Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned

Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned By Scott Turner

Chapter Five

This chapter is dedicated to my good friend, Stephen.

Disclaimer: This story is completely a work of fiction. It occasionally depicts consensual sexual activity between adult men. If this is not your cup of tea, is illegal where you are or if your parents don't want you to possess or read such material, then please find another story or website. What follows is copyrighted by the author, 2009, and may not be reposted, reproduced or published without the expressed written consent of the author.

It was a sick, muffled chirping sound that first stirred him. An ailing or injured bird?' His barely conscious brain tried to make sense of the annoying noise. Right outside the window?' "Ummmmmph." He coughed and then mumbled into his own bare armpit. "Just die already, will ya'?" Scott lifted his head off the pillows a couple of inches, leaving his forearms tightly locked beneath them both. His right hand was sound asleep anyway, and not of much use. He blinked twice, looked around and, now mostly conscious; he identified the offending noise as the call of his cell phone.

He grunted again, shimmied his torso toward the edge of the mattress and reached for the pair of jeans that lay in a heap on the floor. "Who the fuck is calling at six on a Saturday morning?" Hooking onto a belt loop with his index finger, Scott swung his feet to the floor. "This can't be good news," he muttered to the obviously disturbed fattest cat in the world. After fumbling with the pants that he'd hastily discarded the previous night, he fished the phone out of a hip pocket, coughed up a glob of phlegm, leaned to his left and spit it into the wastebasket. He unfolded the phone with his left hand while he tried to shake the pins and needles from his right. "Hello!"

"What the fuck are you trying to do to me, dumbass?" It was Craig, and he didn't wait for Scott to respond. "First, it's a goddamn good thing you answered. Second, where the fuck are you? Third, what the fuck are you trying to do to me?"

Scott scratched his head, then his left armpit. "Huh? I'm not trying...I mean, I'm at home." His right hand continued to tingle.

"You leave a fucking message last night about wanting to flop on my couch. So, we leave a blanket and a couple pillows out and go to bed, figuring you'll traipse in here in the middle of the night. I get up to take a leak a minute ago and...no Scott. No note from Scott. No fucking hint of Scott! I figured you were either in jail, in the hospital or in the fucking morgue!"

Scott's head was already in his hand, eyes clamped tightly shut. "Oh, shit, Craig. I'm sorry, bud. I didn't mean to..."

"What the hell happened? I figured that if you'd gotten lucky or something and made other plans that you'd at least call and let us know, if only to brag..."

Scott was wide awake now, his mind running a losing race. "And I would have...if that's what had happened." He wasn't quite lying to his friend, he told himself.

Craig had finally calmed considerably. "So, you didn't? You know...amuse yourself in some wild romp or something?"

Then Scott did wander toward fiction. "Naw, actually it turned into kind of a boring night, so I decided to come back here early. Figured better to wake up in my own bed today so I can get busy painting and finish that project in one weekend." He was hoping a change in the subject would move Craig away from wondering about Friday night. It worked.

"You're painting the spare rooms this weekend?"

"Yeah, before Marty left last week I dragged him shopping for shit to paint with and I'd hoped to start and finish both rooms this weekend. Then I'm gonna shop for a desk and stuff for the little office I'm setting up here."

The reprieve from the previous night's sins expired quickly. Craig was back at it. "So, nothing happened last night? To you? Scott Turner, Jr? Nothing happened? Come on, Scott, nothing never happens to you. You're telling me that for the first time in almost five years you went out and about in Madison and nothing happened?"

"Nothing worth reporting, or bragging about." At least he was back to telling mostly the truth. He heard Craig whisper away from the phone. "He's fine. Inconsiderate asshole, maybe, but he's fine."

In the background he heard Stephanie's relieved voice. "Well, that's good. But at least he could have called."

Scott nodded, eyes closed again in renewed embarrassment. "Tell her the message has been received, loud and clear."

Craig coughed. "She heard the message loud and clear from my end. Next time..."

"I got it! Next time I'll stay in Madison and report as promised, or at least I'll leave a message to let you know I'm safe and sound."

"That's better. Now I'm gonna go back to sleep...if I can."

"Hey, Craig, I'm really sorry, again. Give the same to Steph. Better yet, why not bring her back to bed and give her something else?"

Craig gave a quick snicker and dropped to a whisper. "We got that taken care of last night. We thought we had to hurry and get it out of the way before company might show up."

"Craig?"

"What?"

"Go back to sleep. And...thanks a ton for caring."

Craig yawned. "Don't let it go to your head...asshole."

"I won't. And I won't do it again." Once more, Scott felt like he was telling the truth, mostly. At least he was pretty sure that was his intent.

Before he'd even closed the phone, Scott flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling for most of a minute. He closed his eyes and draped an arm across them. "All growed up."

He felt a cold wet nose brush across the tops of both of his feet. Brett the dog whined. Scott sat back up and met the lab's wide head with both hands. He scratched Brett's jowls. The dog appeared to grin, completely oblivious to any signs of turmoil. "It would seem, my good and noble friend, that we have a debate raging between our upper head and our lower one." The dog shook his head loose and looked plaintively toward the bedroom door, beyond which lay the kitchen and beyond that, the sliding door to the back yard. Scott stood and signaled with a shot of his hand that he understood. Brett hopped up onto all fours. Scott raised his arms and leaned back in a long morning stretch before looking back down. "And we've left one very pissed off Filipino hottie and one anxious and caring former roommate in our wake." He slapped his thigh and stepped toward the door. "Come on, boy. I don't need to piss you off, too."

As Brett the Dog carefully inspected the turf within the jurisdiction of his rope, Scott put on the coffee and mused. `What the hell is wrong with me?' The drive home from Madison had been frantic, but mostly within the posted speed limits and other traffic laws. He remembered vividly the argument he'd had with himself during his hasty retreat to New Allsted, mostly in silence, but sometimes out loud. He'd pictured and even felt Willie's lithe body pinned against the wall of his condo's hallway. He remembered involuntarily shouting "No." It had felt involuntary, anyway. "That's not what you want, Scotty," he said to himself.

"Fuck that!" came the response, exclamation point and all. "You do too! It was right there in your grasp. That beautiful, wonderfully built little guy was yours for the taking. And, hot damn! He wanted it! It's why you drove to Madison in the first place, dumb shit. He was a fucking dream!"

The conflict went on in his head, unabated and unrestrained. `You're a slut, Turner. Just another horny piece of meat tramping around hookup joints looking to dish it out and take it all.'

He'd leaned back in the driver's seat and humphed. "But you're not. That isn't who you are...or at least not who you want to be. Not anymore anyway."

He answered the dog's call to come back into the kitchen and inspect his food dish. Standing aside to allow the lab entrance, he sighed. "I could have fooled me, Brett. I guess it ought to mean something past getting my rocks off?" He thought back to his freshman and sophomore years in Madison: Marty, Frank and Jesse and even that stud in the Twin Cities, Marty's old buddy Danny. And there'd even been a romp with his former TA in poli-sci, Randy Oakes. Damn,' he thought. Those were great times.' He giggled a short twitter and the dog cocked his head. "Were being the operative word I guess, Brett."

He scooped a cupful of Iams from a large tin container in the kitchen closet and shrugged. "But why am I asking you? What the hell do you know about self-indulgent, recreational whoopie? As far as I know you've never fucked for fun, if at all, in the three years we've known each other."

At least Scott had a bottle of lotion, a tireless right arm and hand, a good memory and an even better imagination. He looked back at the dog and chuckled at the end of a resigned sigh. "I suppose I'm one up on you there, too."

Scott had shaken off the bulk of his weekend blahs and was sitting at a table for four at Gustavson's at 6:15 Monday morning, drinking coffee and scanning the morning "State Journal." He smiled when he read a piece that Craig had written about a Madison dentist who traveled twice a year to Guatemala, providing free services to the local population. `From covering up-and-coming bands on the road, to interviewing tooth doctors who've been waaaay on the road. I'll bet he's tickled shitless to write this crap.'

He was still smirking at the paper when the bell over the front door rang again, a tinny chime he'd heard a dozen times since he'd opened the paper, and he didn't look up to notice Tara until she was seated across the table. He looked startled. She looked chipper, and beautiful. "Oh, g'morning. I didn't even see you come in." Tara smiled and set a three ring binder and her purse on the empty chair next to her.

Her grin turned down a tad and she shot a suspicious glance. "You've had that goofy grin on your face since I walked through the door. Something must be funny. Recollections of a wild weekend?"

Scott's smile wilted in an instant. He shrugged, folded the paper and plopped it in front of the napkin holder. "Nah. Just something I was reading here. This weekend, I just painted like a demon both days, but that's about it." He craned his neck and winced. "Still have a few kinks from some of the bending and stretching into unnatural poses to reach the tough spots. I should have left the closets alone. Ever try to paint the inside of a closet? It's cramped."

Tara pouted. "Aw...I told you during lunch the other day that you could call me for help. Like I said, I know how to swing a paintbrush pretty well and probably could have even helped you with your closet." Scott glanced at the ceiling. "And I sure as hell could have used a break from the action on the home front." She ordered Darjeeling tea when the waitress handed her a menu.

Scott swallowed a sip of coffee. "Ah...thanks. But the last couple weeks have been so hectic; it was nice having a long weekend of relative solitude. Just me...the animals...a twelve pack...some tunes blaring...The Who, Barenaked Ladies, Stevie Ray, Leon Redbone, Duke Ellington, Frank Zappa, even some Ella Fitzgerald."

"Wow. You're all over the board."

"It was all good, but thanks again for the offer." Scott looked around the dining room. "Wonder where Brian is. He said he'd be here by now."

Tara shrugged and checked her watch. "Well, we should probably order anyway. This place is pretty fast, especially with the morning breakfast crowd, but if we're going to eat we should probably get started."

Scott nodded and threw a friendly wave at the waitress.

After their order was on its way to the kitchen, Scott leaned forward on the table. "So...the action on the home front? Nothing serious, I hope?"

Tara propped the teabag against her spoon and squeezed it with the string. "Well, my grandparents...my mom's folks...they moved in with us a couple months ago and she...my Nana...she can be a handful at times."

Scott felt a subtle but all too familiar knot in his stomach. "A handful?"

Tara nodded and looked down. "She's not very well right now and getting worse. Confused a lot of the time...forgetting what day it is...this morning she was up and dressed for church when I got up a little after five." She sighed heavily. "Sometimes she's not even sure where she's living..."

"Is it...?"

Tara nodded again. "Alzheimer's. The doctors say she's past the real early stages, but not bad enough for a nursing home or anything. And, my granddad had his hip replaced this summer, and he just couldn't handle their house any more and tend to Nana...so..."

Scott leaned forward further with both arms flat on the table. He wanted to reach out and grab her hand. "Oh...Tara. I am so sorry to hear that. I can really feel your pain if it matters any. Been there, done that."

"You too?"

Scott's lips pressed into a tight, straight line and he nodded gently. "My grandma... Gran' I always called her. Her last several years were a gradual slide downward ...until..."

"It killed her?"

He sat back and scratched his neck. "The official medical cause was heart failure, but she wasn't at all well...uhm, in the head that is...especially that last year or so. It was hard losing her, but if she'd lived much longer it would've gotten a whole lot worse." A sad chuckle escaped his lips. "But she told me, in one of her more lucid moments, that she had it a lot better than others her age with degenerative diseases. She said `When I don't know if I'm coming or going or which way is up, it doesn't bother me one goddamn bit.' He laughed out loud. "She'd brag that she was meeting and making great new friends every day. Never mind that they were the same people all the time, and a lot of them were family."

Tara rolled her eyes and tried to smile. "I suppose there's that. Nana spends plenty of quality time clipping coupons for shopping trips she's never going to take, but she loves it. And she's been reading the same chapter of some trashy romance novel over and over since she moved in. Plus, she's always been a neat freak, so the house is spotless. She dusted and vacuumed the living room and dining room twice yesterday. I'm just worried about my folks and my granddad...and for her of course."

"Well, if you ever need a sympathetic ear, or a shoulder to cry on, Tara, I hope you won't hesitate. Like I said, I do know what it's like."

"That's nice to know, Scott. It really helps a lot. I mean it."

Scott pulled out a folder and handed her the outline of the standard U.S. History timeline. "This is the content of our current curriculum for the sophomores. It runs from Reconstruction starting in the late 1860s to as close to the present as we can cover in one year. Other than a review of some of the basics of our founding...`The Declaration'...Constitutional Convention and all that, the rest is pretty contemporary stuff. Mostly twentieth century, after the first quarter."

Tara frowned. "I didn't know you guys don't do the colonial period."

"That's covered in ninth grade. We do it again in the AP class, but that's `cuz it's recommended to jam two years of content into one for the true college prep student."

She screwed up her mouth. "Well, that nixes The Crucible' and any of the Leatherstocking Tales.' And I was hoping to bring in some of the Existentialists of the nineteenth century, too."

Scott smiled. "I love teaching Emerson and Thoreau, and we'll cover that stuff it in the upper level class later on." Then his eyes widened. "But, we could work it in when I start dealing with the women's rights movements of the early century through the twenties, or again in the civil rights movements later on."

Tara made a few notes on Scott's timeline. Then she looked up. "You know, it could be a waste of time to get too far ahead on this without Brian being here. As it is, he's sure that Emilia isn't going to buy anything that didn't originate with her, and most of that was etched into her yearly calendar a few decades ago. So, don't you think we really need him here?"

Scott pinched his lip. "You're probably right. Tell you what. You just keep that outline and the timeline. Take a look at it and think about your literature. Make a copy and give it to Brian and the three of us can meet again later this week. Maybe lunch some day."

She put the folder away and smiled. "Plus, that'll give us time to chat." She stirred her tea. "You know, I don't want to pry, Scott. But you said the weekend was spent by yourself. Anybody special in your life right now?"

Scott grinned shyly. "Single as sin right now." He took a drink of his water. "Which is just the way I like it. I have enough on my plate with the new place and the new job and all that comes with it."

Tara's smile shrunk noticeably for a moment, and then her eyes searched his. "So, no college or high school sweetheart hanging around?"

He chuckled at her persistence. "Nope. Just went through a peaceable separation from my latest real romance not too long ago. We finally grew up and admitted we were headed in separate directions, and that for us to pretend it wasn't so was a waste of both our time and emotions."

Before she could ask any more questions, he tossed it back. "And you? Surely there's a lucky beau in your life." He tried to will her response with a shouting mind. `Say yes, say yes, say yes...yesyesyesyesyes.'

"Nope."

`Wrong answer.' He had to work to avoid slumping in his seat.

Tara leaned in, eyes wide. "So, you're still friends with her?"

Scott looked around the restaurant. "Uhm...we're still friends...yeah...good friends." Asshole! AssholeAssholeAssholeAsshole.' As he scolded himself for the subterfuge, it finally dawned on him that neither he nor Greg had picked up the phone or even bothered with an e-mail in the past couple of weeks. Good friends? JackassJackassJackass!'

"That's nice. I wish my last breakup had gone so smoothly."

Determined to keep the subject on Tara, Scott painted on a plaintive, sympathetic gaze. "Awww...not pretty, huh?"

They both leaned back to give the waitress room to set down their plates. "Hayden and I went out pretty seriously most of my sophomore and all of my junior year at Whitewater. But, while I was in Germany..."

Scott salted his eggs. "Hayden's attention wandered?"

Tara picked up her fork and stabbed a chunk of cantaloupe. "To my best friend's...former best friend's...waiting embrace...and her bed. The fucker. And that evil bitch."

Scott raised his coffee cup. "Here's to bad things happening to them both." Tara smiled and clinked cups with him in good humor, but her sad expression tugged at Scott's heart. He realized again that he really did like Tara...even cared that she'd been hurt. And his insides still ached over the fresh knowledge of her Nana's situation. His smile came easily now. "And I've no doubt that Hayden wasn't anywhere near good enough for you. In fact, with messed up judgment like his, I'm sure he'd have become tiresome for you anyway."

She shrugged a short shrug. "Yeah...I suppose. He was a real shit about it, too. Their affair was five or six months old already by the time I got back from Europe. He could have at least been up front about it while I was over there. I mean, we talked or e-mailed each other at least every week. Usually several times. I could've maybe respected a little honesty from the jerk."

`Honesty.' Scott chomped into an English muffin. "Yeah." He chewed and swallowed and found a way to change the subject. "You know Hattie Prinsen, don't you?"

"Yeah. She teaches the senior speech class and the drama elective. And, she coaches the forensics team and is directing the musical this fall along with the choir director, Ollie...Ollie...oh, I forget his last name."

"Oliver Abernathy. Used to sing with a Milwaukee opera company, I guess. So, heard anything about their casting the play?"

Tara's face lit up and she tapped the table. "Oh! That's what I was going to tell you! I knew you'd be want to hear this. Chris Propst is getting cast as Joseph."

Scott slapped the table and gushed a fast laugh. "He got it!"

Tara wiped her lips. "Yeah. I was up at school for a while yesterday and Hattie and Ollie were in her room working on fitting the rest of the kids in on the stage. Everybody who tried out is getting put somewhere, but they had the major named parts already set. They both said that Chris was outstanding in auditions and they're really excited to see him pull this off."

Scott laughed. "The kid is a mystery to me. He can be such an outgoing, gung-ho jock one minute, and the shiest `Mr. Modesty' you'll ever know the next. He's an animal on the football field. Off the field, he's usually all full of his braggadocio bullshit. And then I can't get him to say a damn thing in class. But Judy Ronzani says he's a marvel in the art room, the choir room and on the stage."

"The strong, silent, macho type with a creative muse prodding him from, time to time."

Scott grinned. "I guess that's `Topher. Brando without the whacked out personality."

Mr. Gustavson himself met the pair at the cash register where they split the bill evenly down the middle. He was a short, squat man with shocks of white hair that sprang from the sides of his head and a gleaming pate above his thick, silver eyebrows. His smile was infectious. "Dutch treat it is." He laid three singles and some coins on the counter. "Thank you both ever so much, and you kids have an ab-so-tive-ly pos-i-lute-ly wonderful day." His mirthful giggle gave testament to the apparently clever word play.

Scott fished a couple of red and white peppermints from the bowl next to the register and handed one to Tara. He smiled and winked at the jolly host. "And you too, my good man!"

Gustavson nodded at the large window out front. "Be careful to dodge the raindrops." He gestured toward Tara with his smiling eyes. "I do believe she'd melt if she got wet."

They both looked over their shoulders. Sure enough. The radio weather reporter had predicted an early morning storm, tapering down to a lazy rain that would settle in on New Allsted for the day. Scott took off his jacket and looked at Tara. "You parked very far?"

She pointed over her shoulder. "About half a block up that way on the other side of the street."

Scott held up his AE jacket. "Well, I brought no umbrella so this'll have to do. We can't have you melting out there. I'll hold the jacket and you'll just have to stick close. We'll run over to your car first, and then I'll head back to mine." He jabbed his thumb in the opposite direction of the diner's front window.

Tara spied the trunk of Scott's car a few spaces past the front door and offered a polite protest in the face of Scott's chivalry. "Oh, baloney! I'll just run for it."

A shocking flash of lightening lit the pavement outside, followed immediately by a loud thunderclap. And then the angry skies opened up.

Gustavson gave her an apprehensive smile, brows arched in caution. "Better listen to Sir Lancelot or whatever here, honey. I'd let you kids use my umbrella, but the missus is done making bread and setting up the kitchen for the lunch crowd and she's leaving for the casino in a half hour. She'd kill me if I lent it out now."

Scott took three steps toward the door. "Now or never, Ms. Burke. We're gonna be late." He pushed the inside door open with his butt. "I'll hold the coat, we'll run like hell, and might only get our shoes wet." He smiled once more at the waving proprietor and hoisted the coat by its collar. The rain pounded on the aluminum awning above the outside door, and a gushing, shimmering sheet poured over its front edge just a few feet from the curb. "C'mon, Tara! It's now or never! We gotta go."

Tara ducked under his makeshift little tarp and grabbed Scott's waist. She squealed as they stepped from under the building front's cover and felt the first few pelts on their shins and shoes. "Run!" Scott shouted.

They looked like fierce competitors in a family picnic's three-legged race with Scott holding the coat up and Tara holding onto Scott's waist, each one trying to coordinate their quick steps crossing the street. Once alongside her Taurus, Scott mumbled a few profanities as she searched for the keys. Tara leaned against Scott, trying to remain beneath his arms and the upstretched jacket and she swore. "Fucking-A! I just dropped the damned keys in here. Where in Sam Hell are they?"

Scott couldn't help but laugh. He shook his head and shouted, "You have five seconds and then we're gonna run back to my car. I know where my fucking keys are!"

Tara's face lit up as she withdrew her hand from the purse. "Got `em!"

He waited until she'd shut the door and started the car. Tara looked up through the driver's side window laughing and gave him a thumbs up with her left hand while she turned the car key with her right. He pivoted a fast one-eighty degrees and sprinted diagonally across the street toward his car.

Once safely inside his own car, a bit soggy from the knees down, he sighed. "She has no fucking idea what she's in for with her Nana."

At the start of first hour, Scott looked out at the sea of grinning faces. His khaki slacks were a rich brown from the knees to the cuffs. He grinned at himself. "Anybody ever seen the movie `Singin' in the Rain?'"

Nothing but sappy grins and a few snickers came back.

"Never mind. I should have known better. I know I look like a wet rat, but it'll dry."

Fifty minutes later, as his kids were putting the finishing touches on a worksheet that he'd let them get a start on, he heard a dull, rhythmic `whack' in the hall, over and over and over. He told the class to pack up their stuff and walked to the doorway. Zach Jacoby was pulling himself down the corridor on his crutches, with Christopher Propst carrying his books. Both young men smiled and Zach waved with a nod of the head. They pulled up short of the classroom door.

Scott reached over and lightly swatted Zach's shoulder. "Glad to see you at school for a change, Mr. Jacoby." He turned and beamed at an ebullient `Topher Propst. "And you! You!"

Chris' smile was joyful. "You heard?"

Zach released his grip on the right crutch, keeping it tucked under his arm, and swatted Chris on the chest. "Of course he heard, Dippy McDoo! Jeez! This is New Allsted. Everybody already heard that you're starring in what's bound to be the greatest high school production of the long-running Broadway smash...blah, blah. blah." Zach looked back at Scott and made no effort to hide a smirk. "Looks like you're just drying out, Mr. Turner. Word is that more than one teacher showed up this morning a little damp around the edges. Sounds like kind of a trend." He winked at Chris and Scott nodded a bit warily.

Chris looked back at his buddy. "Word is they came in together just before first hour started, both soaking wet."

Scott's lips scrunched and his eyes rolled. "Ms. Burke and I met for breakfast to plan some common units with my history and her English classes. We got caught in the rain when we left Gustavson's."

Both guys continued to mug and slowly nodded their heads. "Uhhhhh-huhhhhh" they sang in unison.

Chris leaned over and whispered. "She's a serious hot babe, Mr. T. I shouldn'ta dropped German last year."

Scott's eyes flashed friendly caution. "And Mr. Early is working on the project with us."

Zach's mouth crimped up at the corner and he emitted a quick "tchk. Funny. We just walked by Mr. Early's room and he was standing there at the front of his class...dry as a bone, wasn't he `Topher?"

Chris nodded. "Desert dry, I'd say."

Scott switched gears. "You guys gonna be traveling in traffic-free halls for a while?"

Chris kept on smiling and nodded. "I...I mean we...we got a pass from Dr. Watson to leave classes early or show up late `cuz my gramma here needs to get through the halls without anybody banging his leg, and he needs his trusty mule to carry his friggin' books."

Scott arched a brow and shot Chris a mild disapproval.

Chris mouthed a mild defense. "I said friggin!'

"Joseph wouldn't even say friggin'"

"Mr. T. I AIN'T Joseph. I'm just gonna play him on the stage."

Jim Daley, whose class was also packing up for the day, craned his head around the corner of his door. "Christopher!"

"Okay, Mr. Daley...I AM NOT Joseph."

"Thank you."

Scott made a tight fist and aimed the front of it directly at `Topher. He was quickly rewarded with a knuckle bump and a glowing smile in kind.

The bell rang and Zach leaned against the hallway's wall. Chris put himself between his friend and the flow of foot traffic, and then handed Zach's books to Scott. "I'll be back right after the halls are empty again after the next passing time. He can go to physics or chemistry or whatever a little late today."

"It's anatomy."

"Whatever." He shrugged and shot Zach a stern gaze while he pointed at his leg. "Just keep that thing out of traffic. Nobody can go bumping into it or they gotta deal with me." He nodded a quick goodbye to both of them and was gone.

Scott stepped aside and waved Zach into the room with a grin. "You've got the strongest nursemaid in Kilbourne County, if not the state."

Zach clomped on his crutches all the way to his desk and giggled. The ripple of Zach's triceps as he moved his legs with the force of his arms, paired with the boyish laugh struck Scott as an unlikely combination, though oddly endearing. "He's loving it, too. He gets off on the idea that I need him to survive these days." He pivoted on his good foot and plopped into the seat. Scott pushed a spare chair next to his desk and Zach raised his braced leg. "Thanks, Mr. Turner." He sat back and adjusted his weight in the seat of the desk. "Plus, he's just using me as an excuse to be late for his own classes."

Scott finished making copies of the first major exam of the year for his government class half-way through his plan period. He checked the clock and headed for the lounge. He'd debated whether it was too early to lay a biggie on the kids, but finally reasoned that they'd covered enough content that a test was warranted on Friday. And, in case any of the kids appeared to be sinking, it was early enough in the semester that they could repair the damage. Squaring the stack of exams, he checked the clock and decided to duck into the teachers' lounge. He was betting that he'd finally run into Brian and could give him some good-natured shit about missing the morning's breakfast meeting.

"Well, good morning Mr. Early!" Scott sang with dripping sarcasm as the door closed behind him. "So nice of you to join us. I've been up and at `em since before six this morning. Had a great morning repast at Gustavson's. There was only one thing missing."

Brain hung his head and raised a hand in Scott's direction. "I know, I know! I forgot to set the alarm last night and Trish didn't wake me before she left for work. Most days it's still dark when she heads out the door anyway, but she could've at least checked the alarm."

Scott met the English teacher's sheepish grin with a sarcastic smile. "Aaahh...so it's your wife's fault. You wouldn't accept that crap from the kids, would you?"

"Enough! A thousand pardons! I'm guilty as charged." Brian looked tired.

J.P. Masterson put down the sports page and grunted. "Early? Miss a meeting? Get used to it Scott."

Brian sighed and then snorted back. "And I won't be at next week's union meeting either, John, so don't bother saving me a seat."

Masterson let the remark pass and glanced over at Scott. "You gonna be there, Scott? We're gonna hear the job action plan from the bargaining team. We need a lot of people there."

Scott nodded. "Yeah, J.P. I'll be there." He paused. "By the way, I talked to my dad the other day. He says that nothing's come to his committee about local teacher unions' negotiations. Not from the state union, not from anybody else. Maybe you ought to write a letter."

Wayne Billings sat forward. "But I read they're probably gonna press ahead with the jump in required graduation credits in the academic areas. I just know my end of the building is gonna get screwed." He shook his head.

Scott didn't respond, but made way for Masterson to keep control of the conversation. J.P. ignored Billings' gripe as well. "Even more reason why we're gonna have to take care of this contract thing on our own. Madison won't look out for us. Guess we're just gonna have to send a message to the board and the good people of New Allsted on our own. We don't need to take this shit. We just gotta tell `em so."

Scott grabbed a cookie off the plate that the foods class had sent down and took a bite. He nodded back at Brian. "See ya' later in study hall. Let me know when you want to have lunch with me and Tara. We can hammer something out later this week."

Brian just waved and leaned his head on the back of the couch.

The regular meetings of the NAHS faculty took place on the second and fourth Monday of each month, after school in the high school auditorium. "They usually go for an hour," Jim had advised. "Kim knows that that's beyond the required time for us, but nobody's complained that much. There have been times when we've gotten bogged down in piddly crap nobody cares about, but usually that stuff's on the agenda first."

"What if we went to work-to-rule?" Scott asked. "If the meeting went later than the contracted dismissal time...?"

A rueful grin emerged on Jim's lips. "Then we'd all get up and walk out the minute that the clock says the contract day is over, even if she's in mid-sentence." He sighed. "It's not a pretty sight and it's damned uncomfortable for most."

True to Jim's prediction, Kim began the meeting by reviewing the district-required building goals for the year. These were usually fluffy but commendable statements on increased student achievement that nobody could disagree with, but which nobody could explain in concrete educational terms either. Scott leaned over. "This is eye wash for the taxpaying public, isn't it?" Scott whispered.

Jim smirked and nodded. "Smart boy, Scott. Like I said, we start with the piddly crap. The board wants every building to have goals, so the administration writes goals. The goals that really matter here are the ones you have for your room and your students. Where the rubber hits the road. If you can show that yours match theirs in some manner, all the better."

Kim closed the last slide of her power point presentation and asked, "Any questions?" Silence. "Fine, then. In that case I'll hand things over to Mr. Cox and Mr. Gerdes for some discussion on student conduct, rules and regulations that we feel need some attention early in the school year."

Jeff Gerdes took the floor first. He began with the observation that all faculty members needed to take accurate attendance every hour of every day of the year. He reminded them that attendance reports were legal records relating to the state's compulsory education laws and that the school district had a heavy obligation to keep the record clean and accurate.

Scott leaned toward Jim again. "We need to be reminded to take attendance?"

Jim chuckled softly through his nose. "You'd be surprised at how many think they're just too busy with working their magic to be bothered with counting heads and reporting back to the office."

Narrowing his scope a bit, Mr. Gerdes went on to reaffirm the importance of holding kids accountable for being tardy to class. He clearly expected there to be a price to pay for continually showing up to class late, and he expected every teacher to exact that price from the kids.

J.P. Masterson raised his hand. "Can't I just lock the door and close it when the bell rings? They're late, then they're out of luck."

Gerdes shook his head. "No, John. We've been over this. We want the kids in class, even if they're late getting there. But we want you to hold them accountable when they are late."

Masterson huffed and shook his head. "So I gotta create more work for myself to keep track of who's not getting there on time, and then again to keep track of who is and who isn't serving the detentions I'm assigning. Just because the kids aren't doing they're jobs, mine has to get bigger?"

Gerdes just nodded, stone faced. "Yes, John. That's about it." It was clear to everyone that they'd had this conversation before.

Michael Cox stood. His face wrestled with the knowing smirk that had first emerged when Masterson had opened his mouth. Cox was a little shorter than Scott with a shaved head and thick neck. He outweighed Scott by at least a hundred pounds. He still looked like the wrestling coach he had been until this year's promotion to assistant principal/athletic director. He'd been characterized by the other department members as a rather lazy and unimaginative educator with mediocre, if marginally acceptable, standards. Disparaging jokes by his former classroom colleagues, plus the page after page of sparse lesson plans from previous years, all painted a picture of the man who wanted to coach and who liked giving orders, and who was willing to accept some classroom duties as a means to that end.

Cox raised his brows and sighed. "And I get to deal with everybody's favorite...dress code."

There were a few muttered expletives and shaking of heads, although several staff members sat up a bit more straight in their chairs. Scott noted that Emily Lawson, the English department's "Iron Lady" moved forward in her chair and picked up a pencil to take notes for the very first time since the meeting had begun.

Cox perched his ample backside on the table at the front of the room. "Here's the bottom line. The policy hasn't changed much, but we need to always review it in light of changing fads. In addition to the cleavage issues, the belly button issues, the visible boxers issues, we need to get better at monitoring the content issues. Some of the t-shirts the kids are wearing are getting more and more, uhm, provocative and even offensive. We keep reminding them that they're at high school and not at the mall or the skate park, but some don't get it and others don't care. Now, here's what the relevant part of the policy says:

`No student shall wear, while attending New Allsted High School, or display on school property, items which bear messages that tend to promote or glorify the use of drugs or alcohol, or which tend to degrade, disrupt or threaten a safe and orderly educational environment.'

"Now," Cox scratched his head. "You guys see the kids and what they're wearing more than we do in the office, and for longer periods of time. You need to be the front line in upholding this policy. I know that it requires certain judgment calls from you, and we need you to start exercising your judgment more regularly. Since we're startin' a new year, now's a good time to raise the bar. So, guys, when in doubt about what a kid's wearing, send em to the office. We'll counsel them on the meaning of the policy as far as their clothes are concerned. If they don't get it and keep wearing stuff like that, we'll hit em with a dose of discipline and ratchet it up a notch each time `til the behavior changes. But you can't just turn a blind eye to a lot of their advertising of sex, drugs and rock'n'roll, not to mention violence and even fightin' words now and then."

Scott saw a few heads nodding and heard a muttered smattering of support for Cox's sentiments. Jim just sighed. "It's an annual discussion here, Scott. Some folks just love being the clothes police. Others hate it or ignore it. Just pray that there aren't any questions about specific examples. He wrinkled his nose and whined, Well, what if a kid has this...or what if a kid wears that...' If Michael lets that go on, we're gonna be here all night. Some of em...they either lack the judgment he's talking about, or they're just afraid to use it."

There weren't any questions.

As they left the meeting, Scott leaned toward Jim. "Why do I get the feeling that some of our colleagues leave home every day with a skip in their step and a song in their heart because they're thinking, `I can't wait to get to school and enforce the rules.'"

Jim chuckled and shook his head. "For a few of them, Scott, you'd swear it was their reason for being, and the teaching comes second."

Scott had learned that the state Department of Transportation sent staff members to the New Allsted Police Department twice a month to handle citizens' license and vehicle registration issues. Wanting to update his driver's license to include his new address, he took advantage of the convenience on a bright and sunny Tuesday. He'd stopped in Dr. Watson's office to make sure he could use part of his plan period to take care of personal business. "I have fourth hour plan, and it runs into my lunch, so is it okay for me to hustle down there and hustle back?"

Kim looked up from a thick file folder and shook her head. "Not a problem, Scott, as long as it isn't a continual thing. The good people of the community get a little antsy when they see their teachers out and about during the school day." She giggled. "Believe it or not, when I was still teaching, we had a guy who used to have a schedule like yours. Every Thursday and Friday, he'd just saunter out of school and spend an hour or so checking out the local garage sales. Finally, people started calling the superintendent to complain, and he really got his wings clipped." She laughed again at the recollection. "Just sign out with Millie so that she knows where you are. In case you'd have car trouble or something when you're gone, she needs to know."

Scott contained the usual head roll that Millie's name had come to elicit and changed the subject. "Uhm, as long as I'm here, any word on an attorney coach for the mock trial team? I've talked to a couple kids, and they're anxious to hear that it's really going to happen."

Kim put down her pen. "I haven't heard back from Victoria yet on that one, but I'm glad you mentioned it. I'll give her a call." She leaned back, folded her hands just beneath her breasts and smiled. "So, you've been recruiting kids already?"

"Well, I only mentioned it to a couple of kids, like Zach Jacoby and Chris Propst. Not sure that Chris is up for it, but Zach's basically frothing at the mouth. And, he seems pretty sure we could get enough kids to field a team."

Kim nodded her approval. "He'll eat that stuff up. I think it's great you can provide him with something else to sink his teeth into besides football or basketball this year." She mulled it over. "I'll speak with Vicki and I'll let you know. Thanks again, Scott."

Having secured the proper permission from the principal's administrative assistant, Scott found himself standing in line at the police station behind a stooped over gent with John Deere's insignia on the back of his windbreaker and a feed cap on his snowy head. He leaned half on his cane, half on the counter, and tested the officer's patience mightily. In a gravelly voice just below a shout he repeated himself. "I said it's Zywiec. That's z-y-w-i-e-c. Sounds like Zivik. Rhymes with civic, but with a Z up front. It's Polish, what the hell do ya' want? Last name in the phone book. You can look it up." He pulled a hanky from his hip pocket and dug at the corners of his mouth with a knuckle wrapped in white.

The officer duly noted the fact with a nod, never diverting his gaze from the computer screen. "Maybe I'll look it up later. All I really wanted is your name, sir. And, current address if you have it."

"If I have it? Well, of course I have my address. It's the same as my last address. Hasn't changed in over fifty years! All I wanted is my new damned paper to drive."

When the gentleman shifted his weight, Scott caught sight of the officer's gold name badge and giggled softly into one of the envelopes in his hand. Rather than explain to the elder citizen the benefits of plastic over paper, Officer Mazurkeweicz just glanced to his left at the pert brunette woman in the navy blue vest emblazoned with the state's DOT insignia. "Mr. Zywiec is just here for a renewal."

The girl nodded and clicked on her keyboard, clearly having heard everything the gentleman at the counter had said, "Alright, Mr. Zywiec, if you'll just step over here for a new picture, we'll have you on your way in no time."

Mazurkeweicz's lip curled into a half sneer and he grunted to a colleague who looked up from his clipboard grinning, "Polish? I'll give the old man Polish if he wants."

Gambling a bit, that the police officer had a sense of humor, Scott stepped forward and put his driver's license on the counter. "Uhm, it's Turner. That's t-u-r-n-e-r. Rhymes with earner, burner, and learner, but with a T up front. It's something or other; Scots-English-Irish I think. Do you need to know that? And all I need is the `paper to drive' with my current local address, please."

He'd judged correctly, as Officer Mazurkewicz answered with a sarcastic smirk and a nod. "Right, Mr. Turner. Obviously you've paid attention and know the approved routine." Scott laughed at the cop's levity. "Do you have a piece of mail from the city or the phone company or something I can use to verify the new address?" Scott had come prepared and slid a letter from the school district and one from the cable company across the marble surface. The officer's eyes scanned the address and he nodded. "Hasborough's place. I'd heard that it was vacant again. You're with the school district, huh?"

Scott tapped the counter with his fingertips. "Yes sir. Teaching at the high school." He leaned in a little further and spoke in a hush. "Uhm, if I can ask, do you know if Mr. Zywic-rhymes-with-civic, is on our streets any particular time of day?"

Mazurkeweicz smirked. "Want to avoid him, eh? Not a bad idea."

Scott felt a hand on his shoulder. "You and your men will want to keep an eye on this one, Officer Mazurkewicz. He's new in town and could be up to God knows what kind of trouble." The voice, in particular the charming accent, brought Scott's mind back to the Wagon Wheel and the Kiwanis meeting the previous week. Before Scott could turn his head he felt the hand slide over and tap a friendly pat on the back. "Rumor has it that he's out to influence the community's young people, and I fear I cannot attest to the true caliber of his character."

Mazurkewicz grinned knowingly at Jonathan. "A client of yours, Attorney Bedford?"

Jonathan patted Scott's back again, and pulled his hand slowly to the left to rest once more on Scott's shoulder. "Not yet, I'm afraid, but he's hardly been in town long enough to stir up anything worth advocating, either for or against."

Scott turned and presented a surprised smile. "Jonathan! I guess I shouldn't be shocked by running into you here."

Mazurkewicz snickered. "Hardly a surprise, Mr. Turner. Mr. Bedford has us to thank for a good chunk of his business. The city's thinking about charging him rent for all the time he spends visiting our customers' in the cells out back or in either one of the conference rooms. We're considering hanging his name on the door of one of em."

Jonathan tilted his head back and chuckled. "It would be an honor, sir. When can I get a key to the building? It would simplify things so much if I could just gain access of my own accord when you good men and women are busy violating my clients' rights in the dead of night." Mazurkewicz chuckled and shook his head.

Jonathan turned back toward Scott, a gold fleck twinkling in the rich brown iris just above the right pupil. He arched the brow above that eye. "You didn't misplace my business card, did you?"

Before he could respond, the policeman interrupted. "All the other information on the current license accurate and up-to-date, Mr. Turner?"

Scott nodded. "Yes sir, all the physical stuff is anyway. Haven't changed a lick since I renewed it last up in Madison a few years ago. Just need the address updated."

The officer nodded again and resumed his clicking.

Scott looked back again. "Oh, no, I haven't misplaced it." He tapped his right back pocket, and noted that Jonathan's eyes followed his hand. "Still in my wallet. I've just been too darned busy. Besides, I was thinking about going to Kiwanis again this week. I'm thinking about joining."

Jonathan's smile widened and he nodded his approval. "They're good people, that club is. I do enjoy getting together and chewing the fat with them once a week. It helped me get my bearings a bit more quickly when I first moved to town."

Another officer, a stocky woman in her forties with short, mousey brown hair emerged from the back room. "Mr. Bedford, I've got Mr. Wallace in conference room number two waiting to see you."

Jonathan grinned and nodded. "Thank you so kindly, Sergeant. We should only be a half hour or so. Could I please obtain a full copy of the arrest report on him?" The sergeant held up a short stack of papers without altering her deadpan expression. Jonathan nodded. "Most efficient, as always." He patted Scott on the shoulder again. "You're in good hands here, Mr. Turner. These folks are professionals of the first class." He smiled once more. "So, don't be a stranger. Drop by the office when you're in the neighborhood. If I'm available, we'll have a cup of coffee or something. If not, then we'll set something up." That gold fleck in his eye twinkled again.

Scott nodded. "I think I'll do that."

Jonathan stepped toward the opening in the counter on his way to the conference room. He paused and nodded a slight bow. "Officer Mazurkewicz. Always a pleasure, sir."

Scott's eyes slowly ambled down from Jonathan's broad shoulders. His front teeth caught the tip of his tongue. `What a wonderful ass.'

Mazurkewicz smirked and nodded without taking his eyes away from the computer screen. Once he finished typing, he glanced back at Scott. "Alright Mr. Turner. Just step over to the screen there in front of the camera."

"We gotta what?" Byron McGregor asked over his shoulder. His desk was turned around forming part of a square with three other students.

"You heard me, Mr. McGregor. Not the whole thing, just that first section...The Preamble."

Jared Steinmetz raised his hand half-way and Scott called on him with a quick point of his index finger. "Uhm, Mr. Turner...the way I see it, Mr. Jefferson has always been regarded as one of the finest writers this country ever produced. Do you really think we should be messing with his best work?"

Scott smiled and leaned back on the table at the front of the room. He folded his arms. "Well, Mr. Steinmetz, I've never had the privilege of meeting the great man, but I don't think he'd mind. And I'm pretty sure he won't complain."

The groans resumed in the face of Scott's determination to make this work. Scott held up both hands to quiet the din in the room and shouted. "Okay, gang, listen up! We spent the whole period yesterday discussing the difference between a nation' and a country,' and the difference between nationalism' and patriotism.' As a class, you convinced me that a nation' is a group of people who know they all belong together because of all the stuff they have in common...a language, history, religion, culture, ethnic identity, and on and on...but a whole bunch of feelings that make a nation a nation. And then, you astutely convinced me that a country' is a chunk of land with borders drawn on a map, with a name of its own, a capital, a government of its own and a flag. You also concluded, together, that nationalism was a love of and loyalty to your people. You said that patriotism was a love of and loyalty to the country. Finally, as I recall," he looked back at Jared, "YOU were pretty adamant that it was even possible for one nation to overlap and live in more than one country." He gestured toward a perky young woman with curly red hair. "Ms. Braatz here very keenly observed that more than a few Native American peoples, for instance, overlap the U.S.-Canadian border. I believe it was she who shared that she has two adopted cousins who are, nationalistically, Winnebago Indians, and were born in Canada. These are the same people who also inhabit tracts of Upper Michigan and northern Wisconsin, in the good old U. S. of A." He leaned over toward the girl. "In fact, didn't you say, Carolyn, that one of them hopes to serve in the United States Air Force after high school?" Carolyn Braatz nodded proudly. "So, they're Canadian by birth. Winnebago by birth. United States citizens today. And they go to tribal powwows to honor and celebrate their nationalism, yet they want to serve Uncle Sam in the armed forces of the United States out of a sense of patriotism. Is this a great country, or what!?"

Ethan Hayes shook his head. "I'm gettin' a headache again."

Jared spoke up again with a sly grin. "I get all that, Mr. Turner, but this is `The Declaration' we're messing with. THE Declaration! You can't ask us to rewrite THE Declaration. That's, like, sacrilegious or something."

"And you, young man, are beginning to sound like THE laziest student." He returned to the front of the room and held up a copy of the hallowed document. "Look, gang, despite Jared's best efforts to weasel out of this assignment, this is the same text that most of you said, point blank, uses way too many big hoity-toity words, has goofy grammar in places and, in general, you admitted you don't understand what it actually says...or actually means anyway. How many of you agreed, for example, that Jefferson's use of the phrase `one people' didn't sound right at first?"

Most of the kids raised their hands.

"And yet, here it is in Jefferson's own words: When in the course of human events...ONE PEOPLE...'" He paused to let them to reflect a few seconds. "And how many of you understand that better, now that we've sorted out the whole nation' versus `country' thing?"

The hands stayed in the air.

"And when I read that opening phrase again, When in the course of human events...,' somebody in here suggested that just writing Whenever and wherever...' would have been easier to understand... who was that, anyway?"

Cory Wilkenson wrinkled his nose. "That was Dania. She's not here today."

Scott's eyes darted around the room. "So it was, and so she's not. But was she right? Does Whenever and wherever' sound better than When in the course of human events?'"

Jared shrugged. "Not better, maybe, but easier to understand."

"That's my point! Now, does anybody think Jefferson meant something else?" Nobody.

Scott nodded quickly. "Okay, then you already have a start. All you have to do, in your groups of three and four, is to finish the job. You know, I had a communication prof. in college who always preached that the first rule of effective communication is Know Your Audience.' You're just going to be Mr. Jefferson's editors for the eyes, ears and brains of a modern teenage audience." He winked at Jared. "Look at it this way...you're doing the old boy a favor. Just rework the rest of the preamble so that it makes sense to you, top to bottom." He wheeled a cart into the middle of the room. "There's not enough space for us in the computer lab today so you won't be able to Google the terminology that might give you trouble, but the research you'll have to do is pretty light, so we're gonna do this the old fashioned way. I have about fifteen dictionaries that I begged, borrowed and stole from every room on this end of the building, if you need them. You might have to look up words like unalienable.'"

Jared persisted. "I dunno, Mr. Turner. I don't think Mr. Jefferson would approve."

Scott put a hand on his shoulder. "Not to worry, Mr. Steinmetz. The original work is still well protected in the National Archives almost a thousand miles away. Your efforts here today won't change that national treasure one little bit. His masterpiece is safe from the likes of you, I'm sure."

A few kids were stepping over to get a dictionary or two for their respective groups. Scott clapped his hands loudly. "Oh and, get this! There's a bonus for the group that does the best job!"

The mention of the word "bonus" hushed the class. "I'm going to bring your handiwork to the next meeting of the social studies department. They will judge your various versions, and they will select the one revised effort that best represents the spirit and intent of Thomas Jefferson's brilliant testament on the subject of nationalism, but in modern-day American English." Some students smiled, gasped or coughed little bursts. Others groaned. Scott held up his hands, his own excitement revved up now. "And...And!! And I've spoken with Mr. Billings in the Tech. Ed. department. He has assured me that his graphic arts class can reproduce the brilliantly revised text on a four by six foot sheet of faux parchment..."

Cory Wilkenson wrinkled his nose again. "What parchment?"

Jenny Schacht leaned over. "Faux...it means fake."

Scott nodded and gave Jenny a quick thumbs up. "But it looks really cool. Just think of the bragging rights! And it will be mounted out here in the social studies hallway, covered with Plexiglas, and it will proudly stand for all to see, to read and to understand completely...in your own words." He checked his watch. "Now, if you're all done whining, you still have just over forty minutes. As long as you're working the whole time, if you don't finish today, I MIGHT be persuaded to give you some time in class tomorrow."

He knew it would take all of both class periods, and probably then some, but he kept that to himself. Once the students were all working, Scott circulated around the room and thought back on his conversation of a few days ago with Jim Daley. When Scott had shared his plans, the wise elder scholar had told him they'd never get it done. "Not at that age. Sad to say, but the real meaning of most of The Declaration is over their heads when they're that young."

Scott was on a mission to prove his mentor wrong.

He floated from group to group, listening in and enjoying the discussions. A loud laugh came from the opposite end of the room, and his eyes were drawn to a foursome that included Jared Steinmetz. Just as Scott was signaling them to turn the volume down a notch, Jared's tshirt caught his eye. The student was wearing a white hooded fleece that was unzipped. From between the open front sides of the light sweatshirt he could see Jared's black tshirt, inscribed with yellow print. "I Belong to a Drinking Team" read the first line. "With a Bowling Problem" was printed beneath. Between the two lines of print was the outline of a beer mug imposed over the silhouette of a bowling ball.

Scott strolled across the room and listened in for a minute. Mimi Faherty had obviously been chosen as the group's scribe, and she was trying mightily to summarize their collective conscience on the meaning of the term `liberty' as Jefferson had intended it.

With a quick jerk of his head, Scott caught Jared's eye. "Uhm, Jared?"

"Yeah?"

"That shirt. I don't think you ought to be wearing that at school."

All conversation on that end of the classroom came to a halt. Jared leaned back and screwed up his face. "Aw, come on, Mr. Turner. It's funny. You're not offended, are you?"

Scott folded his arms. "Me, personally? Not really. And it is kind of funny, I guess. But it's also outside the limits of the school's dress code. I'd say that message promotes or glorifies alcohol consumption, wouldn't you?"

"Aw, come on, Mr. Turner. It's a joke!"

"I know what it is, and I also know the dress code. And, I'm also getting to know my job as far as that goes, too. We specifically discussed it at a staff meeting the other day." Scott scratched his head. "You've had that on since you got here this morning?"

Jared nodded once with pride. "Sure have."

Scott's brows crawled downward a few degrees. "And nobody else has said anything?"

Jared shook his head once. "Not one word, Mr. Turner."

Scott sighed and his brows crawled back upward as he tilted his head. "You know I ought to be sending you to the office to have Mr. Cox pass judgment on this one."

Jared's jaw dropped. "Not now! We're just getting to that whole `pursuit of happiness' stuff."

Scott surveyed the other three with his eyes. "Please tell me that I'm not going to get only Jared's ideas on the meaning of that phrase. `Pursuit of happiness' according to Jared Steinmetz? That could be a little disturbing." They all laughed, including the object of Scott's teasing.

Mickey Sorrenson's head jerked and he deadpanned, "Very disturbing, Mr. Turner."

Delhia Bonner giggled. "And probably illegal in quite a few states, including this one."

Mimi's eyes begged Scott. "But there's only fifteen minutes left!" Scott looked over Mimi's shoulder and scanned the page she'd been writing on so furiously. They did have a good start on the project, and it appeared they were taking the job pretty seriously.

Jared interjected, "Tell you what, Mr. Turner. If it'll make your life easier, I'll zip up my sweatshirt to hide the naughty message." Sarcasm dripped from the last few words.

"And you'll keep it zipped?"

"Promise."

"And you won't wear it to school again?"

"Probably not." He smirked as he pulled the zipper up and Scott watched the print disappear. "Now can we get back to work?"

"Well, you only have two classes today after this one. Keep the shirt covered, don't wear it again, and write me something brilliant."

Jared flashed an appreciative smile. "You're aces, Mr. Turner! You won't see this shirt again."

The last bell of the day rang and Scott's eighth hour filed into the hall. As had become his habit, he joined the other department members outside their classroom doors, assuming his role as a casual sentinel to the end of day glad-handing, ass-grabbing and mostly harmless tussle that infects students at the close of any given school day. Lockers opened and slammed shut. Kids laughed and some squealed. As usual, a few sharp indictments were hurled about this teacher or that. "Can you believe he actually expects...?"

"He's nuts! The guy's friggin' nuts!"

Scott's mind wandered again, back to a conversation with his mentor two days prior. Somehow they'd discussed their way to the subject of student language. Jim's old-school' stripes were in plain sight, although the veteran still couldn't explain why friggin' would get a scold, but `fuckin,' whether a verb or an adverb, even if used in a casual, lighthearted manner, still called for something short of decapitation. The reality was, though, that Jim hadn't had to address this issue in the past couple decades. Not really, anyway. Every kid in the building, and more than few of their parents, knew that anything stronger than "darn" was gonna get a reaction from Mr. Daley. And, the plain fact was, no student of New Allsted High School wanted to earn the furrowed brow or the bent frown of disappointment from the icon of NAHS. Scott finally explained it the best way could. "You ever listened to George Carlin, Jim?"

"He's vulgar."

"Yeah...often times gratuitously. But he's funny too. I have to admit that I'm something of a devotee of his general philosophy on words."

"Philosophy? From that hippie? If foul language and anger are now counting as a philosophy..." He didn't quite finish the sentence. "You know that he got arrested in Milwaukee?"

Scott chuckled at Jim's use of the word `hippie,' and observed, somewhat meekly, "Jim, the guy's not much younger than you are." Mr. Daley squelched a measure of concession with a slight grin, lips pursed tight. Scott continued, "But his overall take on language is this: words aren't vulgar because of the sound they make. They're vulgar in the way in which they're used." He tossed an empty Coke can into Daley's wastebasket. "But, yeah, I read an article about the 1970s and it said that the Milwaukee police cuffed him when he got off the stage over there one night."

"His...what was it? The Seven Words..."

Scott nodded a quick nod. "The Seven Words You Can't Say on TV." He checked the door to Jim's room with a single glance and then leaned over and quietly mumbled, "Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits."

Jim gasped. "I guess you do know his work."

Scott puffed his chest. "Had it pretty much memorized when I was in...oh, about the third grade. Made me very popular on the playground. My dad had an old tape of that routine that Carlin did, and me and some buddies listened to it a lot when the folks weren't around." Knowing that the Daleys were devout and active members of St. Mary's, Scott added, "You should hear him go off on the Catholic Church."

Jim's frown deepened. "Well, that's another matter entirely. But you certainly don't condone that language in class from your students, do you? Or in the hallways?"

Scott leaned back. "Of course not! Condone? Not at all. And, no, I don't routinely use them either."

"Routinely?"

Scott leaned forward. "All I'm saying is that I think it's a lot about context, Jim. It's how they're used. Sure, some are worse than others. Why? I'm not sure yet, but I do recognize and respect social norms and community standards. I know the F-Bomb' is out of bounds always. Most of those others are too. But if a kid shrugs with a smile now and then and says, What the hell?' I'm gonna correct him verbally and move onto something more important. But if that same kid looks at another student with a sneer, points a finger in anger and says, "You can go to Hell!", that's another story. Same word, same spelling, same sound...but an entirely different message. That kid might get a short trip to Mr. Cox or Mr. Gerdes' office. Likewise, a kid hits his elbow on the doorframe on the way into class and mutters Aw, shit!' under his breath, he's going to get a frown, a scolding and told not to say that again. But if the same kid looks at a classmate and says, You look like shit,' or You got shit for brains,' or if he looks at me and says, I don't give a shit,' then he's gonna get tossed out on his shittin' ear." Jim slowly leaned back and thought it over without comment.

The hallway crowd had thinned, as most of the younger students who couldn't yet drive scurried to get on a bus or get to an after-school activity, and Scott coughed out a light snicker when he heard the unknown teenager blurt out the ever-popular `friggin.' As the hall noise dissipated, he heard the phone on his desk ring, so he ducked back inside his room. The narrow LCD screen announced that Mr. Cox's office was calling. "Good afternoon! This is Mr. Turner."

"Hi, Scott. This is Michael. Once your hall is clear, would you have a few minutes to stop by? I need to review a couple things with you."

"Not a problem. We're nearly all clear now, and we've got Andy, Felicity, Matt and Jim all still standing guard. All's quiet in the 400 hall. I'll be there in a minute."

Just as he reached the intersection of the school's two main arteries inside the front door near the commons area, Jared Steinmetz crossed his path, sweatshirt zipped up to his neck. Scott was pleased that Jared was still living up to his end of the bargain. "Running a little late today, Jared? You're usually one of the first ones out the door, waiting for your bus."

The teen scowled. "I missed my damn bus. Cox's day obviously wasn't complete without hassling me, I guess. He dragged me in after the last bell and made me miss it. Now I gotta wait `til my dad can get over here, and he can't get free for another half hour."

Scott shrugged and grinned, an effort that was ignored by the sullen student. "Ah, well. Grab your history book and sit here in the commons and read while you wait. You'll live to see another day."

Jared let his backpack drop onto the bench and his shoulders fell a couple inches. "Whatever."

The assistant principal's door was open, Michael Cox behind his cluttered desk, so Scott just paused at the doorframe and spoke. "Here I am. What's up, Mike?"

Cox waved him in and looked over Scott's shoulder. "Grab the door, will you Scott?"

With a tinge of apprehension, Scott did as he was asked and closed the door. Cox gestured to a chair. Scott took a seat, one hand on each of his thighs. Cox finished jotting a few notes and closed a file folder. "I just had Jared Steinmetz in here."

Scott chuckled. "So he says. Sounds like you and Jared are old friends."

Cox forced a grin and glanced at the ceiling. "I suppose that's one word for it. Not the first one either he or I would choose, but..." he shrugged. His grin withered. "Scott, you were at the faculty meeting the other day, weren't you?"

"Of course I was. I didn't think they were optional."

Cox shook his head. "They're not. Well, some of the head coaches are excused during their seasons so they can oversee their practices, but that's about it."

Scott just nodded without comment.

Cox leaned back and continued. "I was sure I saw you there." He chewed for a moment on the end of his pen. "Any idea why Jared was in here just now?"

"I talked to him for a sec on my way in and he didn't say. I didn't ask. Figured it was none of my business."

Cox leaned on the desk and folded his hands. "Well, I stepped out into the main hall at the final bell, and here comes Jared, loping down the hall, happy as a clam, broadcasting with his t-shirt that he's a member of a drinking team with a bowling problem, with a huge mug of beer brightly emblazoned on the front of his shirt.

Scott sunk. "He was?"

The administrator wiped a square hand over the top of his shaved head. "And he said that you'd told him that it was `all cool.'"

Scott shot up in his seat. "I did not! He told you I said...?"

Cox interrupted with the same fat hand. "He said that you told him that as long as he kept the sweatshirt zipped that it'd be cool for the rest of the day."

Scott swallowed. "I saw the shirt, yes. I called him on it. It was well past the middle of sixth hour and we were in the middle of something good going on in class. Jared was a big part of his group's work. When I asked, he said that nobody had questioned him on it all day long. And...yes, Mike, I told him to zip up the outer sweatshirt and not wear that t-shirt again to school. He said he'd go along with it."

Cox laughed. "And you believed the little shit?"

Scott stumbled for a moment and finally spit out, "Well...yeah."

Cox leaned back again and shook his head with a patronizing grin. "I can simplify it for you, Scott, and probably make your job a bit easier. For starters, Jared Steinmetz is one of the most devious and disrespectful little bastards in this building. I had him in class all last year and I have his number." His eyes focused on nothing that Scott could detect. "I could tell you stories..." He shook his head. "But that's neither here nor there right now." He sighed. "Now, Scott, I can understand some reluctance on the part of a first-year teacher who doesn't want to play the hard-ass where the rules are concerned...you know, wanting to get along with the kids and be popular and all that..."

"But, Mike! That's not..."

The grin dissolved as Cox leaned forward and folded his hands again on the desktop. "But you're not free to taper the student handbook policies to fit into your own comfort zone. That's why we spent time in the meeting the other day on this specific subject."

Scott slumped back again, simmering over the administrator's reading of the situation. His eyes narrowed a bit. "Then, I have to ask, Mike, are you also calling in the five other teachers who'd seen Jared before I had him in class, but who said nothing at all to the kid about his shirt?"

Cox shrugged and then shook his head. "That's getting awfully close to personnel matters involving other staff that I wouldn't discuss. All I can say is we're doing the best we can to get to a consistent response to this type of behavior from our staff, building-wide. That's why we're having this conversation."

A high-pitched ping sounded from the computer to Cox's left. He glanced at the calendar that had popped up on the screen. "Well, I'm due up at the district office for a meeting with one of the parent booster clubs." He started to stand. "Just...from here on out...if Jared, or any other kid for that matter, shows up giving the finger to the dress code like he did, send them straight to me or Jeff. We'll take care of it from here."

Scott had suddenly grown very impatient. "Understood, Mike. Uhm, is there anything else?"

A quick recollection flashed on Cox's wide face and he snapped his fingers. "Oh, yeah. Good thing you asked. There's gonna be a reporter from `The Gazette' here tomorrow to get the lowdown on all the new teachers at NAHS. They write up a puff piece every year a couple weeks after school starts. She'll speak to Kim for a bit, probably chat with a few students here and there and then we're scheduling lunch with her and all the new staff members in the conference room. I'm going to give her all your resumes for background. All you guys gotta do is give her a few quotable quotes about what a little slice of heaven New Allsted really is." He winked.

Scott nodded as he turned the doorknob. "I'll be there, Mike." He stood and opened the door, then paused. "Can I ask? What happened to Jared?"

Cox shrugged. "Just a good talking to. He and I reviewed the language of the policy. I explained in blunt terms what it means. He whined about the rule and tried to lay today's crap on you. I told him to save it, and that the next time he showed up lookin' like that I'd assign after school detentions and get his parents involved. After that, if he keeps it up...who knows?" Cox's sardonic grin at `who knows?' made Scott's stomach tighten a notch.

When he got out of the office and into the commons Jared was gone. Damn!' Scott thought. I wanted to have a word with,' he borrowed Cox's phrase, `the little shit.' He scanned the intersecting halls in three directions and then checked the front sidewalk through the building's front doors. No sign of Steinmetz. Scott shrugged and muttered, "Prob'ly just as well."

By the end of sixth period on Wednesday, Scott had collected six revised versions of The Declaration's preamble in one class and seven in the other. The kids voiced surprise and satisfaction in their own accomplishment, and freely admitted that they'd learned a lot. Stephen Svengaard was shaking his head as he returned to his seat. "I been readin' and hearin' that crap for a long time Mr. Turner. I'm already turning sixteen today, and I finally know what the whole thing really meant when they wrote it."

Scott's eyes lit up. "Happy birthday, Stephen! Sixteen is a biggie! Five thousand, four hundred and eighty days. One day after another. Time really flies when you're having fun, huh?"

Stephen was a youngster that Scott had come to think of as `a plugger:' an average student academically, above average in temperament and ethic, and he admired the kid. He dropped a friendly hand on the young man's shoulder. "Well, Stephen, you know the most important part, anyway. A lot of folks in their thirties, forties and even older still don't get it most of the time. You're a few steps ahead of them already. Just think how smart you're gonna be by the time you can vote."

Stephen's lips went crooked on one side and he shook his head. "But, Mr. Turner, if we were really started as a country `cuz of the idea that powerful nations always have to leave other nations alone when they say they want to be left alone, then how come we don't follow that rule any more? I mean, they were saying that everybody had to have at least the chance to agree to the way they're gonna be ruled. They meant everybody, right? And all the time?"

Scott shrugged and sighed, and thought about it for a second. "Stephen, my fine young scholar..." Stephen buried his chin in his chest and tempered a prideful smile. "...don't forget those questions. We don't have time to get into all of that right now. But we will as the year goes on. And when we do—and I think it'll be often—I want the whole class involved. But I promise we're going to be coming back to those kinds of questions several times all year long, whether we've got our noses in the history book, or even when we discuss current events. I hope you won't forget to ask those questions over and over and over, every time you think it applies to whatever it is we're discussing...or whatever your country is doing, for that matter."

The bell rang and the kids all stood. "Ah, Jared? A minute of your time, please?"

Jared, who had hardly uttered a word the entire period just nodded without looking up. When the rest of the class had left, Scott sat at his desk and motioned for the youngster to take the chair facing him. Jared complied without making a sound. Scott looked at him for twenty seconds and cleared his throat. "Any idea what I want to chat about today?"

Jared stared at his shoelaces. "Yeah. The shirt."

Scott leaned forward and shook his head. "Not so much the shirt, Jared. Your agreement with me on how to deal with the shirt for the rest of the day is my problem. We had an agreement, young man, and YOU were the one who suggested our little compromise yesterday. I believe your last words on the matter were, `I promise.' Now, like I said in class, in my book..."

Jared didn't look up, but interrupted anyway. "I know! In your book `Promise' is a huge word, not to be used casually, lightly or often.'" He'd quoted Scott verbatim.

"Does this mean that I was a dope to think you'd live up to a promise? If you think I'm a fool, Jared, just tell me so and we can probably save a lot of time the rest of the year."

Jared squirmed and finally lifted his eyes to meet Scott's. "Of course not, Mr. Turner, and I'm sorry. I really am. It's just that Mr. Cox is such a..."

This time Scott interrupted. "Don't try to blame this on Mr. Cox! You had every chance to get in and out of here yesterday unscathed. You decided to flaunt the rules on your own. One of Mr. Cox's many jobs, and one of MY many jobs is to enforce those rules."

Jared didn't try to contain his teenage scorn. "And those rules suck! What about freedom of speech, Mr. Turner?"

Scott's jawline pulsed as his teeth clenched and relaxed. "We're not even going to go there, Jared, not now anyway. You think the rules suck? Then you should do something to try and get `em changed. But that's another issue. What I'm talking about is the fact that you sat here, looked me in the eye, and made a commitment that you'd keep the darn thing covered for the rest of the day. First, YOU decided to color outside the lines. Then, YOU offered a promise to me and then YOU promptly ignored it. As a result, YOU got called on it all by the powers that be. And, in the process, I came away looking like I'm either unable or unwilling to do one of the simplest parts of my job."

Jared was suddenly fascinated again with his shoelaces. "Did Mr. Cox get all nasty with you and stuff?"

"The details of my conversation with Mr. Cox are none of your business. Safe to say, though, that I don't have any wiggle room to use much discretion when it comes to the dress code from here on."

Jared slowly passed his hand over the top of his head, front to back. His unruly brown locks rose and fell. "I'm sorry, Mr. Turner."

Scott sighed, "Don't apologize for that, Jared. I'm the one who stood here and made a decision yesterday about how to do my job. I've thought it over, and I still think it was a reasonable call on my part, under the circumstances. I'm just left wondering if I made the right decision with the wrong person. Live and learn. I have to take whatever comes my way when I make choices. I'd suggest you try doing the same. Just leave me out of it, will you please?"

Jared tugged on an ear and shrugged one shoulder. "I'll try."

It was getting into the next period. Part of him wanted to continue the conversation, but Scott needed to get to study hall. So, he reached for a pad of hall passes, scribbled the date and time and sent Jared on his way. He reached out with the pass. "Try to stand up, Jared." The teenager popped to his feet. Scott raised a brow. "See? You don't just try...you either do or don't."

Jared grasped the corner of the pass and allowed a shy smirk to emerge. "I guess Yoda was right."

Scott held the paper firm. "Yoda was always right." He let go of the pass and glanced at the door. "Now, get out of my classroom."

Jared did a quick full turn on the balls of his feet and headed toward the door.

Once settled into his study hall, Scott spent the entire period reading his kids' work on `The Declaration.' Both Janice and Brian, on either sides of the partition, noticed his smiling, some times laughing out loud.

When the final bell of the day rang, he made a straight shot for the copy room. He dropped the stack of papers in the document feeder and made seven sets to give to the members of the department for their review before next week's meeting. He went to hand-deliver Jim's set to his classroom, but Jim was nowhere to be seen. So, he dropped the stack of papers on the empty desk and bounced down the hall toward his room.

He strolled across the asphalt toward his car a little before five thirty. About a dozen other vehicles dotted the staff parking lot. Once the halls had cleared and a few kids had stopped in the room to ask about an extra credit assignment he'd made available, he'd set about entering grades into the computer and decided to phone the parents of six of his students. He wanted to share his concern that, even though the year wasn't even two weeks old, their kids hadn't completed any homework assignments. He left voice messages on the machines at two of the numbers, suspecting they'd be erased before the parents got home. Four parents did answer. One assured him, over the screams of a younger sibling, that she'd have a word with her son. Another mother and one dad assured him that there'd be hell to pay when the kid got home from practice or work. The last one was a father who had no idea who Scott was, and said flatly that he wasn't even aware his daughter had a history course this year, but that he'd tend to it...if he thought of it the next time he saw her. Scott made a note in the phone log he kept in his computer of the calls and the parents' responses.

"You can't imagine the difference documentation can make," Jim had told him. "Make a note of every contact...even every effort of a contact with parents, as well as their responses. I had this kid once, early in my career, who'd obviously learned the fine art of lying from his father. When he failed the semester, both father and son insisted that nobody knew he was at risk of blowing it, or what the little shit could have done to salvage the credit. Wally Hannan, the principal at the time, didn't believe them either, but it was a long and pretty testy `he said-he said-he said' between me, the kid and the dad in Wally's office."

He reached over to the printer next to his computer and squared a stack of freshly minted pages, and then walked through the nearly empty halls toward the copy room. He'd need sixty packets of the information for tomorrow's government classes. Opening the door to the small room, he was greeted by the marvelous ass of the Xerox repair guy who was bending over and was up to his elbows in the big machine's insides. Scott slumped back against the door, his eyes darting between the machine's upturned top cover, the dormant control panel and the repairman's bubble butt. "Out of commission? I was just in here a couple hours ago, and the thing was working just fine."

The sinewy maintenance guy didn't stand, which was just fine with Scott, but just looked over his shoulder and offered a resigned, "Sorry to say. Out of commission for a while anyway. I'll be at it a couple hours. Somebody tried to clear a paper jam with...with I don't know what...but they jammed this baby up, but good. bent the hell out of one of the internal paper guides, too. I'll be stuck here `til seven at least. I called for a part that I normally don't carry with me, and they're gonna have to drive it down from Madison. It's on the way now."

Scott's eyes roamed up the round cheeks of the worker's ass, up and across trapezoidal back and quickly scanned the wide expanse between the shoulders. I'd invite you back to my classroom to wait for the delivery, but the door has a window in it, and I'd rather not have a passerby seeing the two of us buck naked, rutting and grunting in each other's arms on my desk,' thought Scott. Of course, if it's going to be a while, you could follow me out to the house and we could enjoy an hour or so of raw hedonism and debauchery in front of the cat and the dog.' As Scott bit the inside of his lower lip and silently slapped himself upside the brain, the technician, Alan by the name on his uniform shirt, stood up and turned. Scott locked eyes with the guy and avoided any unseemly visual wandering. "Uhm, it'll be running by tomorrow morning?" Scott asked. He held up a small sheaf of pages. "I can come in early and do these first thing."

Alan just nodded with a half smile. "It'll be good as new once the part gets here. But please, if you get any haywire pages jammed inside, just follow the directions on the computer screen here to fix the problem. It's not brain surgery, as long as you take it step by step. And PLEASE don't stick anything in there that doesn't belong to try and fix the problem."

"Not me. I'm not one to go and stick something where it doesn't belong...uhm...unless you asked me to first." Even Scott couldn't believe he'd said that. He fidgeted a second. "Uhm...in a situation like this, that is...er, with the copier, I mean." He waved the pages in his hand once and mumbled, "Thanks. You have a good evening."

He winced as he passed the Xerox van still parked in the first row of stalls. He unlocked the car and paused before dropping his book bag on the passenger seat. "You, Mr. Turner, can be a first-rate schmuck."

By the time he reached the house, his Alan-inspired chubby was mostly gone. Scott boiled some angel hair pasta, tossed it with some olive oil, garlic and fresh parmesan and grilled a chicken breast he'd left to marinate before going to school. Between bites, he bitched at a spokesman from the state department on McNeil/Lehrer about the administration's "fucked up view of the world." Brett the Dog didn't seem nearly as concerned, so long as little nibs of white meat and the occasional string of noodles kept floating his way. Scott always laughed when he'd toss a noodle in the air and it would swing up and wrap around the dark brown snout when the dog caught the end of it. It was almost as fun watching Brett try to lick the ones he missed off the hardwood floor.

He spent a couple hours reading and marking up the latest AP essays on the lasting effects of the French and Indian War from both the British perspective and that of the colonists. All in all, he was pleased with the kids' work. He'd go through them again tomorrow and write complete critiques. He wrote the outline for a coming unit in the standard history class. Once the review of the founding documents was finished, the curriculum jumped forward to the Industrial Revolution of the late nineteenth century. It occurred to him that Brian and Tara might be ready to assign "The Jungle" in their lit. classes at that time. He remembered reading the book in high school and he grinned as he made a note: need that excerpt where the book describes an occasional immigrant falling into the melting vat at the packing plant, and then going out into the world as lard.' He chuckled. The kids'll love it. We thought it was pretty cool at sixteen.'

He e-mailed the notes to his school address and shut down Word. Returning to the internet, he pulled down his "favorites" menu and clicked on the "Nifty" link. He hadn't been there in a couple weeks and scanned the recent titles for works in progress by a couple of his favorite authors. Finding nothing, he scanned through the latest additions in the "College" section of their archives. He randomly selected a couple different titles and quickly read them, continuing his unofficial contest for the writer with the most euphemisms for the word "cock." Nobody had yet bested the guy he'd read that previous summer, with his eleven various synonyms for the male member, and thirteen different adjectives describing it when fully erect, both the appearance and wild sensations.

He looked down at the fattest cat in the world who was curled up at his bare feet, looking something like a huge, seriously over-leavened and badly burned crescent roll. He pointed with a knuckle toward the story on the screen. "I'll bet I could write this stuff," he boldly asserted to the cat. The cat looked doubtful. "Let's see...young teacher catches the unsuspecting but extremely hot and horny Xerox repair guy in the copy room..." He snickered at the vision of Alan bent over the machine, his legs spread wide, grunting while Scott stood behind him hammering himself deep inside. He looked at the cat again. "Or how bout this? Southern lawyer, transplanted to Wisconsin, meets said teacher at a local service club, again at the police station, and finally comes onto him, begging the sexy Yankee to conquer the south' once again." Scott chuckled, drained his drink, hit the "close" box on the screen and shut down for the night. "Naaaaah. I can't write fiction, and nobody would believe the frickin' truth."

He let Brett the Dog out for his last pee of the night, set up the coffee maker and adjusted the automatic brew time. As he checked the setting of the alarm back in his bedroom, Brett was settling into his spot in the doorway to the walk-in closet. "Kiwanis tomorrow, buddy. Think Jonathan will be there?"

Brett bent down to wash his cock and balls with his tongue. "Lucky bastard."

The alarm went off at 5:30 and Scott was on his feet in record time. The coffee maker had kicked in ten minutes earlier and its rich aroma wafted in to welcome him to a new day. Scott stretched, reached into his boxers and scratched his lonely gonads and paused to give his morning wood a friendly squeeze. He slid into his summer robe, a burgundy-colored light cotton with gold piping at the hems and he padded down the hall toward the kitchen. His mood was light as he poured the first cup of the day and he was more bright eyed than usual as he plopped on the couch and turned on the morning news. He was glad that New Allsted wasn't so far from Madison that he couldn't still get their local stations, and welcomed the round-faced veteran morning news guy and his always chipper Asian-American co-anchor, a female named Katie whom he'd come to like since she'd joined the station a year earlier. Katie could always deliver even sad news with grace and a certain distinct aplomb, Scott thought.

After his third sip of coffee he checked the clock. "Okay, let's make a plan for the day. Briefcase packed...gas tank over half full, so no need to stop on the way...Kiwanis meeting...Jim will be glad to see me...Jonathan might be too...I hope...head over to school...first hour notes ready to go, second hour AP lecture all set...third hour test review..." He paused and stared at reflection of the table lamp in the front window. "Aw, fuck! The copying! I got a five-page packet I need to get to the government kids today. Test is tomorrow. Five pages...two classes...sixty copies...always a line in there in the morning...no time to do it after Kiwanis...not enough time between classes before third hour. Maybe Brian could, or Tara or Jim or Andy or Matt." He wracked his brain trying to figure if one of them had an early morning planning period. He wasn't sure. He didn't think so. Brian and Andy were always in the lounge when he stopped in during fourth hour. Jim's plan is sixth. Tara's was end of the day. Matt's...he wasn't sure. He drank another gulp and tried to simply will a handy solution to his sudden scheduling dilemma, and then glanced over at Brett, who'd just ambled down the hall from the bedroom. "Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck!" Brett stretched his front legs straight and bowed, pushing his chest to the floor in a morning dog stretch. "I gotta go in and get to the copier this morning. Hunky Alan didn't get the job done in time yesterday, the cute bastard." Brett looked sideways at the patio door, sniffed at Scott's feet a few times and looked back up with the usual morning message on his face. "I know. You gotta pee. I gotta get in the shower pretty soon and then go into fucking school. No Kiwanis today, buddy. Might as well relax a little and then go in early. Maybe we can give ol' Millie reason to fret about something today."

He had a second cup of coffee while Brett took care of business outside. With no need to rush, he leaned back on the couch, plopped his feet on the table and let his mind wander. He thought of Tara and her Nana and what her family must be going through. The Packers had a pre-season game on the road Saturday night. Maybe he should invite her over to watch the game. He could bake a home made pizza. In fact, it would probably be a good time to invite a few others over and put the new house to good use by hosting his first get-together in New Allsted. I could whip up three or four pizzas, I suppose.' He wondered if Jim and Helen Daley had morning sex, and thought of the few times he'd heard Big Scott and Suzanne going at it when he was in middle and high school. He wondered if Zach was still a virgin. Michael Jacoby had mentioned the girlfriend, but Zach had the bearing of an upright and proper young man. A seventeen year old right and proper young man with Hollywood good looks and, Scott was certain, a very attentive cock. He wondered if Marty was up yet, struggling with the kids to get them ready for their day ahead. He wondered if Jill's dad, Jack, was treating Marty any better these days, and whether he was really going to sell the newspapers. What would that mean for Marty? Marty hadn't called all week. But, he hadn't picked up the phone to call Rockford, either. He thought of Abby Svendsen, his feisty old colleague on the Board of Regents. I need to give the old gal a call one of these days, or maybe drop her a card just to say Hi and let her know I'm doin' okay and that I'm thinking of her. She's great. He wondered if Abby and her partner, Sharon, were still going at it at their age. He wondered if Greg and Nick were having `The Breakfast of Champions' right then, the two of them between the sheets up in Mankato. Would it be slow and tender or hard and frenzied? The former, Scott decided. Once upon a time, it was Greg who liked to languish in the morning while they'd explored, again, the wonderful sensations and the familiar smells and tastes left over from the previous night's wrestling match.

Maureen McCarthy's face popped on the screen and distracted him from the random musing. He grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. Katie talked over a taped press conference with the attorneys general from Illinois, Iowa and Minnesota. They were trumpeting their offices' cooperative efforts to stomp out the rapidly expanding meth trade that was ravaging the upper Midwest. Scott wondered how Maureen's niece, Kelly, was doing in grad school and how her wedding plans were going.

He tried to picture Andy Faber's wife, Faith, and assumed she had to be knock-out gorgeous in order to land a hunk like her husband. Once again he tried to picture his colleague in the buff. It was a wonderful image that stirred the folds of the robe between Scott's thighs.

He shifted his weight and turned down the volume of the TV, and wondered if Jonathan Bedford was gay. Scott had never mulled over the whole gaydar thing with much gravity, but he did know that he found the southerner extremely attractive and had felt a certain connection there from the instant they'd met. He undressed Jonathan in his mind, again. Smooth chest? Light spray of chestnut hair spanning the defined pecs? He hadn't decided. Abs of steel? Well, maybe not steel, but impressive nonetheless, he'd already concluded. Top? Bottom? Both? Good kisser? Most definitely.

Brett had finished his breakfast and was sitting in front of the recliner chewing on his tug rope. Scott stood and stretched again, reaching inside the robe to scratch his chest. "No Kiwanis today, Brett. Alan the hunky repair dude failed me yesterday. Nice ass he had, but he needs to stock the right parts in his van so he doesn't leave me hanging like this." He scoffed as he headed for the bathroom. "Need to have a word with ol' Alan about leaving the horny social studies teachers at NAHS hanging. There oughta be a rule or something." He grinned an evil grin as he hung his robe on the bathroom door. "Maybe I could sick Millie on him."

Scott's morning masturbatory fantasies had consisted, for the most part, of very satisfying actual memories. They were not, usually, made up whole cloth out of his libidinous imagination run happily amok. To be sure, he had the faculties to conjure up wildly erotic play dates in his mind with, say, the Xerox guy or, as he'd proven as recently as yesterday, an attorney with a cute southern drawl who liked getting fucked while still wearing a club necktie for Scott to grasp like the reigns of a bucking stallion. And, in Scott's recent forays into solo shower sex, he found that if he closed his eyes and kept the vision alive through his tingling post-orgasmic bliss, Andy Faber's cum tasted remarkably like his own.

But these playful pieces of make believe were the exception rather than the rule. Usually, Scott scratched this morning itch while recalling, for instance, a certain night in Florida. He and Greg were naked, in the screened-in sunroom of the house they'd borrowed for the week. Greg was on his back, legs spread and the flats of his feet facing the ceiling light fixture. Scott had been oblivious to a pair of matching rug burns being inflicted on his knees as they carried his weight up and down, in and out of Greg on the coarse indoor outdoor carpeting. Greg's eyes had stared straight up, sometimes boring into Scott's, and sometimes fixed but not quite focused toward some random spot on the ceiling, maybe the slowly turning fan that hung above them. His glistening lips were agape, but they'd dispensed nothing more discernable than a throaty whimper of delight.

Or he'd recall the first time he had sex with Marty, just a little more than a week after they`d met. As Scott slowly pushed his hips forward, forcing the head of his soaped cock into the clenched fingers of his right fist, he closed his eyes and envisioned Marty impaling himself on his turgid and tingling pole. He found that he could fondle, stroke and pinch his lathered pecs and nipples and credibly imagine Greg's or Marty's hands or lips or tongue taking a playful tour across his chest. The enjoyment of lavish wet kisses in the shower all alone was impossible to replicate, but a wet finger or two teasing his scrotum and finding their way to his perineum could be Zach's tongue.

`Zach's? Whoa! Hold on! Out of bounds!.' He froze under the steaming spray for most of a minute. Acting purely on instinct, his right hand went back to work to finish the job. He quickly tensed and bucked his thighs and hips, physically willing a rapid fire orgasm, spewing his seed onto the white tiles at the back of the shower.

With the water shut off and the shower curtain slid to the side, he completed the ritual by draping the towel over his head. He stood in the tub, dripping, while he buffed his brown hair into a tangled mop. With his head rocking between his hands, he weighed that last vision in his mind. "It's just fantasy, Scotty, not pay-per-view. You can't order it up to meet your upstanding sensibilities." He stepped over the edge of the tub and propped his left foot on the lid of the toilet, wiping himself from his hip to his knee to his foot. "The kid...ha! The young man...is fucking hot, even on crutches, and you saw that the first time you met him in the office." He replaced the left foot with the right and repeated the motions. "And he didn't grow fat and homely just because he became your student, dummy." He draped the towel across his back diagonally from shoulder to hip, leaning forward a tad to push out the small of his back and buffed, sliding the cloth down to his ass. "Of course, learning that he has an agile mind, a great personality and a sharp sense of humor has only made him that much sexier." He massaged his pubes, cock and balls dry and then finished with a quick back and forth between his legs and up into his ass crack, as though he was shining his crotch with a shoe shammy. He grabbed a corner of the towel and painted a clear swath across the fogged mirror, finally waving a finger at himself. "You know the rules. You know you can look; even lust a little bit. Don't even think about touching. You're too smart for that. Zach Jacoby is a happy bonus to your job...your daily dose of eye candy...and you and he could get great things done together this year. You're the grownup here. Don't fuck it up."

Later that morning, third period government class was just finishing up. Scott stood in the center of the room and clapped his hands once. "Okay, gang. That's about it. You now know, more or less, what's going to be on that test tomorrow. That is, unless I decide tonight to throw you a real screwball." Scott wiggled his eyebrows and a few kids giggled. Others rolled their eyes. "If you don't know what to expect, then you haven't been paying attention. No surprises coming from me. Now, why don't you all surprise me and kick the livin' daylights out if it?" Right on time, the bell rang and they all stood and started streaming toward the door. "Chris, could I see you for a second?"

Chris slid his government text into his backpack along with his notebook and set it on the top of his desk.

Once everybody was out of the room, Scott motioned him to the side of his desk. Chris sat in the chair on the left side. "Somethin' the matter Mr. T?

Scott cleared his throat. "Chris, this is a major test tomorrow. Now, I've had the chance to talk with Ms. Ronzani, and..."

The young man scowled and rolled his eyes. "Awwww...not you too! Not this again!"

Scott held up a hand and nodded. "Yes, me. Yes, this. And, please, don't interrupt. It's rude."

Chris started to stand. "I'm sorry, Mr. T., but look, I gotta go get Zach to his next class."

Scott raised the hand a bit higher, and then slowly lowered it, directing Chris to return to the chair. "That's all taken care of, `Topher. Sam Alphonse probably already has him settled in. They have anatomy together and I talked to the two of them after AP this morning."

Chris sat back down, folded his muscular arms and flopped his head back to stare at the ceiling.

"Now, I know you really don't like this," Scott began. He smiled gently and nodded. "In fact, Ms. Ronzani made it very clear that you really hate this." Chris maintained his steadfast gaze at the wide white panels directly above him. Scott leaned forward and propped his chin into the palm of his hand. "You know, `Topher, she's got your back covered pretty well when it comes to helping the two of us, you and me. We just want to make sure that you'll be able to really show me what you know." He sat back in his chair and turned his palms toward the ceiling. "I can't get you to say diddly squat in class unless we're shootin' the breeze about something other than the course material. And, besides, the homework that you've done...well, you've done just okay on it...and it's hard for me to tell if you're learning very much."

Chris sat up and finally looked Scott in the eye. "Remember? That first time me an' Zach came in here? I told you I hate this stuff. Nothin' against you Mr. T. You're explaining it pretty good, and I get it when I listen. Really I do. You tell some pretty cool stories. I just don't get it as good as everybody else does and don't want to say something stupid."

"Look, Chris. Hating this government stuff is okay. I wish it wasn't so, but it is. I get that. A lot of good people hate this stuff." He snickered sarcastically and added, as an aside, "Happily, most of `em, don't vote. They leave it to smart guys like me and Mr. Daley." Chris finally grinned and he scoffed. "Anyway...you not wanting to participate in class discussion is alright with me too. Again, I wish it were different, but it's not going to affect your grade. But the stuff that will affect you...that's pretty simple." He ticked them off on his fingers. "One: the class is required for a diploma. Two: you have a learning disability that's going to make it hard—but not impossible—to earn all the credit I suspect you deserve. Three: Ms. Ronzani... she's your best safety net and we both want to help you."

Chris shook his head and raised his voice a decibel. "She's a meddler and a busy-body. I don't need her and I don't want her help, and I don't want to be treated any different by her or you or by anybody else!"

Scott folded his arms and leaned back. "Good for you. Not on the meddler or the busy-body part, `cuz she's a very nice woman who cares a helluva lot about you, and who's just doing her job. But the part about wanting to do it on your own gets five gold stars in my book."

The young man grinned a sly grin. "I know what she's trying to do...and you too." The grin dissolved into a face that was almost desperate. "But, Mr. Turner, I ain't disabled. I hate that crap!"

Scott sighed. "Chris. You're a senior. Time to live up to the reality that you do have a learning disability. You can deny it all day long, but it won't change facts. You get the gold stars from me for wanting to go it alone. But the plain fact is that you just don't read or write with the same speed and the same comprehension right off the bat as other folks your age. It's not a crime, it's not a shame and it's not your fault. I've read your work. Even I can tell, and I'm not the specialist that Ms. Ronzani is." Chris looked at the floor and shrugged. "Now, what are we going to do about that test tomorrow? It's the first major exam of the year and it's going to leave a big mark on your eventual grade."

Chris looked up. "I'll take the test just like everybody else. I'm getting this stuff pretty good."

"You're holding your own on the vocabulary, and Ms. Ronzani's right when she says that when you get something you really get something. And that's great. But half the test score is going to be based on two big essay questions. Frankly, I don't think you'll finish it in time."

Chris huffed. "Will too! I'll hand it in at the end of the hour just like everybody else."

"And that's just fine. But I'm going to look at it and if I think it needs more work I'm going to send it to Ms. Ronzani and you can go to her room during your study hall and take another run at it."

"I hate going to her room! It's full of freaks, goofballs and retards most of the time. Besides, I always go to the choir room during my study hall period."

Scott's nostrils flared. "HEY! Hang on, Chris! You are NOT going to talk that way about Ms. Ronzani's other students! Not in my room, anyway, and not with me! Ever! You got that?" Chris' eyes bugged and he sucked in a mouthful of air and nodded. "Those are my students, too, and I happen to know that there are some great young people who need to use the extra time and help available in her room. Those are some of the finest and hardest working guys and gals I've ever met." Chris stared at the wall sullenly. "Besides, the musical's almost a month down the road. This test is tomorrow. First things first."

"But I hate going to Ronzani's room!"

"We've established that. And I hate driving the speed limit, paying taxes and going to the dentist. And if I refuse to go along with them, then I get to live with the logical consequences."

The youngster shook his head. "Save it, Mr. T. I've heard it all before. I'm a senior, remember? This is nothin' new, and I'm not gonna do it. I know what's in my damned IEP and I know that I can take the extra help that's out there. I also know that I can decide not to take the extra help. Besides, I'm gonna be eighteen in December and then I'm calling my own IEP meeting and gonna get me outa' this program for dummies. I can do that you know!"

Scott nodded sadly. "And you can shoot yourself in the foot, or beat your head against a brick wall or jump off a cliff, but we both know that the results wouldn't be pretty."

There was a full minute of silence disrupted only by the ticking of the clock above the classroom door. Finally, Scott tapped the desk and inhaled deeply. "Alright, Christopher. You're going to take that test in class with everybody else, just as I would expect. Then, I'm going to pull your test and give it to Ms. Ronzani. I'll advise you, `Mr. Senior-Almost-Eighteen,' to ignore the choir room tomorrow, go to Ms. Ronzani's room and finish the test right. You're a smart guy, I think, and I know you can do well on the questions on the exam, but you need the extra time. But...you're right. You can decide to walk away from the chance to show me all that you know. But, Chris, I'm also going to talk with Mr. Abernathy and tell him you might not be in the choir room seventh hour."

Chris' eyes glowed red. "You can't do that! This is none of his fu...this is none of his business. Mr. Abernathy shouldn't give a damn what I'm getting in this stupid government class. It's my schedule and my school day."

Scott held up a hand again. "Chris, I can do that and I'm going to do that. I'm sure that Mr. Abernathy will understand. You have choices to make and we all have jobs to do. Right now, our job is to help you to be successful all the way around, and to get you to graduation day on time and in one piece."

Chris slammed his open hand with a fist. "This sucks!"

Scott ignored him and continued. "At the end of the day tomorrow, I'll get the exam back from Ms. Ronzani and grade it straight up." Chris just stared ahead. Scott gestured to his open grade book. "And right now, even though it's early in the year, you're carrying a C in this class, and it's a very low C at that. If you bomb this test, it'll easily fall to a D, and could go even lower." He paused. "Now, the football season will be over by the time first quarter grades are posted, but you might want to think about your GPA before wrestling starts. Pull a failing grade in a required course, and the coach is going to be looking for another 165-pounder."

Chris sneered. "Aw, hell, Mr. Turner! I live with that threat every year." He raised his left hand and hit Scott's desktop with a loud whack.' Scott stiffened in his chair with a jolt. Chris' eyes widened and he leaned forward, almost shouting. "Do you think you're the first one to ever throw this crap at me? Just cuz you're new here doesn't mean you're bringing me any new information. Jesus!" His voice creaked. "Mr. Turner...you just don't get it! I've had this shit rubbed in my face all my life! Kids giggling at me when we had to spell words out loud in elementary school. Gettin' pulled out of class to go see the friggin' reading specialist. I swear I was the only kid in the seventh grade who wasn't readin' and talkin' about Harry Potter when it was cool. And, everybody askin' why I got three days to write a letter to a hero for our English class, when they all only got one day. Doin' book reports in eighth grade about books that Zach read in friggin' third grade." The young man's lower lids welled. He tried in vain to make the tears evaporate with a set of rapid-fire blinks. He sniffed a long, stuttered inhale. "And now...you. You're here feelin' sorry for me too, wanting to single me out for special treatment. I just want to be done with it, Mr. T! I want to be done not fitting in. I need to be through being different from everybody else. I...I...I just want to be normal! And right now, I just need you to get it!"

Scott leaned over and propped his forearms on his knees. He tilted his head up and peered from under his brows, speaking just above a whisper. "I do get it, Chris. Really I do."

Chris coughed out a sharp scoff and he rolled his eyes.

Scott's voice was still low and slow. "It ain't shit we're rubbing in your face, Chris, but I do believe you that it really, really stinks. I wouldn't trade places with you for the world. School always came pretty easy for me, so I can't sit here and tell you that I know exactly all about what it is you're dealing with."

A warped, tired grin emerged on Chris' lips and he pointed at his teacher. "See what I mean!?"

Scott took a deep breath and held it for several seconds, sat up straight and looked his student squarely in the eyes as he exhaled. "But...Chris...please don't think that I'm clueless when I say that I really do know what it is to want to just fit in all the time, to be just like everybody else. Even if it does have to be by their rules and on their terms...just so long as you feel normal and fit in. You're just going to have to take my word for it, but I really do get that, Chris. Really."

Sad recognition and resignation clouded Scott's face. "But...and I know this is a kick in the butt...it just doesn't always work that way. This isn't about being able to make everything be just the way you want it to be. It practically never is. This is really about how you're going to handle the fact that some things are just never going to be the way you want them to be. Never. This isn't so much about what you want, Chris. It's about what is. It is what it is. And you an' me can deal with it. If I had a magic wand, Chris..."

Scott stopped and grinned sheepishly. "Aw hell, `Topher! Now I'm just talkin' stupid. There isn't any magic wand out there. If I had one, I'd be makin' billions and wouldn't have to put up with the likes of you." He sat back up and breathed a friendly sigh to answer the grin that had started crawling across Chris' face. He slapped his knees. "Well, all I can do is tell you is that I'm ready, willing and able to help you, when you're ready and willing to accept the help..." He sat back up and sighed. "But, you're a big boy and can make your own decisions. You'll take the test in the morning, and then it will be in Ms. Ronzani's room seventh hour tomorrow. You do what you think is best for you." Chris just stared at the floor, suddenly uncomfortable once again. Scott widened his smile. "So, how are rehearsal's going?"

In an instant, the room brightened and the temperature rose several degrees. Chris lit up. "Oh, Mr. T, it's great!"

"It's a fun musical. I'm looking forward to seeing it."

The kid smiled and his eyes grew wider. "You gonna come and see it?"

"Probably twice. I already signed up with Mrs. Prinsen to work the door taking tickets and handing out programs on opening night, and then I'm going to get tickets to be in the audience that Saturday. I invited my parents to come down for a weekend visit and promised them I'd take `em to a Broadway show."

Chris huffed and swept a hand, now in command of the conversation. "Opening night is usually kind of a drag. We always open on a Thursday night, so there's not that big of a crowd. But that way, if we screw something up, there aren't so many people to see it and there's still time to fix it." Then he nodded. "But the Friday and Saturday night shows are usually packed."

Scott laughed. "You sound like an old pro."

Chris shrugged. "Been doin' these for a while. I was the little kid with the lisp when they did The Music Man' about seven or eight years ago. They called a bunch of us up from the elementary school cuz they needed a mess of us little twerps to fill the cast. And I've been in the last three since I've been in high school."

"And now you're Joseph."

"Yeah," he rolled his eyes. "And I've had to double my time in the weight room, too. Do you know how often I'm gonna be out there without a shirt on? Or with that doggone colored coat opened to show my bare chest and gut?" He patted his tummy. "Needed to lose a pinch or two down here. Zach's been tottering along to the weight room and verbally kicking my butt."

Scott laughed. "When we first met it was you dragging him to the workouts for football practice."

"Yeah. Now he hobbles around and keeps razzing me, saying he doesn't want his best bud goin' out there half naked lookin' all flabby."

Scott arched his brows. "You're hardly flabby, Chris. You're solid as a rock. And you've been doing some real damage to your opponents on the field."

He shrugged and flipped a hand. "Aaaaahh, but I'm shorter'n most of em, and after I snap the ball I just blow ahead and can usually hit em low and knock `em on their asses." He grinned sheepishly. "When I'm not falling on my face, that is."

Scott cocked his head and shot Chris a wary glance. "I thought that was old news. Behind us, right?"

Chris offered a tentative nod. "Yeah. Don't tell Zach I mentioned it, huh?"

Scott laughed again. "You couldn't make this up. A big-time jock, center on the football team and a varsity wrestler, who acts and sings like a professional and can draw or paint the most amazing things, and is starring in `Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.'"

Chris blushed.

"And just a few minutes ago you referred to yourself as a dummy. You need to quit doing that, Chris. In many, many ways you're really very gifted. You know that, don't you? Do you have any idea what most of the folks around here would give to have your talents, me included?"

The bell rang, surprising both that they'd spent the entire class period talking. Chris shrugged and blushed and looked at his shoes again. "Well..."

There was a knock on the door before it opened. "Hey numb nuts! You coming to lunch or what? Sam's off with his girl someplace, so you gotta carry the trays. I'm starving!" Zach smiled and gave Scott a two-finger salute from the forehead. "Hey, Mr. Turner."

"Mr. Jacoby. Sorry to delay your buddy here. We were just shootin' the breeze. He says you're kicking his butt in the weight room these days."

Zach scoffed. "And he calls me the lazy pussy." He let go of the right crutch handle and pointed at his friend. "This nimrod needs to buff up if he's gonna be out on that stage in a few weeks. I'm not gonna put up with folks talkin' trash because my buddy was out there looking more like Chris Farley than Chris Propst."

Chris grinned and gave Zach a `hold on' signal with the back of his hand. "We done, Mr. T?"

Scott nodded. "As done as we're going to be, for now, I guess. I'll count on you to do what's best for you. And I'll clear the absence with Mr. Gregor for the math class you just missed. But you'll have to stop and see him for any makeup work you might owe him."

Chris nodded. "And you'll let Mr. Cox know that the absence is excused? He's a mutt on the attendance thing. I'll be marked absent for this period and I don't need that dork thinking I was truant."

"Got it. You deal with Mr. Gregor. I'll deal with Mr. Cox. Now go get your patient some lunch. He's looking a little pale."

First thing Friday morning, Bruce Rasmussen caught up with Scott while he was still at his mailbox. "Hey, Scott. Check out the new student sheet in your mailbox." Bruce was a tall, thin man about fifteen years Scott's senior. Still, his receding hairline looked premature to Scott, as he had a round, boyish face and twinkling eyes that seemed to never stop dancing. They'd formed a quick and friendly professional bond right off the bat, mostly out of their common interest in Zach Jacoby's current academics and his sudden change in post-high school plans. On top of that, Bruce had been a special education teacher for ten years before going into counseling, and Judy Ronzani had been singing Scott's praises with the school's two counselors because of his willingness to work with her and the rest of her department on behalf of the school's disabled students.

"A new student two weeks into the year?"

Bruce nodded. "You're gonna thank me. Young Mason Willingantz is transferring in, starting today. He's a real powerhouse." Scott scanned the sheet.

"A junior, in the AP class, huh? And a late addition to this course? That could be a tough row to hoe for a kid."

Bruce looked through the office window and waved at a girl passing in the hallway. His face shot back to Scott with wide eyes. "Not for this one. The class is about half juniors already, and this one you're gonna love. You should see his transcript. I met Mason and his mom just yesterday when they came in to enroll him. Transferring from somewhere in western Iowa. Melody...that's the mom...is just divorced, and has full custody. She's got family in the area and just now got relocated over here. But the kid is practically bionic! And, he's got a younger brother and sister coming up in a couple years. Mason's been in advanced and honors courses since his old district started labeling kids "gifted and talented" back in the first grade. They jumped him from fifth to seventh grade, skipping sixth altogether. You can throw anything you want at this one and he'll soak it up like a dry sponge."

Having teased Bruce before about being a Hawkeye who hailed from Ames, Scott couldn't resist. "You mean they actually have the seventh grade in Iowa? I thought they considered elementary school the end of the line over there, about as far as any kid could get."

A wry grin curled across the counselor's face and he shook his head. "Don't start."

He looked past Bruce and caught Matt Egelseer finishing a quick sip from the office water fountain. "Hey, Matt, what does Iowa stand for again?"

Matt wiped his lips and grinned. "Idiots Out Wandering Around."

"And what's the smartest thing coming out of Iowa?"

Matt didn't miss a beat. "Highway 51."

Millie strode through the small group of teachers on her way to Kim's office. "Millie, what do you call a carful of good lookin' girls driving around in Iowa City?"

She didn't miss a step. "I'm sure I wouldn't know."

"Tourists."

He had a million of `em.

Rasmussen sniffed and took the ribbing in stride. "You through?"

"For now, I suppose." Scott paused and smirked. "Actually, I think the AP class has been getting a bit complacent anyway. It'll be a good thing to inject a little competition from outside and rattle a few of their ego cages."

Bruce patted Scott's shoulder. "You're gonna thank me for this one."

"After you moved that Fornier kid into my afternoon history section, you owe me. The little shit is practically a full time job."

"You can thank medical science for Ritalin, Prozac and Depakote for keeping him in school at all. I knew you could handle him."

Scott was standing at the classroom door after the bell had rung to begin class second hour. He'd just instructed the kids to pair up on their own and said they were going to spend a couple days preparing a debate. He heard Zach's aluminum crutches hitting the floor and glanced out. "Get a move on Jacoby! We got some work to do here, and I think you're gonna like it." Chris just handed off Zach's books without comment and went on his way.

Zach was settling into his seat and stowing his crutches out of the way when a new face appeared in the doorway. Scott turned and smiled. "Mr. Willingantz, I presume."

The young man smiled meekly and nodded. "Yes, sir. Mason Willingantz. I'm..."

"The new guy! Well, Mason Willingantz, that puts you and me pretty much on the same footing. I'm the new guy here too." He waved an arm. "Come on in!" Scott's gaze swept across the room at Mason's new classmates, all of whom were sizing up the stranger with curious eyes. He could feel Mason's awkward discomfort, and he spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. "The big difference between you and me, Mason, is that I have the grade book and I own all the grades." Some kids grinned, others just rolled their eyes. Scott put a tempered hand on Mason's shoulder. "Ladies and gents, say `hi' to Mason Willingantz, our new addition from somewhere in Iowa, but we're not going to hold that against him." A light snicker rippled through the room and Mason gave up a gentle blush. "I've already heard wonderful things about him, and so the pressure is on him starting today." Scott looked around the room again. "It would appear, Mason, that the only one without a partner to work with today is Zach Jacoby. He's the tall one there with the hardware on his leg. Not a bad guy at first glance, but then you get to know him and the view will probably change." Zach grinned and shook his head through his classmates' chuckling. Scott tapped the new student's shoulder, lightly nudging him in Zach's direction. "Zach can get you up to speed on where we've been these first couple of weeks. I'll get your book, the syllabus and this unit's outline in just a second. If you have a few minutes after class, or later in the day, we should sit down to discuss what I think you might need to make up because of what you've missed."

Mason was a slight young man, maybe five eight Scott guessed. He wore his blond hair short, spiked stylishly on top and in front. He had a long sleeved tee advertising some charity marathon, untucked, with the sleeves pushed up almost to the elbow. He had on stylishly faded jeans over what looked like a new pair of Nike's. A thin silver chain hung around his neck and over the shirt. Scott thought he looked more like a freshman than a junior, and then remembered that Mason had skipped a grade. His face gave no hint of any whisker, and he had a countenance bordering angelic, Scott thought, if angels wore round wire rimmed glasses.

Scott pointed at the desk that Zach had moved around to face his own. Mason sauntered over and accepted Zach's handshake as Scott moved back to the front of the room. "Okay, troops. Yesterday we spent the day looking at Hamilton's financial plan for the new country under the new Constitution. Then we looked at Mr. Jefferson's exceptions to the same. Now, on Monday, we're going to do a little role playing. We will stage a cabinet meeting that would have been presided over by President Washington. Anybody wanna guess who's been cast in the leading role?" A collective groan rose as Scott jabbed his chest with both thumbs. "Now, half of you need to be able to give me the best, most logical and the most historically accurate arguments for the pro-Hamilton position on the issues of the day. The other half will have to try to knock them down with Jefferson's point of view." The pairs of students were already glancing and whispering who would be whom in the debate. "So take a minute and decide which of you would like to wear Hamilton's hat and which one is on Jefferson's side." While the students discussed it, Scott grabbed Mason's class materials and dropped them on his desk. "Okay, everybody decided who's who in this contest of ideas?" Everyone nodded. "Raise your hand if you're more pro-Hamilton." Half of the hands went up, including Zach's. Scott grinned. "Okay, here's the thing. You eight will come in on Monday with the best Jeffersonian arguments that you can muster."

Everybody groaned. Sam Alphonse held up a hand. "You mean the Republicans have to make the Federalist case, and vice versa?"

"Yep." He put a hand on each of Zach's shoulders. "For instance, you all heard Mr. Jacoby go on and on yesterday about what a brilliant pro-commerce, big-federal-government plan Mr. Hamilton had devised for this nation's economic future. On Monday, you will be dazzled by his razor sharp arguments in support of Jefferson's agrarian, small-government point of view."

Zach looked up with a grimace. "Aw, Mr. Turner. Why do we have to switch sides?"

"Because, Zachary, one of the best ways to know that you're right is to be able to identify precisely why the other guy is wrong. And the best way to show why the other guy is wrong is to know his positions inside and out. The same can be said for every disagreement. Even today, in most public debates, both sides just shout their own point of view. Then, in the face of opposing ideas, they just shout the same stuff louder, add a little name-calling and call it persuasion. But, if you show me that you can state your opponent's point of view sincerely and intelligently, then I'm more likely to believe you when you try to convince me how and why the other guy is wrong." Zach thought it over and a slow, if reluctant, nod commenced. Scott grinned. Plus, it makes you work a little harder." He winked and stepped back. "Okay, gang, go to work."

A half hour after the day ended, Scott heard the signature clicks and thuds of Zach heading toward his open classroom door. His head tilted up and his brow knitted down at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Rather than Zach and Chris exchanging verbal jabs, it was a girl's voice. "God, I remember having Mr. Cox in this room last year! I thought it'd never end."

"It's Mr. Turner's room now. You gotta meet him. He's so cool!" Zach ambled into the doorway. "Hey, Mr. Turner. Somebody here I want you to meet." He glanced over his shoulder and nodded into the room before gliding his way across the threshold.

Scott stood and admired the grace with which Zach was negotiating the cumbersome crutches. He craned his neck to try and look around Zach and found a demure grin on a much shorter brunette girl who was only a half step behind him. Zach paused and motioned her to come out from behind him. "Kayla, this is Mr. Turner. Mr. Turner, this is my girlfriend, Kayla Heubner. She graduated from here last spring."

Scott reached out his hand. "Kayla. Nice to meet you. We don't know each other yet, but I'm surprised that you haven't traded up yet since you started at...Marquette is it?" He waved them both to seats near his desk, pushing a chair over for Zach to plop into.

Kayla smiled and nodded but furrowed her brows. "Traded up?"

Scott grinned sarcastically. "C'mon, Kayla. Marquette's a good-sized university in a fairly big city." He pointed at Zach with a thumb. "You must be able to do better than this mug in Milwaukee." Kayla giggled nervously while Zach shrugged and took the ribbing. "So, did you come home to play nurse-maid for the weekend to give his folks a break?"

Zach scoffed. "I wish! Her cousin's getting' married this weekend."

Kayla smiled and looked up beaming. "And Zach, crutches and all, is going to brave the mob that's my family and come with me."

Scott cocked his head and grinned. "Always the gentleman, Zach, risking life and limb and all that."

Zach shrugged and casually cocked his head. "It'll be okay. She's got three older brothers who got my back covered. They won't let anybody come near me."

Just then Chris rounded the corner. "Hey numb..." He stopped short. "Oh, hey Kayla." He looked at the floor. "I didn't know you were home this weekend." He looked back up without even the hint of a welcoming grin.

Kayla's insincere smile met Chris' sharp gaze. "Hello, `Topher," she chirped.

Zach piped in. "Yeah, `Topher, I told you. This weekend's her cousin's wedding."

The room's temperature dropped five degrees, it seemed. Chris finally looked up at Zach. "I was just gonna see if you were ready to go. If you need a ride, we gotta hurry `cuz I gotta get back to suit up for the game tonight."

Zach waved him off. "Nope. You're off the hook, bud. Kayla's bringing me home. We're coming back for the game tonight, though, and then probably going out for pizza after."

Kayla's plastic smile hadn't faded. "Yeah, Chris. You can come along with us...if you want to."

There was a rap on the door behind Chris. Everybody turned to see the small blond with the wire rimmed glasses. Zach smiled and waved. Mason waved back as he craned his neck to make eye contact with Scott. "Uhm, Mr. Turner? Sorry to interrupt..."

"Not at all, Mason, come on in and join the party."

Mason stepped in somewhat tentatively and set down his book bag. "I have the rest of that makeup work you wanted. I thought I'd drop it off before I left."

Scott arched his brows and his eyes bulged a bit. "Wow! That was quick work! I'm impressed. That is, I might be impressed once I've read it." Mason grinned as he fished through a folder. "Mason, you know Zach...and this is his girlfriend, Kayla." The two exchanged nods. "And the sturdy young man on your left over there is Chris Propst. He's another senior in my government class."

The two exchanged a handshake and Mason smiled. "You're in my study hall, too. I saw you there today."

Chris' face lightened a bit. "I'm usually in the choir room during study hall..." his grin quickly disappeared. "...uhm, but I had some other stuff to do today, so I just stayed put."

Scott put down the pencil he'd been holding to avoid snapping it in two. He wanted to come up out of his chair. You little bastard,' he thought. Managed to slide past both Judy and Ollie...and me...by just staying put in study hall.' He made a mental note. `Need to find out who he has for study hall and get them in the loop on this, too.'

Scott shelved his ire for the time being and pointed toward Chris. "Uhm...in addition to centering on the football team, Mason, Chris is starring in the title role of this year's fall musical."

Mason smiled and nodded. "Cool! I like that show. I was talking to Ms. Moylan about the pit orchestra for the show today. She said she needed another trumpet."

Scott smiled. "Aaahhh. A musician too, Mason?"

Mason's smile slid into a shy grin, still looking at Chris. "Trumpet, piano and guitar." He looked at Scott abruptly. "So, here's this work you wanted, Mr. Turner. I better get going. I need to call my uncle for a ride home."

Chris started to open his mouth, but he stopped himself short.

Zach delayed Mason's exit a second when he spoke. "We're going to the game tonight, Mason. You ought to come too." He glanced down at the leg and crutches. "I get to sit in the handicapped seats, so there ought to be plenty of room if you want to sit with us and the few old-timers who sit there."

Mason cleared his throat. "Thanks, but I can't tonight. We're having my little brother's birthday party. Maybe some other time." He looked at Kayla. "But it was nice to meet you Kayla." He looked to his left and smiled. "And you too, Chris. I'll see you around." Finally he glanced back at Zach. "And I s'pose I'll see you in class on Monday." Zach gave him a silent `bye' with a raised chin and a grin.

After Mason had cleared the doorway, Zach blew out a short breath. "That is one smart dude, there. We worked together today in AP, and he just about ran circles around me." He looked at Scott. "Mr. Turner, if you can make this mock trial thing go, you ought to talk to Mason about joining. He'd be great."

Scott nodded. "I had the same thought myself earlier today."

Chris shrugged and mumbled with a weak wave. "I better get goin' too. My dad took off work tonight so he could come to the game. We're gonna eat early so I can get back. See you all later."

Scott was still doing a slow boil, but this was clearly neither the time nor the place to excoriate Chris. `I'll skin the little shit on Monday,' he decided as Chris disappeared into the hall.

Zach looked over. "You gonna be there tonight, Mr. Turner?"

Scott looked at the clock. I do believe I am. But I'll have to kick you two lovebirds out of here. I need to run a few errands, head home to take care of the pets and grab a bite to eat myself. Then, I think I'll be back."

Fifteen minutes later, Scott pulled up in front of the Hallmark shop a block off of Plover Avenue. Big Scott and Suzanne's anniversary was coming up in less than a week and he wouldn't be able to make it home, so he wanted to look for a card and a picture frame. He had a picture of the three of them in a canoe during an outing with family and friends the previous summer. It was a great picture. He'd had it blown up to five-by-seven and wanted to find just the right frame. They were nearly impossible to buy anything for and were at an age where the sentimental stuff worked best for them. For him, too.

He spent nearly a half hour digging through the assorted greetings, well-wishes and double entendre jokes. As was his habit, he gathered four other greeting cards for other occasions, just in case.' He had a desk drawer full of just in case' cards at home, but, somehow, that never seemed to matter. Finally, he found the right one for his parents. The sales woman showed him a beautifully simple pewter picture frame that was just the right size and he added that to his small bundle.

"Aren't you the new history teacher at the high school?" the woman asked as she scanned the cards.

"Yes, ma'am. Scott Turner."

She smiled and gently took a pair twenties from him. "I thought so. I saw the article on all the new teachers, and your pictures, just this afternoon." She held up the latest copy of "The Gazette.' "And Emmy Mortenson is my niece. She thinks you're just great. And this is a very nice article."

Scott grinned. "I'll have to pick up a copy. But, yeah, Emmy's in my AP class. She's a very sharp young lady," and then he added with a wink, "and obviously a pretty good judge of character."

The woman giggled. "You're her favorite teacher."

Scott took his change and picked up the bag. "Well, professional discretion and courtesy won't allow me to have a favorite student, but if I did..." he finished the sentence with a raise of his brows and a nod.

She smiled again and nodded back. "Understood, Mr. Turner. Welcome to New Allsted, and I hope you'll stop back."

He left the shop with a grin and shook his head. `Teaching in a small town. Ain't it great?'

He passed the café next to the card shop and opened the passenger door to his car, dropping the brightly colored bag onto the seat. He slammed the door shut and checked his hair in the reflection of the windshield before buttoning his top button and fiddling with the knot of his tie. He walked around the car and paused for traffic to pass. Once clear, he strode ahead, admiring the fine etching on the smoked glass in the office door across the street. "Jonathan Bedford, J.D., Esq. Attorney at Law."

Author's Note: As always, this installment is made possible by the diligent efforts of Kory, Scott and Ted. I'll also doff my cap to Tim Mead. I stole the idea of having a main character reading stories at Nifty from his latest posted work, "Flyleaf." It's an outstanding story, by the way, as is everything that Tim writes.

One of my very alert readers pointed out to me in an e-mail a couple weeks ago that I'm coming up on an anniversary as a wanna-be writer. It was three years ago that I started posting "Strange Bedfellows." (first posted on 2/21/06) If you've found the stories worth reading, I hope you'll consider helping me to celebrate the anniversary by sending a donation to Nifty.

A few other e-mails tell me that some of you are coming late to the party, which is great, and that you're unaware of this tale's two prequels. If that's you, and you want to take the time and retrace Scott and Company's steps prior to this story, you can find them at:

/nifty/gay/college/strange-bedfellows/

/nifty/gay/college/fork-in-the-road/

However, February 23 is a more significant date in my book. My good friend in Baltimore is observing a much more important mark on Monday. Here's to wishing him another 16 years, and 16 after that, and...

Be Well, -S.T.