. "Good Lord, Millie! It's like this paper populates all by itself! Does it ever end?"

Millie sniffed, her eyes never leaving the mailboxes. "It certainly does not populate by itself. I put it there. It slows down a bit when the school year gets under way." She handed him another stapled packet of about four pages. "You'll want to make a note of the `Confidential' heading on this one. It's a list of all of our students with disabilities, and you'll want to keep it in its own folder. I'd cross-check this list with your class lists and make a note of your special education students who might need some accommodations in your classes. Their case managers in the special ed. department are all noted in the third column. Because you're new here, you can expect a visit from one or all of them in the next few days."

Scott nodded. "I imagine I'll be getting to know that crew pretty well."

Millie almost smiled. "Oh, yes. Teaching a couple of courses required for graduation puts a special emphasis on your work with these kids." She rolled her eyes. "And a handful of their parents have us under a microscope to make darned sure their kids get everything that federal special ed. law requires."

Scott shrugged. "We covered a lot of special ed. law in my program up in Madison. One of my prof's liked to say that one good way to judge a school system is by the way it treats its neediest students."

Millie shook her head. "And a lot of the moms and dads out there are demanding a Cadillac for their kids, even if they might only deserve a Ford. Honestly, the resources we are required to devote to them!" She returned to her desk and opened a three-ring binder before sharpening a pencil.

He scanned the list. He recognized a couple names on the "EBD," emotionally or behaviorally disabled, roster. He flipped the page to those with learning disabilities, the "LD" students. About two thirds of the way down the alphabetized list, a name jumped out at him. "Christopher Propst."

Huh,' he thought. Chris, LD. Well, I suppose ya' never can tell with a lot of these kids. But he did hint that he struggled in the academic world.' He emptied the rest of the mailbox and squared its contents on the office counter. "Is Dr. Watson available?"

She didn't look up from her paperwork. "I wouldn't have called you if she wasn't."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you'd called."

"I left a message in your voicemail an hour ago. It said two things. First, the I.T. staffer will be in your classroom to hook up the new computer. You may want to schedule your lunch around his visit, since it'll be easier for everyone if you're not tripping over each other. Second, Dr. Watson would like to see you some time today. Honestly, Mr. Turner, you'll need to make a habit of checking your voicemail on a regular basis."

Feeling gently scolded, Scott nodded in earnest. "I'll make a note of it, and will be sure to make a habit of it. I thought she was taking vacation this week."

"When Dr. Watson says vacation,' it usually means she's just not scheduled to be in. That doesn't mean she won't be in to check up on this or that. It's simply that officially' she's not in."

"So she's `unofficially' wanting to see me about something?"

"I said I wouldn't have..."

"Gotcha, Millie. You wouldn't have left me the message that I haven't heard yet if she wasn't in her office, unofficially, and officially wanting to see me. I'm still a work in progress, Millie, but I'll get with the program." His wink went unnoticed as he walked past her desk. Kim's door was open so he strolled down the hall and stuck his head through. "You wanted to see me Dr. Watson?"

"Yes, Scott. I'm wondering, have you found a place down here to live here yet?"

"Well, originally I was thinking about commuting from Madison, but planned to look around down in this neck of the woods to see what's out there."

She motioned to a chair in front of her desk. "Not a bad thought. I know you love Madison, but a thirty or forty minute commute on country roads can be a real strain in January and February, not to mention November through April some years. Let me give you something to think about. George Hasborough taught Latin in this district for more than thirty years and he retired about eight or nine years ago."

"Latin? Public schools still teach that?"

She sniffed a short laugh. "George was my Latin teacher, and we were one of the last school districts in the state to still offer it until he retired. Since then it really has been a dead language' around here. Anyway, he and his wife had a fairly modest three bedroom country home about three miles west of town on fifty acres of land. He leases all but about two or three of those acres to the guy down the road who has basically annexed it to his own farm and works it for a good fee to George and a good profit to himself, I'm told. George kept the rest of the lot for himself and his family, remodeled the house and the yard and built a nice little place. Not long after he retired, he and Margaret turned into Florida snow birds,' to escape our winters, and then they moved down to DeLand year round."

"I've been to DeLand. Know a couple really cool guys down there." Scott's mind flashed back to the week he and Greg had met Alex Johnson and Austin Cambell. He wondered how the married couple was doing.

Kim brought him back to Wisconsin. "Nice area. I've been there myself. Anyway, George put the house up for sale in a crummy market and finally decided to keep it as a rental property. First dibs always go to young teachers just starting out. Good rent, absentee landlord, plenty of space and privacy, beautiful lot behind the house with farm field on one side and a small wooded area on the other. And I'm sure George wouldn't bat an eye if you wanted to make some changes to the place, from painting to landscaping."

"Three bedrooms? But I don't need a three bedroom place."

"Think about it. Make one of the bedrooms your own, make one a guest room for when friends or family visit and turn the third into a home office or a den. There's a two-car garage, a deck attached to the back of the house, a kennel out back, a small plot for a vegetable garden and a fairly new utility shed that's attached to a small greenhouse if you wanted to really test your green thumb."

He looked at his hands facetiously. "I'm not even sure I have one." My only experience in gardening is pulling weeds as a kid in my Gran's `victory garden.'

Kim grinned. "Victory garden. There's an expression I haven't heard in a few decades."

"Yeah. Her dad and a couple of my great-uncles served in World War II, and she said everybody had a victory garden when she was growing up. So, she schooled me in the fine art of weed pulling. Said it built character. Of course, she said just about everything I didn't want to do would build character. Either that or it would put hair on my chest." Kim laughed. Scott shrugged. "She could be a bit of a nut sometimes."

She smiled again. "Well, the place has been vacant since the end of the last school year. One of our music teachers decided to go back to grad school. So George wants to get it rented again and would love to make it possible for another starting teacher to call it home, if only temporarily. All you'd have to do is take care of the rent, the lawn, the snow removal and all the utilities."

Scott thought for a second or two. "When can I see it?"

Dr. Watson held up a set of keys. "I'm kind of George's agent in this thing. You can go out there anytime you want. Should I draw you a map? It's real easy to find."

Scott took the keys. "That'd be great! I'll need to clear out of my room for a little while today and can drive out there before or after I grab some lunch. Me and Craig haven't had much chance to discuss it, but I'm thinking we'll both need to be out of the apartment by the end of the month, but I'm hoping the landlord will cut us some slack and give us until Labor Day to make the move.

A few hours later, following Kim's directions, Scott turned left onto county highway D about two miles west of town. Heading north for another mile, he saw the landmark cemetery she'd mentioned and then the small red sign at the edge of the road. "1768 Hwy. D." He pulled over onto the shoulder and looked again to double-check before pulling into the driveway. It was a modest place set back from the highway on a large lot, just as she'd said. One large oak and three healthy maples provided plenty of cover in the front yard. `And plenty of big-ass leaves in the fall,' he considered.

It was a plain looking, rectangular, two story house; white, with black shutters framing each of the windows. He turned right onto the long gravel driveway and saw that what appeared to be the main entrance was facing the drive instead of the highway out front. A two-car garage sat about twenty yards away from the house. As he put the car in park and scanned the length of the driveway, and then the distance between the garage and the door to the house, he thought of winter. And snow. "Shit," he muttered. "This would be a bitch on a nasty winter morning. I'd need to contract with a landscaper or someone who does snow removal to plow me out every time it snows."

He got out of the car and scolded himself. Okay, Turner, enough bitching about the leaves and the snow. You grew up in Wisconsin, dummy. What do you expect?' He fished the keys that Kim had given him from his hip pocket and opened the door. The kitchen greeted him and he smiled. It was wide open, save a sturdy block island in the center. The four-burner stove and oven were gas-burning, which he also liked. Evelyn had always counted on natural gas for her cooking. The kitchen gave way to a modest dining area across a breakfast bar, and that led to a hallway running the length of the rest of the house. On the left side of the dining area were some vertical blinds that looked like they covered a sliding patio door. I'll check that out in a minute.'

To the right, toward the road, he found a wide living room with hardwood flooring. In the center of the left wall there was a brick fireplace about four feet wide. Nice.' He scanned the area and made some mental notes. Would need to buy a nice big area rug to go under the coffee table that's in storage back home, but it'd look good. A lot of the furnishings that Evelyn had left him, along with her house, were still being stored back home. `Jeez. I'm gonna have to get mom down here to help if I decide to rent this place.'

He ambled down the hallway and found a full bathroom, the master bedroom with a nice walk-in closet and an adjacent half-bath, and then the laundry room. "Damn," he whispered. "It doesn't look this nice from outside." Upstairs there were two more bedrooms, one of which he'd decided would become his office at home, and a good-sized storage space. "Storage upstairs," he muttered. "Yuck."

He went back and opened the blinds off the dining area. He slid the door to the right and walked out. "Sweeeeet!" There was a broad deck that extended half the length of the house. The back yard was enormous by his standards. What looked like a fire pit about four or five feet in diameter was dug into the lawn roughly thirty yards away and a utility shed sat on the edge of the lawn near the wooded area. Just as Kim had said, a small greenhouse stood next to the shed. A garden plot had been tilled near the back of the lot, but had obviously fallen fallow over the last year or so. Best of all, as far as Scott was concerned, a nicely sized kennel with a dog house inside the fence was attached to the back of the garage, complete with a pet door going into the garage. "Brett the Dog would love me for that. Aw, hell. He loves me anyway. Still, that'd be very nice."

Kim had given him George's number down in Florida. "I gotta call this dude tonight." He locked the house and strode toward the car with a smile.

"You're cookin?" Scott was toeing off his sandals and looking at Craig's behind as his roommate leaned down and peered into the open oven. "Craig, old man, you never cook. I mean never!"

Craig Bostwick and Scott had been paired purely by chance when they'd been assigned to share a room in the dorm that first year in Madison. Craig had introduced Scott to Marty and later Brett, the labrador's original owner. Craig, Scott and Brett had shared the apartment the following year, but it had been just Craig, Scott and the pets for the past two years. Craig had written for an independent paper in Madison for a couple years. Then, after graduation, a friend of Scott's from back in the days working under the dome had helped him land a job writing for "The Wisconsin State Journal."

Craig nodded and shrugged as he stood. "Lasagna. You know it's about the only thing I know how to make. Got a hankerin' for something out of the oven, so I got some stuff at the store, a bottle of red and a big bag of those breadsticks fresh from that little bakery down at the co-op on Mifflin Street. Those hippies might be a few decades behind us in a lot of ways, but they sure as hell know their bread." He looked over his shoulder. "You're looking pretty casual for a working professional."

Scott was wearing a pair of cargo shorts and a t-shirt emblazoned with a beautiful outline of the Sydney Opera House. Kip and Glenn, two old friends from his early college days had made it a Christmas gift the last time they visited Madison. "Hey, it's not that bad. The shorts are newer and I think the shirt's kind of classy. It's a friggin opera house on the front. I'm not actually on the clock yet at school, so I'm gonna wear what I want `til next week. I'll move into long khakis and polo shirts then, but the neckties can wait until the kids show up."

Still wearing an oven mitt, Craig managed to uncork a big jug of Chianti and poured two glasses. He handed one to Scott. "You're making the salad." He tried to step over the dog, who promptly stood up on all fours, nearly knocking him on his ass. "And remind me again why you said you'd take this mutt off Brett's hands?"

Scott took the glass, raised it an inch or two and nodded in a silent toast. "Because he's a noble beast with a face cuter than yours, and because I wanted the satisfaction of renaming him." Scott scratched the dog's head. "And you expect me to make the good Caesar after a long day in the trenches?"

"Dude! I love your Caesar! The dog, I could do without."

"We have bottled dressing in there you know, and you'd never wake up in the morning if he wasn't licking your face after I let him out to go pee."

"But I got the Romaine lettuce...that's what it's called, right? And the bottled stuff is a sad imitation. But it's usually a hand he licks, or a foot if it's sticking out, the goofy fucker, and I got a wedge of the fresh parmesan and all the good shit. I even got anchovies and made sure there was an egg in the fridge." He took a drink of wine, looked at Brett the Dog and shook his head. "He's way too much effort for something so simple as a name. The fucker hasn't stopped watching me in here since I grabbed the pan to brown the meat. You only need one, right?"

" One egg or one dog? Yeah, one dog is enough. One dog named `Nigger' is one too many. One coddled egg is all I need for the salad, yeah. You sure you want the fresh stuff?"

"Pleeeeeeease? I made the fucking lasagna!"

Scott grabbed a glass bowl off of an upper shelf. "You didn't fuck up the wisk again, did you?"

"Nope. No need to. There weren't any mice in the vicinity today for me to beat to death."

"You could have used a broom or a shoe or something the last time. Jesus! Remember the time I nailed one from ten feet away with a dictionary and a good arm?"

"That was a lucky shot. If the little fella hadn't been trapped in the corner..." He reached in a drawer and tossed the wisk at Scott. "And it was my dictionary, you fucker. Had to throw the dust cover away cuz of the guts and shit."

"Speaking of mouse shit, you didn't buy the anchovy paste, did you? Tell me you didn't buy that shit in a tube."

"Please. Scott Turner's Caesar only uses the filets. You told me that once in no uncertain terms. Give your buddy some credit! And watch it when you step out back. Brett the Dog barely cleared the back stoop before he took his late afternoon dump."

"Okay, but you get to chop `em." He found the can and slid it down the countertop along with the small cutting board.

"That wire thingy was handy and it got the job done, didn't it?"

Scott nodded. "Well as long as he didn't shit on the stairs." Scott opened the fridge and stuck his head in. "Let me ask you something."

"Shoot"

"When did we start being able to have multiple conversations about totally unrelated topics all at the same time, and yet they still made sense to both of us?"

"This doesn't mean we're engaged or anything like that, does it?"

"In your dreams. I'm a catch. You, on the other hand, are not."

"Oh, that's right. I keep forgetting that. Thanks for reminding me. In that case..." Craig looked at the ceiling and thought about it. "Uhm, it was about a month or so after we got thrown together in the dorm. As I recall, you were pissed off at that Kip dude about something, but you were asking my thoughts on the female of the species." He laughed. "But you're wrong. The whole thing didn't make any sense at all at the time. No more sense than lasagna, killing mice with a dictionary or a wisk, Caesar Salad or why this dog has a stupid name and why he keeps invading my space. Of course, at the time you were pissed at a guy and talking about chicks. That was when you..."

Scott stood up and grinned shyly. "When I was still trying to `play for your team?'"

Craig snorted. "Yeah, something like that. You were sniffing around Kelly something furious at the time."

"I was confused. And Kelly was somethin' special. Still is, as a matter of fact. I have to give her a call and fill her in on all the changes going on."

Scott started tearing the lettuce and looked over his shoulder. "So, I take it there's news on the housing front, or with Steph or something? You must be wanting to celebrate something. You never cook." He lifted his head out of the fridge. "And like I said one dog named `Nigger' was one too many. Brett thought it was funny when he moved the big guy in with us; just one more lame effort on his part to play in the world of political incorrectness." He reached down and cupped his hand under the dog's chin. "But it wasn't funny...waaaaas iiiit?"

Craig shook his head. "You and that friggin' doggie speak. Do you really think they understand us better when we talk like we're mentally handicapped?"

Craig finally removed his oven mitt and smiled. "But, yeah. Steph got the job with Marriott here in town. I started scouting apartments or houses to rent, and she's coming up this weekend and we'll make the rounds." Stephanie was an old flame of Craig's who had played volleyball and gone to school at Ohio State. They'd remained in contact throughout the college years and Scott had always hoped something would come of it. The tall blond could be something of a firecracker and Scott thought they made a great pair.

"So we are gonna celebrate then." He sipped and raised his glass. "'Cuz I think I found the right place for me to move into down in New Allsted."

Over a robust meal that included much reminiscing and raucous laughter, the two old friends planned their departure from the apartment they'd shared for the past three years. Craig would borrow a pickup from one of the guys at the newspaper. Scott would talk to his dad and see about borrowing one of the farm trucks from the Kirschbaum boys, both of whom were regular clients of Big Scott's, when he was still practicing law.

Craig put down his fork and smiled. "Whoda thunkit? Tossed together by the powers that be of the UW's housing authority, perfectly random fuck-up on their part, and here we are.

Scott pretended to wipe away a tear as he looked down at the dog. "And now we're breaking up the family, honey." Scott hunched over on the table. "And we survived Brett the Roommate, and the ho', Angie, my ups and downs in the WSA and as a Senate staffer, your ups and downs with the newspaper and with Steph, my ups and downs with my personal life." He tried to look pensive, but still playful. "But you never batted an eye on all that."

"You being gay? What's to bat my pretty little eyelids about?" Craig scanned his plate and then put it on the floor for Brett the Dog to pre-wash, as they'd come to call it. "Not for a second, or for a fraction of a second. You remember our reaction the night you came out to me and Brett, don't you?"

Scott coughed on a sip of wine. "As I recall, your guys' general reaction was, `Well, duh!'"

"I admit it, Scott. I didn't have much experience with gay guys until I got to Madison. I'd grown up thinking that all gay men were these swishy, lispy poofs who either got all up in your face with their "We're here, we're queer" shouts, or that they lurked in the dark corners, waiting to pounce on us unsuspecting straight guys." He sipped and shook his head in a sense of defensive alarm. "Not that there's anything wrong with the swishy poofy guys, either."

Scott laughed and clapped his hands. "Perfect, Craig! Only you could segregate the gay from the really, obviously, flamboyantly gay and still love us all."

They finished the meal as they coordinated the moving plans. Scott called his dad to see if he could enlist one of the Kirschbaum's farm trucks. "I thought I'd come up on Friday night and we could pack up the stuff from Gran's old place that I want to keep. And bring Sean and Seth along, if they're free. A couple of big strong farm boys wouldn't hurt."

Big Scott thought there was a dirty joke in there somewhere, but he let it go. He was okay with his son's sexuality, but not entirely comfortable joking around about it.

Craig would talk to the landlord, Wilbur, about giving them until the first weekend in September to do their moving, as it would give them the whole Labor Day weekend to get unsettled and then resettled in their new separate addresses.

After a day of writing lesson plans and counting textbooks, he emailed Craig at the newspaper. "I'm locked into the new house. Pretty uneventful day. Won't be home til later tonight cuz I' going over to Jim Daley's for dinner. See you when I get back."

Jim met him at the door with a handshake and led him to the kitchen. "I have one Old Fashioned every evening before dinner. Tonight I might have two since Helen is still playing bridge. Will you join me?"

Scott nodded. "I'd love one. No staff and students to deal with yet, but still, it's been a long day.

Jim nodded and smiled. "Don't get too used to all that peace and quiet. Soon, you'll be bowled over. Brandy or whiskey?" He'd dumped a tablespoon of sugar into two glasses and sprinkled in some bitters. He tossed a lemon wedge into each and mauled them both. The man was serious about his mixology.

"Bourbon if you have it."

Daley winked at him. "Jim or Jack?"

"Jim, please."

Daley poured a stout shot of Jim Beam into each tumbler. "Sweet or sour?"

"Sour, please."

Jim nodded. "Fruit or something else?"

"Uhm...do you have olives?"

"Olives, mushrooms and onions."

"Then, olives, please."

Finally, Daley guffawed. "Christ, boy! You drink like an old man! Bourbon Old Fashioned, sour, with olives." He shook his head and handed Scott his drink. "Pretty soon you'll be in line for the Friday night fish frys at four thirty in the afternoon down at the Elk's Club, and playing Bingo with the Catholics for fun!"

Scott laughed shyly and blushed a bit. "Blame my old man, and two or three of my college roommates. One of them was really into making these now and then, so I've tried all the combinations. I just like this one the best."

Jim speared two plump olives each with two cocktail pics and dropped them into the cocktails. He handed one to Scott and motioned toward the living room. "Fair enough. I'll blame them all, but only if you'll stop saying please' at the end of every answer to my questions. You give me the impression that if I asked what day it was you'd say Wednesday, pleeeease.'"

Scott sat on the end of the couch nearest the recliner as Jim took his seat. "So, you're in pretty early, even for a new guy. How are you finding things?"

Scott sipped and then set down his drink. "A little overwhelming right now. Meeting new folks here and there, wading through tons of paperwork and reading through old lesson plan books." He paused and considered his next line. "It, uhm, seems Mr. Cox was rather fond of documentary and other types of video as a prime mode of instruction."

Jim nearly spit out his drink. After he swallowed, he laughed heartily. "Damn, man! You are a politician. That's putting it quite tactfully. Michael Cox was, in one of the few candid opinions I'll share with you now, a coach first who had to teach in order to get a coaching job. As a varsity coach, he probably learned those organizational skills that will make him a competent assistant principal. But as a teacher, to match your tact, he was rather fond of the VCR and the DVD player as a means of delivering the content of his courses."

Scott sighed. "Kind of a stereotype isn't it? The social studies teacher/coach image? Sitting every Friday watching some dumb-ass movie while the teacher sat at his desk looking at his playbook for the night's game. I had that teacher, more than once, when I was in high school."

"So just don't become that teacher, Scott. You've seen how it shouldn't be done. Just do it right."

"Yeah, last time I saw how it' shouldn't be done I walked away from it.' That's what got me out of politics and into education.

Jim forced back a grin, for the most part. "I know your resume and some of your history, Scott, but please don't think that you've turned your back entirely on the world of politics."

Scott scratched his brow. "How so?"

Jim crossed one leg over the other. "Well, how many constituents does State Senator Scott Turner, Sr. have?"

"There's about a hundred seventy five thousand in every senate district."

"And he probably hears from ninety percent of them none of the time, five percent of them once or twice a session, another three or four percent of them a few times every year, and twenty or so people call him every damned week." Jim sipped again. "And most of those regular callers or writers are nuts with one-item agendas that Senator Turner probably can't do a damned thing about."

Scott coughed through his laughter. "Yeah. That sounds about right. I've handled some of the office phone calls and mail from time to time. They'll call their state senator and want him to do something about Islamic Jihad!"

Jim laughed and looked over his glasses. "Well, New Allsted High School Teacher Scott Turner, Jr. has a constituency of only about a hundred and thirty kids and their parents at any one time, and you're teaching classes that the youngsters have to pass in order to get their diplomas. I dare say your contact list is going to be more active than even `Big Scott's' or Maureen McCarthy's are. It might be a lot smaller, but a lot more active. You're gonna have more than half of your folks calling you and emailing you and showing up on your doorstep wanting to know what you're going to do to help their little darlins get into the right college, or even to pass your damned class." He scratched his head. "Think you left politics? Think again."

"I do have a roster of 130 kids in front of me. Would you go over it and let me know who to look out for?"

Jim wiped his lips and shook his head. "Absolutely not." Scott's face showed his surprise. "You're going to have to find that out on your own, Scott. I'll bet I know every one of those kids pretty damned well, and I probably taught more than a few of their parents. It wouldn't be fair to the kids, and it would do you a great disservice if I sent you into the classroom with some preconceived notion about any one of them. Those are understandings and relationships you're going to have to build on your own."

Just then they heard a car door close in the driveway. Jim stood up. "There's the missus." He reached over and took Scott's glass from him. "I say we have one more, and I'll make one for Helen, and then you can help me set the table."

Helen Daley was a handsome woman. Scott imagined she'd been quite the looker in her day and judged that she'd worn the years very well. She was a good inch taller than Jim with gray hair of varying shades that had been nicely coiffed. She greeted Scott warmly, insisted that he call her by her first name and then pecked her husband on the cheek as he handed her the Old Fashioned. Helen checked the stuffed pork chops that were in the oven and stirred the scalloped potatoes before insisting that the men should go back to the living room while she set the table, and then she joined them for another fifteen minutes before declaring that dinner was ready.

They had a wonderful meal and very comfortable, sometimes animated conversation. Jim and Helen shared a few stories about their days as childhood sweethearts who had gone their separate ways, only to rediscover each other again when they were in their twenties. Helen had been a nurse until retiring two years earlier and she scolded her husband again for not considering retirement.

Jim chuckled and looked at Scott. "And if I did hang it up, she'd be giving me hell all the time for being under foot all day, pestering me to get a hobby or something. I stick with it so that she can enjoy the first few years of her own retirement."

Helen giggled. "He's probably right. I'll likely rue the day when a new school year starts and he doesn't take a step out of the house." She winked at him. "I'd have to have to make other arrangements with my boyfriend if Jim was going to be home all day." Scott chuckled and she went on. "I mean, he actually believes I was really playing bridge all afternoon." She patted Jim's hand as he rolled his eyes and scoffed.

Helen turned back to Scott. "So, have you met any of the other faculty members yet?"

Scott swallowed and nodded. "I've met some of the other support staff members, and a couple of the kids."

Jim chuckled. "Let me guess, both Millie and Bart have already tried to scare the hell out of you."

Scott mugged and nodded. "And mostly succeeded."

Jim waved a hand. "Bart Emerson is really a teddy bear in a grizzly costume. He just doesn't want anybody to know it. Millie is..." he sighed. "Well, she's just Millie."

Helen added. "Jim likes to call her the `necessary evil.'"

Scott smiled. "She's impressed me as a...a challenge, I guess. I'm gonna win her over."

Jim winked at his wife. "And he thought he's turned his back on politics. You win over that battle-axe and you belong in the U.N."

Scott shrugged. "And I met Brian Early in the English department the other day. He seems like quite the guy."

Helen smirked as Jim rolled his eyes and cleared his throat. "Careful there, Scott. Mr. Early is—uhm, being polite here—rather unconventional. Wears his damned jeans to school, wears his damned pony tail, wears his damned earring and most of the kids call him `Bri.'" He shook his head with an expression that neared disgust in Scott's eyes. "The man is stuck in the sixties, and he's not really old enough to really recall the sixties."

Scott shrugged again. "Maybe. But we kind of hit it off during our short conversation. I got the sense that I would have liked him as my teacher. I got the feeling that he must really relate well to a lot of kids." Then he caught himself. "Not that I don't respect your standards, Jim. You'd have really put me to the test, I'm sure." Jim gave him another moment to recover and Scott took the opportunity. "And not to worry, I don't intend to wear jeans, grow a pony tail or get any piercings."

Jim nodded with a subtle smile. Helen continued to grin as she cleared the plates. "Are you a coffee drinker, Scott? It's decaf around here this time of the evening."

He thanked her and nodded. "Black, please."

They had their coffee in the living room. Jim and Helen shared a few more stories of their three kids—two sons and a daughter—and their five grandchildren. Scott talked about his parents and his dear old Gran, and a few episodes of his college days in Madison. He included the story about his best friend streaking across the football field.

Jim laughed. "Jesus! I remember that! I was watching the game on TV and they went to commercial right after Dayne broke the NCAA rushing record. When they came back, the play-by-play guy started with `Folks, you're not going to believe this and we can't show it to you, but...'"

Scott beamed with some satisfaction. "That was my buddy, Marty Anderson. He paid a fairly modest fine that was put up by other students, and he did a hundred hours of community service after pleading `no contest' to disorderly conduct." He laughed and shook his head. "He's quite the guy. Nicest, friendliest guy you could ever meet and we're still good friends. In fact, I'm his son's godfather and he named the handsome lad after me. Maybe you'll get to meet him some day."

Helen snorted. "Fully clothed, I hope."

Scott shrugged. "With Marty, one never knows."

"Have you found place to live, Scott? Helen asked.

He drained his cup and swallowed. His eyes widened and he nodded quickly. "Yeah! It's going to be great! I'm going to rent George Hasborough's house out on county highway D."

Helen clapped her hands together. "Wonderful! I know the place well. The Hasborough's are good friends, and Jim helped George with more than a little of the remodeling out there. It's a lovely place. But it's pretty big for just one occupant. Is there someone special in your life who'll be sharing it with you?"

Jim shot a glance. "Easy, mother. Don't go snooping." He looked back at Scott. "Better watch it. She thinks every single person over the age of twenty must be miserable and is hell bent to try and help end their misery. A regular `Mother Teresa' of the suffering single set, she thinks."

Helen pursed her lips and shot a few loving darts with her eyes. "Now, Jim, I wasn't being nosey. And I'm not some snoopy old match-maker. I just wondered..."

"No problem, Helen. No harm done. But, no. It'll be me, a three-year old chocolate lab and the fattest cat you ever have or ever will lay eyes on sharing the space. I'm going to furnish one of the bedrooms for guests, and convert the third to an office at home." He put down his empty cup and started to stand. "Well, folks, this has been wonderful." He extended a hand to Mrs. Daley. "Helen, the meal was out of this world, and I really appreciate the welcome and your hospitality." They both joined him in standing. "Once I get settled in down here I promise I'll return the favor." He looked at his watch. "But now, I have to head back to Madison and start thinking about packing. I'm coming back down tomorrow, but decided to stay in Madison and pack on Friday. Plus, I have friend coming to town to help pack and celebrate the new job situation."

Jim took his hand. "We're going to hold you to that visit to the new place, you know. I haven't been out to the Hasborough place since they moved to Florida full time." Then he paused. "Hey, Scott, I'm a long-time member of the local morning Kiwanis Club. We meet every Monday from 6:30 until 7:30, just enough time for me to get to school on time. There's breakfast, an informative program most weeks and we sponsor a handful of local service projects throughout the year. It's a good group of men and women from throughout the community, and it might do you good to meet some folks outside our little enclave of the school system."

Scott mulled it over. "Maybe."

"It can be a little isolated if your life in New Allsted revolves only around the school and its people. I'd like to invite you to be my guest at a meeting sometime soon. No expectation of joining, just a visit to meet some of the guys and gals."

"I think I might like that. But I'm going to have to wait `til the kids and I are both settled into the new school year."

Jim smiled again and nodded. "Good call. I'll check back with you."

They said their goodnights and Scott ambled to his car feeling good, if a bit sleepy. He stopped and got a tall regular coffee on his way out of town and then hit the highway back to Madison.

Thursday morning, Scott was at his desk trying to navigate the school district's computer network and initialize and set up his email box on his new computer. He was contemplating possible sign-ins and passwords for his network login. Most of the few code words he'd used to sign in on-line were rather perverse, and he thought better of it for school. It occurred to him that "BendUOver" and "CockyBoy" just didn't seem quite right for a faculty member of NewAllsted High School. And, his dad had cautioned him about the content of his school email, noting rather pointedly that any and everything that went in and out of his computer could be subject to search under the state's Public Records Law. There was a rap on the doorframe. "Mr. Turner?"

Scott looked up and stood. "I'm Scott Turner, yes."

She was a petite brunette with shoulder length hair. Everything about her was petite. Small nose, small eyes and, Scott noticed, tiny hands with a surprisingly firm grip. "I'm Judy Ronzani, one of our LD teachers. You have a few of my kids in your required classes. Do you have a few minutes? I'll be here all day if it would be easier for me to come back later."

"You're in early. I thought the returning staff wasn't due `til next week. But this is fine. Come on in."

Judy chuckled. "If I waited `til next week, I'd be swimming up stream for a month. Most of the kids on my caseload I already know, but I have to review every IEP for the incoming freshmen, and I have a lot this year." Every student with a disability had their own "Individualized Education Plan" that detailed the nature of the disability and to what steps the district had to go in order to provide what the feds deemed the most "appropriate education."

"I wondered if we could just go over the kids we're going to share and the accommodations we'll have to work on together to get them through the year."

He motioned to the chair next to his desk. "I looked over the list and it looks like you work with about a dozen of my kids."

She nodded. "I work with them to varying degrees. Some need more than others. You'll have copies of the official accommodation sheets on each of them next week, but I heard you were in the building and since you're new, and since I've worked with most of these kids for a few years already, I just thought this would make things easier."

Scott smiled and picked up his mug. "Capital idea! Are you a coffee drinker, Ms. Ronzani?"

She shook her head. "Judy, please, but no. Never touch the stuff."

Scott turned and refilled his anyway. "I confess to an addiction here. Been drinking the stuff since I was in high school. I swear it's what got me through college."

She looked at poster of an aerial view of Camp Randall on the wall behind him. "I see you're a Badger."

He sipped and nodded. "Through and through, from dawn to dusk and some nights even when I'm sleeping. I'm afraid I can be a little obnoxious. I just keep telling myself that loyalty is an admirable trait. And you?"

"ASU. My husband and I met in Tempe and we moved here five years ago when he landed a teaching job at Beloit College. I was lucky to land this job right away when we made the move."

"Sun Devil, huh?"

"Yeah, but not a big sports fan, so feel free to blather on all you want about the Red and White."

"Count on it."

Her eyes fixed on a pewter picture frame over Scott's shoulder, atop the short book case he'd placed behind his desk. She smiled. "Oh, I love that sentiment!"

Scott glanced back and matched her smile. He grabbed the frame which held a two panel matted presentation. "Yeah, me too. This is a graduation card I got from one of my professors at UW. An important mentor for me, actually, Dr. Ellison Cushing. He assisted me in a scholarship in the political science department, and continued to take an interest in me after I made the move into Education. I spent a couple semesters in his office as his assistant on some research before I started my student teaching. It was all unofficial, of course, since I wasn't a grad student and wasn't even a poli-sci major anymore. Still, he saw to it that I earned independent study credit for the effort." He rubbed the edge of the frame. "I loved this thought too, so I found a copy of the card and cut it in half so I could lay the cover and the inside message side by side and had it framed. I wanted to read it every day. The original from Dr. Cushing, with a really nice message from him, is in a scrapbook in a box somewhere waiting to be moved."

The card was beautifully printed in a fine calligraphy. On the left half of the frame, the card's cover, it read,

"One Hundred Years from Now,

It won't matter what kind of car I drove,

What kind of house I lived in,

How much money I had in the bank,

Or what my clothes looked like."

The right half, the card's inset said,

"But the world may be a little better,

Because I was important

In the life of a child." *

He put down the frame and looked down at the stack of folders she'd set on the corner of his desk. "So, tell me about the kids, and we can start trying to make a difference in their lives."

Judy smiled and nodded. One by one, she reviewed the files for the kids on Scott's class lists: the severity of their learning disabilities, their work ethic, their temperament and, most importantly, what kind of accommodations he'd need to make. "I think we'll be able to schedule a teacher's aide to sit in on one of your history classes each day and take notes. That way, when the kids are in our resource room, she'll know what was covered every day and what's going to be expected the next. We might be able to cover the government class as well, but since they're all seniors, there usually isn't as great a need."

Scott nodded and grinned. "Coming into the home stretch, the diploma is within reach, I'm guessing the motivation is just a little bit higher with that group. And if it helps, since I'm kind of recreating all the outlines and notes, I can email a copy as they're finished."

Judy's eyes popped. "Oh, that would be perfect! I wish everybody would do that."

Scott shrugged. "Well, I'll be writing them as we go along anyway. It's nothing to zap an email to Special Ed. when I save them to disk. Keep in mind, though, that events that could unfold out there..." he jabbed a thumb toward to wall, "...in the real world can interrupt the best laid plans. One good unexpected economic meltdown, a war here or there, the occasional presidential impeachment...they can all toss the lesson plan schedule out the window for a time."

Judy smiled and nodded. "Understood completely, but anything you can do to help us help the kids is great."

"Okay, who's next."

"Christopher Propst. A senior in your government class first semester."

Scott's eyes widened. "Yeah. I know `Topher. I met him the other day."

Judy giggled. "Let me guess. Zach Jacoby dragged Chris in after football practice to start schmoozing with the new guy as soon as they could."

Scott's head bobbed and his eyes rolled a bit. "There's a little bit of Eddie Haskell in that Zach, isn't there?"

She laughed. "I only know Zach through Chris. I mean, they're practically joined at the hip. But yeah, I think there's just a bit of the old butt-kissing Eddie Haskell in him. I mean, I think he's a great kid, and obviously very talented, but I do believe he's not above trying to work all the angles." Then she got serious. "But he's good for Chris." She paused. "Chris is very special to me. When I started here I was doing middle school, mostly eighth graders, and Chris was one of the first kids I got to know. Then I moved to the high school the same year he did, and he's been driving me nuts ever since." She smiled a wry smile as she said it.

"Driving you nuts?"

Judy cleared her throat. "Well first, about his needs. Chris is far from our most disabled student in the LD category. He's reading and writing at about a sixth grade level, as of our testing last spring, and those are the only areas where he's really deficient. He has an incredible memory, though, and that helps him perform well on objective tests: matching sections with vocabulary and definitions right out of the book, and a lot of multiple choice where the reading needs are not too demanding."

Scott raised his head. "But essay questions and writing assignments..."

Judy nodded. "They tear him apart. He has a work ethic that won't quit, but he just doesn't have the tools to perform in that arena at the high school level. He wants to, but just can't. Not yet, anyway."

"So why does he drive you nuts? Aren't you used to that sort of thing with the kids on your caseload?"

"Chris is, uhm, reluctant at best to accept the assistance. Actually, that's putting it pretty mildly. As a result, he and I have this sort of love/hate relationship. He's hyper-sensitive to the designation as a special ed. student. He hates the label. He resents the accommodations. He hates being treated differently. If it were up to him, he wouldn't be labeled `LD', he'd never set foot in our resource room to be assisted by me or one of our aides, and no teacher would ever make a modification for him that other students might detect."

Scott snorted. "Mr. `Independent I Can Do It On My Own.'" Judy nodded. Scott smiled. "Well, I can kind of relate to that. There's a streak of that running through me too, for better or for worse."

Judy leaned forward. "Then you'll really understand him. He's going to need extended timelines on written assignments, and we can talk about the best testing for him once I get a look at your plans and your exams. But..."

"But whatever I do to help, don't let him think the other kids know I'm doing it."

She pursed her lips and solemnly nodded. "Exactly."

Scott surveyed her face. "He really is special to you, Judy, isn't he?"

She leaned back and relaxed. "You're going to discover this year that your first group of kids kind of have Velcro on them. They stick with you. That was Chris with me, and we've been working together, sometimes doing battle, for what's going to be our fifth year. Ya' just have to love the sweet little lunk." Then she chuckled but furrowed her brows to try and look tough. "And if I have to drag his sorry ass kicking and screaming across that stage to get his diploma next spring, then by God, I'm gonna do it."

Scott laughed and clapped his hands once. "Now, we just met, and I don't know you all that well, but I do believe you could do it, even if he carries twice your weight."

"He has so much talent, Scott, and so much heart! You should hear him sing and see his artwork. In those areas, he's genuinely gifted. I have a painting of his hanging in my office wall. You should stop in and take a look. I bought it a couple of years ago at the silent auction the art department does with their student show every spring, and it drives him nuts that I have it on display." She was waving her hands now. "And, in the choir or on the stage, you'd think it was somebody else in Chris's body! He's got a tenor voice that can make you cry! I'm not even Irish, but his solo of `Danny Boy' at last spring's concert brought me to tears. This shy kid who shuns attention everywhere else just shines."

Scott was engrossed by the woman's enthusiasm and her admiration for the young man. "I saw the notice on the walls that the music department is having tryouts in a couple weeks for `Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat' this fall. Think he'll be in it?"

Judy nodded with vigor and then smiled. "I think they decided on `Joseph' with him in mind. Plus, they have a very strong female voice and personality for the Narrator's part, and a really solid male chorus to play all Joseph's brothers. If Chris wants it, I'm sure he can play the lead."

Scott raised his brows. "That would be very cool! It's a fun musical, and playing that part would be a great cap to put on the end of a kid's high school career."

Judy's brows furrowed a bit. "But, he'd need to juggle the football, the musical...and the academics...all at the same time. As a senior, there's not a lot of wiggle room for Chris. That's the only thing that worries me. If the wheels fall off one of his required courses..."

"The diploma goes out the window."

She nodded. "For now anyway. He could come back and make up the credit in summer school or by correspondence, but he wouldn't be able to walk in cap and gown with his class on graduation day. That would just kill him."

Scott pursed his lips. "We'll get him through." Then he mulled it over and chuckled. "The center of the football team starring as `Joseph,' complete with his amazing technicolor dreamcoat. Who'd a thought it?" Scott checked the clock. "Hate to do this, Judy, but I'm supposed to meet with the boss in about ten minutes. We're going to go over my course introductions and the first few weeks of my lesson plans. But I'm very glad you came by, and I do believe that we're going to get Chris and all these others through a successful year. Put my extension on your speed dial if you need to."

She put her small hand in his. "It's already programmed in. Great meeting you, Scott. Glad to have you aboard on the staff. I really look forward to working with you."

"And I with you, Judy."

She left and Scott sat and put a pen in his mouth. Chris Propst on stage as Joseph. That's got to be something to see. Wonder if the guy can dance.' Then he thought about it. Ah, hell, Joseph mostly just walks and does a little running. It's the singing that's the deal with that part. It's everybody else who has to dance. Then, at the end, Joseph just has to smile and turn round and round when they get the coat on him. No problem. I'll bet he'd be great.'

Scott woke up early on Friday morning and greeted a light humid fog of a late August morning with a smile. The fattest cat in the world was snuggled in his customary place against Scott's shins, preventing a smooth exit from beneath the sheets. Instead, he bent both legs up at the knees and slid his feet toward the edge of the mattress above the feline's head, without disturbing the cat any more than usual. One green eye opened and the cat protested mildly with a grumbly "mrowwf," muffled by the comforter.

Scott's feet hit the floor, causing Brett's head to come up and look back over his shoulder. He padded into the kitchen and started the coffee maker. Brett the Dog wagged his tail and looked plaintively toward the door. "I know, I know." He moved toward the exit and talked to the dog's rear end as it rambled down the steps. "You'll have a straight shot out to the back yard in another week. No steps to hurdle in the new place."

After feeding both pets, Scott walked down the front steps to grab the morning paper off the porch. "I should run today," he said to himself, "or at least stroll around the campus. Maybe I'll stop in and say howdy to Dr. Cushing."

He decided against a run, opting instead for the ten-block walk down to campus. A banner over the Library Mall heralded "New Student Week." Each year, Thursday through Saturday prior to Labor Day had been scheduled for new student orientation.

He thought about it. "I wish I already had the new students showing up. Another week of dealing only with adults could get a bit drab." As he surveyed much of the scantily clad eye candy tossing Frisbees and kicking hacky sacks in front of the library he grinned. `Who are you trying to kid? If you could stay in college for the rest of your life, you would.'

Scott turned left, away from the mall, and neared the small square building that housed the offices of the Wisconsin Student Association. `Jamieson Hall,' read the plaque on a red brick pillar holding up the porch's roof. Scott smiled. Walter "Radar" Jamieson had been the long-serving clerk of the WSA, and the guy who had quietly guided Scott through a couple years of ups and downs as the body's president. The last official act Scott performed was to sign the resolution calling for renaming of the building after his trusted friend. He was happy and proud that the administration had acquiesced.

A group of four guys wearing the same high school colors gathered in a huddle near the curb. One, the short one, was laughing. "You guys are fuckin' out of your minds!"

The overweight kid slapped the little guy's shoulder. "No way, man! You'd have a lock on it! And we'll help!"

Shorty protested again. "Devin! Dudes like me don't just come out of nowhere and get elected to student government on a Big Ten campus! It just doesn't happen that way, bud!"

Scott smirked and strolled toward them, caught in the conversation. The plump one was adamant. "But we'll all help!" The other two were nodding as Devin went on. "You're the smartest guy we know, you always liked politics, I mean you actually get this shit, and you kicked ass in every school election back home! Come on, Grant! Jeez, why not?"

"Got some ideas?" Scott surprised even himself, as he hadn't meant to open his mouth. The four guys stopped and stared. But now that he'd started something, he continued. "I mean, really...uh, Grant is it? You have some ideas for the student government here? You think there's something the students here need from their campus leaders?"

Grant leaned back on his heels and surveyed the stranger in their midst. "Uhm, yeah...I mean sort of, I guess. But we were just sorta jokin.'"

Scott's eyes bugged. "Then do it! Listen to Devin and take a shot at it. But it ain't easy, Grant. Sometimes, it downright sucks. But when it works, there's nothing like it on this campus." All four of the guys eyed Scott suspiciously. "Really. It's pretty easy to just get on the friggin' ballot. Just go on in there and get the nomination papers from the guy or gal behind the desk. Get a few dozen signatures on the nomination papers and you're on the ballot. After that it's up to you and your buddies here."

The muscle-bound hunk in the huddle gave Scott a mild sneer. "Yeah? How would you know?"

Scott thought it over for a second and just shrugged. "'Cuz I did it."

`Muscles' looked at his shoes.

He looked back at Grant. "You got some good buds here who sound like they have your back. I did this once, Grant. It's not magic or super-hero shit, but who knows? Maybe the gang here on campus needs you." He patted Grant's shoulder and went on his way.

He walked back across the mall and stood at the bottom of Bascom Hill. The white columns of Bascom Hall shone at the top of the long, rising expanse of green grass. The statue of the seated Abraham Lincoln looked so small from down at the bottom of the hill. Local legend joked that the great man stood up every time a virgin walked past him. Scott shuddered as he recalled a few hundred trips "taking on the hill," sometimes in a twenty-below wind chill. As he started up the sidewalk he realized that he only remembered the brutal trudges up the hill. The return trips back down hadn't made quite the same impression.

`When I was your age...blah, blah...walked five miles to school...blah, blah...up hill both ways.' "God forgive me. I'm becoming my father...and my mother...and my grandmother."

As he neared the top a woman who could only have been a proud mother of the sheepish young freshman waved at him with one hand and held out a camera in the other. "Young man? Would you please take our picture?" Scott happily obliged and thought of the same snapshot he'd posed with his own parents a few years earlier.

Handing back the camera to the grateful woman, he also recalled the night a very amorous Kelly Abbott had nearly molested him on the marble bench behind Mr. Lincoln's raised chair. That was one horny young lady,' he smiled. And one fantastic blowjob.' He still felt a dab of guilt and regret for leading her on that way, grappling with his own sexuality for another year and allowing her to think that he might be the one for her. Still, he was grateful that they'd remained good friends, if somewhat distant, even after he came out to her. Kelly had graduated a year earlier and was working on a graduate degree in public policy while she worked a part-time research job at the state's justice department. With Attorney General Maureen McCarthy for an aunt, it seemed nepotism meant naught if the job held by the relative was low-level enough. `Wonder how the wedding plans are coming,' he considered. Kelly had become engaged to the chief of staff of one of the party's other rising stars and they planned a winter wedding in Milwaukee. "A Ken doll with a barely detectable pulse," Scott had described him to Marty once.

Marty had reached over and playfully pinched Scott's nipple through his t-shirt. "So a step up from you then, huh?"

He held the door for a trio of giggling co-eds who were exiting Bascom Hall and mounted the stairs to the second floor. He'll be surprised to see me,' Scott thought. I hope he has a few minutes to spare. Wonder if old Gloria is still standing guard outside his inner sanctum.'

He was surprised to see the door closed and the office dark. It appeared that not even Gloria was there. "What the hell?" he muttered. He tried the doorknob but found it locked. "He's always in two weeks before the students show up." He sighed and thought to himself. Maybe he's off globe trotting, advising some fledgling new government in the fine art of telling the people no' and having the masses like it. I'll send him an email and let him know I landed, butter-side-up, in New Allsted.' He muttered to himself again as he descended the stairs. "I'll call him and maybe we can have breakfast before one of the home football games this fall."

Scott checked his watch. Nearly eleven o'clock. He figured there was enough time for an early lunch at Ella's Deli before he'd head back to the apartment and begin filling boxes. Greg was due in later that afternoon, and there was no telling when he might see the light of day again. He picked up a copy of each of the two campus daily papers on his way into the small restaurant and dropped them on an empty table before heading to the counter to place his order. After asking for a Reuben with extra dressing, his all-time favorite, he sipped a Coke at the table waiting for his number to be shouted. A TV mounted on the back wall promised to bring the local mid-day news after the end of whatever soap opera was being shown.

"Forty seven! Sloppy Reuben! You're up!"

Scott smiled and grabbed a bag of chips and some extra napkins. The newspapers were well soiled with greasy fingerprints by the time he rolled up his napkins and dropped them in the basket. He leaned back for a minute to chuckle at the sports writer's predictions of a trip to the Rose Bowl for this year's Badgers. "Maybe as spectators, dopey. They have to take on Michigan away in the Big House this year, and the only way they'll get past Ohio State is if the team bus crashes on the way up here next month." He sighed and folded the paper. "But I guess I admire your optimism."

The familiar theme music of the mid-day news faded and the anchorwoman's voice jolted him as he stood up to leave. "The UW community, and indeed, the pillars of Wisconsin state government have today suffered a terrible loss. Popular political science professor Ellison Cushing apparently passed away in his sleep overnight in his Madison home on the near west side. A neighbor who says he walked every morning with Cushing called police when he failed to answer his door this morning. Police are saying he appears to have died of natural causes and that no foul play is expected."

Scott dropped his basket on the table and froze. "Foul play? What the fuck does that mean? Who the hell would want to hurt the man?" A middle-aged couple stopped their conversation and looked at him suspiciously.

He took a couple steps toward the TV set and stared at the morose reporter. "Cushing was an icon of academic excellence at the UW for more than forty years, and was advisor to state and national leaders of both parties, as well as to leaders of foreign countries from time to time."

Scott swallowed hard and propped one hand on the back of a nearby chair. Maureen's face filled the screen, with her name and title imposed across the bottom. Her voice quivered. "We all called him `Elly' behind his back when we were kids taking his classes, and then later he told us to call him that to his face." She forced a smile. "He was such an influential force in my own public life and countless others both in and out of service to the people of this state. He has been one of Wisconsin's truest treasures and he will be sorely missed...but never forgotten."

The screen skipped back to the news anchor. "We will have more on the many contributions of Professor Ellison Cushing, complete with comments from university officials, later today on `Live at Five' and again tonight at six and ten. In other news, a bank holdup on Madison's east side..."

Scott turned and bumped into another customer whose sad face was glued to the television. He excused himself and headed straight for the door. The waste from his quick lunch lay strewn on the table.

He'd forgotten his cell phone when he'd left that morning and it was blinking to let him know that a call had been missed and a message was waiting.

"Hey, Scotty. It's me. Nicky got a later start than planned for his trip home, and so I'm running a little late too."

"That's just as well that he's going to be late," Scott thought as he flopped on his bed. "All of a sudden I'm not really in the mood to be all that hospitable today, anyway." He rolled on his back locked his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. The fattest cat bounded over the corner of the mattress and waddled his way up to nestle in Scott's armpit. Scott reached over, rubbed the cat's neck and sighed. "One hundred years from now..."

After an hour of fitful dozing, Scott opened his eyes and yawned. He checked his watch and glanced down at the fattest cat. "Well, we lost a great one today, big guy." He stretched and yawned again. "But, it was a good life, well lived." He thought again of Evelyn's passing and all the great years she'd had. "Billy Joel was wrong. Often, the good grow old." He stood and rubbed his face. "Well, Greg's gonna be here in about an hour, so I suppose we ought to try and be sociable, huh?"

Scott stripped down and grabbed his robe. He wrapped himself, stepped over the dog who was lying in the hallway and walked into the bathroom. As he ran the shower and waited for it to warm, he made note that it had never been difficult to be sociable with Greg. Even before Greg had moved and they saw each other nearly every day for most of a year, it had felt so easy, so natural to be around him. When Greg was nearby Scott felt needed.

Scott was excited that he was coming for a visit. They hadn't seen each other in over a month. After Scott had received the job offer at New Allsted, he called Greg right after calling his parents with the news. Since then, they'd either spoken over the phone or emailed almost daily, so getting caught up with one another wouldn't be a problem. As he rinsed his hair, Scott felt his cock becoming heftier and by the time he was stepping out of the shower he was at half mast. He looked down and grinned. "Patience, big guy. Patience is a virtue. I'm as anxious as you are. It's been awhile."

It was going to be a warm, humid evening, so Scott found a clean pair of baggy shorts and a bright blue button down shirt that Greg had always told him looked good. Craig was out with Stephanie checking out housing options for the coming year, so the guys would be on their own for dinner. Scott brought Brett the Dog downstairs and went back up to make a drink. He was thinking Chinese sounded good when there was a thump on the front door downstairs.

"Door's open and my hands are full. You know the way!"

He heard the door open and close again, followed by the slow deliberate footsteps on the front stairs. Scott peeked his head over the railing. "Hey, babe. Glad you made it. I just made a drink and set it down in the living room. What'll you have?"

Greg looked up and leered. "I'll have you." He continued his slow, steady pace up the steps, his eyes locked on Scott's during the remainder of his ascent. Scott stepped to the top of the landing and grinned. Reaching the top step, Greg reached around Scott's waist and pulled him close.

"I was thinking we'd either go out or order in for Chi..."

Greg pulled him close and abruptly cut him off with his lips. After a passionate `hello' kiss, he pulled his face away and leered. "In. Let's order in." He resumed his all-out invasion of Scott's mouth.

Scott, now pinned against the wall at the top of the stairs, finally had his bearings and responded with enthusiasm, quickly becoming passionate abandon. He reached around and wrapped one arm across Greg's back, sliding his left hand up Greg's muscular back, over the back of his neck and finally wove his fingers through the dark brown hair on the back of Greg's head.

Greg pulled back again and gazed at Scott with smoldering dark eyes. "Mr. Turner, I presume? Got anything you want to teach me?"

Scott faked a modest smile. "Well, uh, you know I'm new at this whole teaching thing, but I'll do my best." Greg ground their crotches together as he kissed Scott again, and Scott sensed the bulging but restrained contour of the familiar mound beneath Greg's shorts. "You wore it!" He giggled and kissed Greg's neck.

Greg giggled along with him, but Scott couldn't see his favorite set of dimples. Greg's head fell back a little to give Scott better access. He gasped and moaned at the playful lips and tongue dancing below his jaw and whispered, "I know how much you like it." He squirmed when Scott sucked his left lobe in between his lips. "And you know I like to wear it for you."

Scott mumbled into his ear. "You know it drives me nuts. You look so fucking hot in that thing. Best gift I ever gave anyone." Two years earlier, for Greg's birthday, Scott had given him a jockstrap in the Badgers' cardinal red color. He rubbed both hands across Greg's firm ass cheeks and tingled when he felt the elastic straps framing Greg's beautiful muscular ass.

As they continued to wage a battle of lips and tongues with Scott leaned back against the wall, Greg's fingers went to work on the buttons of Scott's shirt. Greg bent his head down and sucked on Scott's right nipple while his hand massaged and kneaded Scott's aching cock and sack through the fabric of his shorts. The dog barked outside. Scott put a hand to the back of Greg's head. "Not here! Slow down hot stuff. I don't know when Craig and Stephanie will be coming back, and the dog's outside. I'll go let him in and meet you in the bedroom."

"I'll be the one wearing only the red jock."

"The hot brunette on his knees?"

"Yeah. That'll be me. On my knees on the floor, or on my knees on the bed?"

"Your call. I think I'll be able to pick you out."

Scott kissed him quickly and headed for the back door.

The bedroom door was open a crack and the room was dimly lit when he got back. Greg was indeed stripped down to nothing but his jock, and was waiting a few feet directly in front of the door. He reached out his hands and wiggled his fingers. "Gimme!"

Scott stepped within reach and Greg's fingers went to work on the button and the zipper. "Hungry? I thought we'd order Chinese."

Greg looked up and licked his lips. In the dim light his brown eyes and dark pink lips all looked a bit darker than usual. "Chinese later, maybe." He tore Scott's shorts and boxers down to his ankles. "Cock now." He lunged his face forward and swallowed Scott's hard manhood with one smooth motion. As Scott gripped Greg's broad shoulders and threw his head back in a gasp, Greg grabbed his ass and held him there, gagging on his lover's meat until he pulled off with a loud slurp.

Scott looked down and kneaded Greg's strong shoulders. They were wide when the two had met, but the definition in Greg's upper body now, both front and back was something to behold, even from above. "You are a hungry boy." He took hold of his tool with his right hand and lightly swatted Greg's cheeks and lips with it. He pulled it upward, giving Greg access to his scrotum and balls. "I think you missed a spot."

Greg grinned and licked his lips again. "A pretty big one. Sorry." He slowly crooked his neck and moved his face forward, parting his lips to suck first one, then both of Scott's nuts into his mouth. Scott sighed and carefully pulled a foot out of the leg of his shorts in order to spread his legs and give ample access.

Greg pulled back and grabbed Scott's manhood, playfully flicking the head with the tip of his tongue. Then he began a slow rhythm with his head, forward and back, while Scott accommodated the effort with a slow thrusting of his hips. Scott put a hand on each side of Greg's face and encouraged the feast below him with soft purrs and moans.

Twenty minutes later, Scott was on his back on the bed, his legs bent over the edge of the mattress. He looked down and gasped ragged breaths as Greg's muscled ass, still framed in the red elastic bands, slid up and down Scott's steely, glistening pole. Slowly at first, Greg whimpered each time the head of Scott's cock hit his prostate. Greg contracted his muscles each time his chute slid up the length of Scott's tingling member, eliciting a delighted cry from Scott's throat. "God damn, Greg!! You've been practicing, you fucker!" Greg just snickered above him and picked up the pace. Soon, Scott had slid ahead far enough to place his feet flat on the floor between Greg's, and he had enough leverage to thrust his hips upward to meet Greg's rhythm. Greg's head bobbed left and right, up and down. In the dresser mirror Scott could see his lover's eyes closed in a blissful grin while he fucked himself on Scott's full length.

Scott felt it coming. He sat up behind Greg and reached around him. Two or three inches of Greg's hard member, slippery with oozing precum, stood proudly against his stomach above the elastic band. Scott hooked a thumb in the tight material and pulled the pouch down below Greg's balls. With his back pressed against Scott's chest now, Greg never ceased his bouncing up and down on Scott's cock, nor did he ever halt his whimpers with each thrust. Scott grabbed Greg's hot pole and cried. "Greg...shit, Greg...I'm gonna...I'm..."

Greg sat down firmly on Scott's groin. "I KNOW! ME TOOOO!" His head and chest jerked as he fired a volley of semen, hitting the surface of the dresser a few feet from Scott's bed. The spasm continued and Scott cried out as he exploded deep inside Greg's hole, straining the condom with one gusher, then another and another. As Greg continued to gently quake, his seed dripped down the tops of Scott's fingers. Together, they fell back onto the bed, Scott's chest providing a sweaty landing ground for Greg's back. Both men sighed and gasped and giggled contentedly while Scott's gooey hand roamed aimlessly across Greg's heaving chest.

After a half hour of cuddling, Scott got up and phoned the Chinese restaurant a few blocks away and started the shower. They thoroughly cleaned each other and had just dried off and slid into some shorts and t-shirts when the food arrived. They sat, legs entwined, on either end of the living room couch. "Casablanca" was on TNT. Greg had never seen it. Between bites of eggroll, fried rice and the house special lo mein, Scott got Greg caught up on the plot. After they ate, Greg snuggled back between Scott's legs while they watched the second half of the movie with Scott's right arm draped lazily across Greg's chest. As Claude Raines and Humphrey Bogart strolled slowly into the fog that shrouded the airport's runway, Greg glanced up. "Cool ending."

"So, tell me about your meeting with the coach yesterday. You said there was some major league talent guy there?"

Greg sat up and cleared his throat. "Well this dude, John Maleck, was there along with me, Coach Bidwell and another guy on the team, Billy Spivak. Malek works as an agent for college talent in the June draft each year. He has arrangements with two western franchises, L.A. and Colorado. He'll scout the talent and do some of their other legwork to help them make the draft easier. Then he'll represent the guys they want to bring into one of their farm teams. The thing is, they're all on the west coast, most likely in California, but maybe up in Washington.

"You mean like in Bull Durham?"

"Well, the Durham Bulls are a real team, but they're triple A. If I got a call, I'd probably start at A. Maybe double A if I have a hell of a season."

"And from there it's onto the `bigs'?"

"Slow down, cowboy. That's a hard one to pull off in one year, and there's a hell of a lot of talent out there."

"But right now, it looks like your future is out west?"

Greg shrugged and sighed. "Bidwell tells me that my name will be in the hopper for the spring pro draft. He also said that to have a guy like Maleck in my corner could improve my chances. Of course, a great season next spring would make it all even better."

Scott buried his chin in Greg's neck. "You'll have another ass-kicking season, Greg. You won't need this Maleck guy, he'll need you." Greg rubbed Scott's arm that was draped across his chest and sighed. Scott licked him behind the ear. "But right now I've got you. How about I let the dog out to pee and we continue our snuggling in the other room?"

Greg yawned. "Sounds like a good idea."

At nine the next morning, Greg was propped up, leaning against the headboard with the fattest cat in the world lying across his thighs. He raised his brows when Scott came back in with two glasses of ice water. "You're right. You let this bastard lay here long enough and he can cut off the circulation." He wiggled his toes beneath the sheets. "My feet are starting to go numb."

Scott slid back beneath the sheets and snuggled as close as he could before handing Greg a tall glass. "You sure that's not because your feet have been in the air so much the past couple hours?"

Greg sniffed as he swallowed a long gulp of water. "Nah, that only makes my blood rush faster. It's good for the pulse and circulation."

"So, I have to finally ask this, Greg, flat-out. Did you come down here this weekend to say goodbye? Was this some final wild fling before we head our separate ways?"

Greg's lips scrunched crooked and his brows knitted. "I came down here mostly because I missed you and wanted to celebrate your new start in a new career. You thought that?"

"Well, let's see...in the past two years, the only time I could ever come to Mankato was when Nick was going to be gone. The only times you ever came here since you moved, this weekend included, but with the exception of my graduation, was when Nick was going to be gone. Three times in the past couple weeks, including twice last night, you referred to your bedroom as `our room...'

"I did?"

"You did."

"And the guy who was almost always just Nick' a couple years ago has been nothing but Nicky' for about a year. Come on, Greg. This is the guy you got to know at first through a high school hand job at baseball camp, and then messed around with until you both went your separate ways. Now, I'm not always the sharpest blade in the drawer, but, how shall I put this..." He smiled to take any sting out of the volume of his voice. "YOU THINK I'M A FUCKING MORON?!"

Greg's mouth fell open and Scott leaned back and chuckled. "Do I love you? Yeah. Will I always love you? Unless you really do something to piss me off. Am I IN LOVE with you the way I once was? I'd have to say I don't think I am. Do I still treasure the time we have been able to spend together...when we could make it work? Hell, yeah! Do I hope you and Nicky can make a go of it? Absolutely. Do I wish you'd have just said something over the phone rather than come all this way to tell me to my face?" He leaned over and kissed him gently. "Not on your ever loving life!"

Greg smiled shyly. "Thanks for that, Scott. I guess we ought to face facts, huh? We already have gone our separate ways. Your heart and brain are firmly planted in New Allsted. Mine are anchored for the time being in Mankato, Minnesota."

"With an exit sign ahead...all points west."

"Odds are the next stop for me is California. Could be Washington, but maybe Nevada or Arizona too. But..."

"But you're here to tell me officially that this is it."

Greg shrugged. Scott had hit the fast-forward button on his plans for this discussion, but here it was. He sighed. "Didn't you see the day this would come? You and me? I mean, c'mon Scott. You knew I'd probably be leaving Madison even before I did. You know that if the baseball team here hadn't been cut..."

Scott looked at the ceiling. "We've been over and over that, Greg. You ought to know by now that I wanted..."

"No! No! Scotty, you know I don't blame you for that. I know you tried to avoid it, but that prick of a board president shut you down and the votes just weren't going to be there anyway! I'm not blaming you at all. Never have!" Scott smirked at him. "Okay, okay...I did at first, but only `cuz I was really hurt and wasn't thinking straight."

Scott just shrugged and stared at the door across the room.

"But let's face it. The last two years haven't been exactly a piece of cake in the relationship department."

"I came up to Mankato whenever I could and, apparently, whenever it was safe for me to drive up there. This is exactly your third trip to visit down here in Madison."

"Working every weekend kind of put a travel restriction in my path, even after I bought the truck."

There were several seconds silence before Greg turned on his side and gently grabbed Scott's chin. "Look, Scotty, this isn't about who's to blame. Or at least it doesn't have to be. It just is what it is. We both tried to make the distance thing work, and it just didn't, really. And pretty soon the distance is only gonna multiply many times over. Like I said, it doesn't have to be anybody's fault. It just is what it is." Greg started to giggle.

"What?"

"It's kinda funny."

"What is?"

Greg reached over and pulled Scott's face to his. He kissed Scott and was glad to find Scott quickly matching his effort. He pulled away and then pecked Scott's lips again quickly and smiled. "For about three years, you've always been the one to make sure that my head was screwed on straight. You helped me in school here. You helped me get a grip on who I am. You pushed to get into counseling and figure out my fucked up family." He ran the tip of his index finger from Scott's bottom lip down to the tip of his chin. He prodded the chin upward an inch and smiled. "And now I'm the one talking common sense to you." He kissed Scott's nose. "I love it."

Scott smiled and slid his butt down the mattress about a foot, bringing his head and shoulders down with them. He quickly pulled Greg down onto the mattress and the pillows. As they both descended, he swooped his face forward and nibbled the nape of Greg's neck. "Bastard! I've created a monster." He ran his tongue up Greg's jaw line and nuzzled his lips in Greg's left ear.

Greg's head turned and he bent his neck, giggling at the light tickling. "A monster, you say?"

Scott's chest was planted firmly on top of Greg's now, pinning him to the bed. He pulled back his face, shook his head gently and looked into Greg's eyes. "I have to admit it. I liked it when it felt like you needed me sometimes. My ego, among other things, got a rise when I thought I was giving you a boost in the game of life. And here you are, telling me like it is." He lowered his face and kissed Greg with passion. "Like you said, it is what it is babe."

"Proud of me, are you?"

Scott's face disappeared again and Greg gasped when the warmth of Scott's mouth encased his left nipple. Scott mumbled, "Thomething like that, I gueth."

Greg put his hand on the back of Scott's head. "Shut up and get back to work, Mr. Turner."

Showered and freshly dressed, they were getting ready to go out and get some breakfast. Scott was still in the bathroom brushing his teeth when Craig came out of his room. He whispered, "Hey Greg! Great to see you again!" The two shared a handshake and manly sort of half hug in the hallway.

Greg stepped back and matched Craig's hushed tone. "Scott says you're writing for `The State Journal.' That's outstanding!"

Craig nodded toward the kitchen and headed for the coffee cups. He set two on the counter and smiled. "Thanks. I like it there. It's only been a couple of months, doing the local beat. Scott's buddy Grant Cornell greased the skids for me and got me on board." He nodded back toward the bedroom. "My girlfriend got a job here with Marriott, and we're looking for a new place to live." Scott joined the guys and Craig gestured toward him. "Since young Mr. Turner here is going off to change the world through teaching and leave me by myself, Stephanie has agreed to come to Madison and take care of me."

Scott put his hand on the small of Greg's back. "Trust me, bud. Somebody has to." He looked over Greg's shoulder. "We're gonna run up to the Inn on the Park for breakfast, then probably hang here for the day. I want to start filling boxes. Three years worth of shit around here to move."

Craig sipped from his mug. "Looks like we'll be out most of the day. Steph has a list of about eight places she wants to look at, and she won't be moving until ten at the earliest."

Scott snickered. "D'you wear her out last night, stud?"

Craig picked up the other mug. "You should talk. You don't want to go there, Scotty. It's a good thing I'm used to the sounds you two can make." Scott and Greg blushed in tandem. Craig slid past them. "Let's plan on the four of us meeting at The Avenue around six or seven. We'll grab a good meal and then do...whatever."

The couple exchanged glances and both nodded. Scott said, "call my cell when you have a better handle on what time, and we'll be there."

Craig raised a mug and nodded, then backed his way back into his bedroom.

Scott held the door open and muttered through barely open lips. "Get ready."

Greg walked past him into the hotel's lobby. "Huh?"

They were three steps inside the Inn on the Park when Scott rolled his eyes at the sound of the now familiar squeal. "With God as my witness...my heart be still...it's my dear old friend, Scott!" Bradley Manning had one hand over his grinning mouth and was completely ignoring a couple waiting to pay their breakfast tab. Bradley looked at the gentleman and waved at a waitress. "Cheryl will take care of you, sir." He scurried from behind the desk and met them a few feet from the restaurant's entrance with open arms. Scott obliged the aging host with a hug.

"Bradley, I don't think you've met my friend, Greg Page."

Bradley eyed the young jock appreciatively. "Oh, no I most certainly have not! I'd remember meeting this one! Where have you been hiding him, Mr. Turner?" He grabbed Greg in a hug, a bit too close and too long for Greg's comfort zone. Bradley released him and tapped Scott's arm. "Or, where have you been hiding yourself for that matter. It's been ages!"

As Bradley led the two to their best table, Scott gave him an update since graduation. Bradley eagerly took it all in with gushing glee. "I see! Well, then you're forgiven for being such a stranger, then." He seated the two guys and handed them menus. "And I know all the kids of New Allston, or New Albright or New Angus or wherever are lucky to have you." Scott didn't correct him, but merely thanked him. "I'll have Sheila right over to take your orders."

Greg grinned. "He's a piece of work, isn't he?"

Scott sipped from a glass of water and shrugged. "Aw, he's a `dear old queen,' as I used to tease Maureen. That's how I met him. I met Maureen here for breakfast one morning back when I was a freshman. And any friend of Maureen's is a friend of Bradley's."

"So is any friend of yours apparently."

As they finished their omelets and Sheila cleared their plates, the host returned with a fresh pot of coffee and an envelope. He refreshed their coffee and handed the envelope to Scott. "I'll give you this now. It'll save me the trouble of having to track you down."

Scott eyed the square envelope curiously and slid out a single sheet of embossed heavy stock. "Retiring?! No! Not you Bradley. The place will never be the same without you."

Bradley waved him away. "Oh, Scott, as always you're too kind." He looked at Greg and winked. "And, as usual, he's absolutely right." He sighed and put his fingertips to his right cheek. "But yes, it's time. I don't think you ever met my Phillip, but he's not well you know."

Scott frowned. "No. Nothing too serious, I hope."

Bradley shook his head. "Oh, no. Nothing deadly or anything like that. He and I are both going to leave this world of old age when the time comes. But he's ten years my senior, he doesn't quite have my constitution, and he really does require more and more of my attention. We just both want to enjoy as much time together as we can until that day comes."

Scott smiled softly. "Then good for you, Bradley. You've earned it." He glanced back at the invitation. "Retirement party here on New Years Eve, huh? Sounds like a blast."

"You wouldn't expect me to leave here quietly, would you?"

Scott laughed. "Not on your life. Tell you what, if it looks like I can be in the neighborhood over the holidays, I'd love to come."

"That'd be lovely. I just know that Phillip would love to meet you. And bring Greg along."

Both guys smiled and nodded without saying anything.

They spent another ten minutes chatting about Maureen's rise in the ranks and how much Scott reminded Bradley of Senator Turner, now that he'd gotten to know the man a bit. True to form, Bradley saw to it that the bill had been taken care of, and then presented Scott with a square bakery box. "Oh, Bradley, picking up the tab...again...that's more than enough. You don't have to..."

"I know it's your favorite, and you said you were too full for any kind of dessert. You boys will be ready for some turtle cheesecake later in the day. It's my pleasure."

Scott knew the protest was wasted breath, so he just looked at Greg and smiled. "Wait'll you try this stuff! It's their signature dessert here." Scott handed the box to Greg and pulled Bradley Manning into a big hug. "You're the best, my friend. Phillip is one lucky guy."

Bradley kissed him on the cheek, then stood back and wiped small tear from the corner of his eye. Greg handed the cake back and happily accepted his second hug of the day with grace.

Craig and Stephanie met the guys at the bar of The Avenue a little before seven. After introducing Greg and Steph, they ordered a round of drinks and waited for their name to be called. "So, any luck finding a place?" Scott asked.

Craig and Stephanie exchanged glances. Craig spoke. "Uhm, two actually. Now we just need to decide which is the best: the small house on the East Side with the lawn to mow and the sidewalk and driveway to shovel, or the two bedroom apartment on the near west." He paused. "The one with underground parking, the health club included, right next to the golf course."

Scott looked at Steph. "I take it it's going to be the house on the east side?"

She popped an olive into her mouth and grinned as she chewed. "Yep."

Craig shook his head and rolled his eyes while the others laughed.

They ate and laughed the evening away. When the waitress asked about dessert, Scott interrupted his roommate. "Nope, but thanks. We're all good. Just the check." Craig looked pissed until Scott grinned across the table. "How `bout turtle cheesecake and a cup of strong coffee back at the apartment?"

Craig grinned and groaned. "You dog! You guys went up and saw Bradley this morning! You scored."

Scott shrugged. "I even objected and tried to pay for it, but the guy loves me."

Greg was wiping the barbecue sauce from his fingers, and grinned. "Me too."

Craig looked at Stephanie. "Steph, this cheesecake is the best. Let's get the hell out of here."

The four of them enjoyed dessert and a cup of coffee over a rousing game of Scrabble with another lame edition of "SNL" showing over Scott's shoulder. They followed that with a round of nightcaps and then a friendly round of "goodnights."

The lovemaking between Scott and Greg that night was slow, erotic, deliberate. They both slept soundly, Greg nestled back into Scott's firm embrace for the last time.

Author's Note: * That poem has always been important to me. It is excerpted from "Within My Power," by Forest Witcraft.

Huge shouts of thanks to all the readers and friends who have contacted me since the first chapter of this story appeared. As I said, it's great to be back. If you would like to comment on anything you've read here, please feel encouraged to write to me at: scotty.13411@hotmail.com. Happy Holidays! Support Nifty!!