When the World Changed

Here is the nest part of this story. My thanks, as always, to Flip (author of "Val 'n' Tyne", which I heartily recommend) for his editing help, and a special thanks to Alexis for the input on literary criticism and plot ideas. And, of course, my thanks to the readers who have been so kind as to write and tell me what they think of the story to date - please keep that up, it's not only useful to get the feedback, but deeply gratifying.

The usual disclaimers apply. This is entirely a work of fiction, and to the exstent it depicts sexual acts and sexual themses involving minors, if that sort of thing is illegal where you reside, or if that's not your thing, then by all means don't read it. All rights are reserved by me, except of course the license to Nifty as per their user agreement. Thanks again to all; i hope you enjoy it.

When the World Changed, Part 12

Brady's English class was reading A Separate Peace. It was, of course, a natural pick for a freshman English class in a prep school. His teacher, Mr. Edwin, had a thick Brooklyn accent (though it turned out he was from Jersey City - maybe, Brady wondered, there's some difference between the two), but was a great teacher. Brady loved the class. The book, however, troubled him the more he read it. The destructive aspects of Gene's relationship with Phineas scared him. He found himself examining his own feelings for Doug frantically as he read.

The matter came to the fore Monday morning, when Mr. Edwin pushed the class into a discussion. "OK," he said, "so Gene jostles the tree branch Phineas is standing on and knocks him off. The fall breaks Finny's leg, ends his athletic career, and starts him down a long decline. It kills him, eventually." He looked around. "So why'd Gene do it? Why'd he do that to his best friend? Does anyone think it was purely accidental?" Everyone shook their heads. "Then why?"

Vic Stenkowski raised his hand. "He was jealous."

"Of what?"

Some kid Brady didn't know well - Sanders, or something - raised his hand. "Well, Phineas is everything Gene isn't. He's outgoing, and, like, a jock, and he's easy to be friends with, and rich, and popular - all that stuff."

"Important stuff?"

The class laughed a bit - a self conscious embarrassed laugh. "Well, yeah," Vic added. "At a place like Devon that stuff is important - or here, for that matter."

"What makes that so important?"

The class shifted. "It just is," someone muttered. "It's like who you are, and everything. "

"Oh, so maybe you think there might be some ulterior motive in having you guys read this right off the bat?" This time the class' laughter was louder, and more unforced.

"Is that all?" Mr. Edwin continued. "Wasn't Finny his best friend? You don't do that to your best friend, do you? Not even if you're a bit jealous of him."

"No," Vic continued, less certain of himself now. "He . . . he . . . kids are like that, though. They get their backs up about stuff, stuff that doesn't really mean anything. It - it's tribal," he added, as he came up with the term he'd been searching for. "Like Lord of the Flies."

Mr. Edwin smiled. "We'll get to that book soon, Mr. Stenkowski. What do you mean by that, though? What's tribal? What do boys do with each other, or to each other, like that?"

"All sorts of stuff, sir. They - they bully each other, and like get into fights . . ." He touched his nose without realizing it. "They hurt people and they don't think about it."

"OK, why?"

The class laughed. Behind Brady, Evan threw his hands up in exasperation. "Why? They're guys, they're teenagers. They're all hormonal and everything." Brady found himself feeling uncomfortable.

Mr. Edwin smiled. "True, boys that age - your age - get aggressive about dumb stuff, a lot. And all the other emotions are just as intense, too. Hate, jealousy, love, envy. Fear." He paused, and looked about. "What did Gene fear about Finny?"

"That he was more popular than he was," someone spoke up. "That he was a better jock," another said.

Brady's stared at the book, a very different answer resting on his lips, making his eyes widen with realization. "Mr. Conover, you look like you have an idea, what is it?"

Brady swallowed hard. "M - maybe it was, um, love." The class was staring at him. "Maybe Gene, somewhere inside, loved him. And, that would be scary, right?"

Mr. Edwin looked at him intently. "That's a very subtle reading, Mr. Conover. And a hard one to put out there. But yes, that's one aspect I wanted to bring out. They loved each other, didn't they? Like best friends do," he added, it seemed a bit hastily, as the class grumbled with discomfort. "And there aren't a lot of things scarier in this world than love. Because you guys, you're not supposed to love each other, are you? It's not . . . . manly, am I right?"

"How can love be scary?" someone asked. "I mean you're, well, in love, right? That's supposed to be a good thing."

Mr. Edwin smiled. "You ever been in love?"

"Well, no, but -"

"Then forget it, I can't explain." He waved a hand dismissively in the air, grinning, and the class laughed, though again a bit nervously.

"OK," he continued, "what do we mean by love, in this form? The love that Mr. Conover sees between Gene and Phineas?"

Alan Black started giggling. "Well, they're not having sex or anything, right? I mean that'd be gross."

Mr. Edwin smiled. "And I doubt Dr. Leeds would let you read the book in that case, either." More laughter. Brady felt his cheeks redden. "But keep that idea in mind as we go through things this year: Love. When we get to Julius Caesar this winter, remember to look at how much the characters - the male ones - talk about their love for each other. That's a feeling - or at least an acknowledgment of a feeling - that's been nothing unusual in a lot of places and times, but that's almost completely suppressed today. You never tell your buddies, your friends, you love them, right?" Silence. "Now, you guys all think of love as kissing and having sex and things like that. But it can take a lot of other forms. Love - caring, whether for other men, your family, your friends, a place, maybe a cause or an idea - is a big part of our history and culture. It doesn't have to be dirty, or sexual." He shrugged. "For some guys it is -" the class tittered, and Brady blushed even deeper "- on some subjects anyway, but it's something you know you've already felt, even though you don't admit it. Think of your best friend from home. The guy who stayed back there when you came here to school. You miss him, right?" People audibly shifted in their seats. "That's love - one form of it, at least."

"That's not really love, though, is it? I mean you don't love a tree, or a lake, or stuff like that," Evan objected.

"Depends on how you define love. If all love is is sexual, I suppose it's not. I hope not, anyway," and more laughter.

"But love - real, deep love, really can be scary, as Mr. Conover said," Mr. Edwin continued. "The idea of being in love can terrify you, as much as it can make you happy. It shouldn't, right?" The class nodded. "But it does. Love is a scary thing, because it's a loss of control. You give yourself to what you love. Or who you love. And we're not supposed to lose control, ever, are we? Not as big strong guys, right? And that feeling, and the fear of it, can make you do crazy things. Destructive things, even to the person you love." He looked around. "Sometimes, especially to the person you love. Sometimes to prove to yourself that you don't love, or at least that you don't love in what you think is a bad way. Was part of what Gene did to Finny fear over realizing he loved him? Along with the jealousy and the envy and all the other things?"

"B - but that's really sick," Evan replied. Brady cringed a bit. "I mean, a guy loving another guy - that's perverted stuff. Gene's not perverted."

"Perverted? You all think that? Gene would be perverted to love Finny?" The class nodded, though uncertainly. "That's we're brought up today to think, isn't it? But what about other cultures, where it's not such a big deal, even if it is sexual? Ancient Greek and Roman culture, for example."

"Well, they weren't Christian," a kid named Stebbins who Brady really didn't know well chimed in. Brady immediately disliked him, for reasons he couldn't put a finger on.

Mr. Edwin nodded. "Yes, they weren't. And today we frown on all sorts of affection between men, right? Even being too friendly. But it's part of history. There's a difference between love and erotic love. OK? You love your dads, but that's not erotic." The class laughed at that idea. "Pretty bad, huh? But still, you love him, right?" Brady hated this subject, especially right at that point. "And you'll make friends here you'll feel like that about. You'll love 'em. Here, and in college too. Maybe you already have a friend like that. And that's love, and it's complicated to work through, especially if you think that any form of love is dirty if it involves another boy. It can be hard for an adult. For a teenager . . . well, sheesh." The class laughed again.

"So what's the difference? How do you know the difference?" someone asked. Brady was steadfastly refusing to look at anyone, or take any further part in the discussion.

Mr. Edwin pointed at them. "That's exactly the problem that Gene is trying to work through, even though he doesn't realize it or articulate it here on the pages. What are his feelings? What's the nature of his love? Is it an OK kind, or the scary forbidden kind? That worry he's having isn't written out for you, though. It's inside the pages, just like it's inside his head, in a place he's not consciously aware of - or won't admit to. That's something you have to learn to look for in books - in good ones, anyway, in literature - because that's where a lot of the action happens. Good authors won't lay everything out for you on a silver platter. You have to think about what you're reading - the characters, their motivations, the gaps between what they say and what they do - and not just expect it all to be explained to you. They may have things going on that they can't explain because they don't realize it themselves."

"But Finny doesn't have that problem like Gene, though, does he? He just loves Gene - to Phineas, Gene can't do anything wrong. Even when he's confronted with the evidence that Gene did deliberately jounce the branch, Finny doesn't waver. He loves, and he forgives. That's what you do when you love someone. And that's part of what Gene learns, finally. He learns how to love, even though it costs him so much to do it, and even though he loses Finny in the process. It costs him so much that his love winds up all wrapped up with regret, when he visits the school again as a grown up and remembers Phineas. That's the worst type of love - love you never admit, and wind up losing and regretting."

The class was silent. Brady felt like his face was on fire. "So there's an adult lesson for today, I guess. The cost of letting love, of whatever kind, slip away, and then regretting it. Whether it's with a friend, a girl, your folks, anybody. Because you will regret it. You wind up like Gene does. Is he happy?"

Evan shifted in his seat. "Well, sort of. I mean he - he found, um . . . "

Mr. Edwin smiled. "Peace?"

Evan laughed. "Yeah, I guess."

"Eventually, yes, he did. But it hurt, too, didn't it? Peace comes at a price. Peace after a war, peace inside you. You earn it with pain, you work for it, and you pay to get it."

The class shuffled out soon after that. "Hey Brady, do you love me?" Evan teased as they jogged down the stairs.

"Desperately. I'm gonna be like a girl at a Tom Jones concert and throw my underwear at you."

Evan laughed raucously. "God, gross!!! The fish smell!!!"

Brady grabbed his crotch and pretended to yank. "Here they come! Open up!" He could hear Vic and Stebbins cackling behind them. He hoped he had pulled off the diversion.

He was withdrawn the rest of the day, stewing. He got to the locker room early that afternoon and sat at his locker. Was he just in love with Doug as a friend? Was he just being a pervert, or something, to think about him sexually? How did you separate the two? He knew he could never consciously hurt Doug, but what about the small moments of involuntary whim like Gene had had? He shuddered to think that he might do such a thing. He rested his forehead against the steel door, eyes closed, and time washed over him.

"Hey, I wondered where you were!" Doug slid past Brady and sat on the bench in front of his locker, dialing the combination. His tie was already undone, and his shirt unbuttoned. His smooth chest expanded and contracted, tan and subtly sinewed. Brady stared, blinked, and looked away. The stirrings he felt were far deeper than mere friendship, however intense their friendship might be. Nope, no escape there.

"I just felt like, you know, hanging out here, for a little." Fear flashed through him. Was he really capable of doing some crazy destructive thing to Doug, like Gene had to Phineas? If he couldn't have him, would he somehow go bogatz and hurt him, maybe without even consciously meaning to? Without even realizing he was doing it? But how could he ever hurt Doug?

By telling him, a small voice spoke inside him. By telling him how you feel, and ruining your friendship with him. By cheapening it with your perversion. That would hurt Doug more than anything. That would drive him away. Brady saw that he had to push it all down, deep inside, and never let it out. Never show a thing. He had to preserve what he had, and not risk losing it. He couldn't let himself hurt Doug, not even that way. Especially not that way.

"I don't blame ya," Doug said lightly. His shirt was off, and his shoulder blades flexed like small wings as he reached into the locker. "First day of the new world, right? No McShane!" He slid his pants and underwear off in a single shucking motion, and Brady forced himself to avert his eyes. His ass was barely two feet away, and its curve and contours intoxicated him. God, I just can't.

He stood, facing away from Doug, took a deep breath, and started to strip. "Yeah. It's gonna be great."

Mr. Duquette was running practice instead of Mr. Glendon. The team wondered at that, but everything else seemed normal. They worked on drills, and on an option offense designed to get Jack Spencer out around end so he could use his speed. About half an hour into practice, they saw Mr. Glendon jogging out to join them. He looked angry, and pale. Several minutes later, a kid in pads emerged from the gym and strolled casually out to their field. It was Ian McShane. The boys were dumbfounded. Brady and Doug exchanged glances. Evan stood with his hands on his hips, staring.

"Sorry to be late, sir," Ian said cockily to Mr, Duquette. "Mr. Glendon and I had a meeting. With the Headmaster." He was clearly enjoying himself.

"Get in the huddle, McShane," snapped Mr. Glendon. "Let's see how the option plays are coming."

Practice continued, but no one was concentrating on anything. Mr. Glendon was in a nasty mood as well, shouting at them angrily at numerous times. He finally ended practice early, sending them back to the gym with a tongue-lashing They trudged inside, feeling oddly deflated.

All except for Ian McShane. He was ebullient. "We're gonna kick ass this week, guys! I'm here!!!" He stood at the gym door, clapping the back of his teammates as they entered past him. He grabbed Evan's arm briefly. "I'm gonna keep your uniform so clean you're gonna eat off it," he promised. When Brady and Doug reached the door, he looked past them to shout encouragement at Billy Hinchcliffe.

They sat at their lockers, staring. "How'd he get back on?" Doug muttered.

Brady pushed his hair back. "No idea. God, he looks like he won the Olympics or something." They could hear Ian singing something off key in the shower.

"Did you see Glendon? I think he wanted to kill something." Doug yanked off his shoulder pads and threw them disgustedly into the locker with a loud crash.

Brady was too distracted to care about being naked with Doug there, or in the shower. They talked quietly about anything they could think of - how they wondered if Nixon would really run again, who might be on the Smothers Brothers show the next Sunday. "I wish I'd seen Pete Seeger," Doug said. "He was on the show our first weekend here, my dad said. He loves Pete Seeger."

"Who's Pete Seeger?" Brady asked. Doug rolled his eyes.

McShane's return to the team seemed to be the main topic of dinner conversation, too. Mr. Taber, at the heads of Brady's table, seemed disapproving, but said nothing. Brady ate staring directly at his plate. Ian's laughter kept echoing through the hall.

Back in the dorm, David was furious. "They fucking bought his way back on the team, did you hear? His fucking dad pledged like two hundred thousand to upgrade the dining hall or something. They've been trying to decide if they should tear it down for a couple of years, and now they can redo it and keep it. Big fucking whoop. I just can't believe this shit; this place has no Goddam spine." He kicked his chair, which fell over loudly.

Mr. Billips stuck his head in the door. "What was that noise, Tanner?"

David's face was stony. "Just an accident, sir. The chair fell over."

"That's School property, Tanner. You be careful with it, understand?"

"Of course, sir. I wouldn't want to break it. My parents can't afford to bribe me out of trouble."

Billips snorted and left. "Prick," David breathed angrily.

Brady, David, Doug, Evan, Vic, and Dunc spent the time between the end of study hall and lights out that night brooding together over things. All were morose. Jerry Goldman came up from his room downstairs. "McShane is like having a party. He got a bunch of Cokes and bags of potato chips somehow, and he's got the whole first floor in his room." He licked his lips anxiously. "David, I - I really need to, you know, go back down and, like, be seen. I snuck up here, I said I was gonna take a leak. I mean I live on the same floor with him, I can't -"

"Go," David said. He looked resigned.

The rest of the week got no better. Ian, and Stud Douggie (whose own DC probation apparently had been wiped clean as well) were insufferable. Ian clearly now regarded himself as anointedly superior to everyone else (in his class, at least), and behaved in football practice as if he owned the place. Mr. Glendon seemed tongue-tied, unable or unwilling to do much to keep him in line. The best he could do was to work the whole team to death - thus including McShane in the torture. Ian's natural tendency to dog it during conditioning, however, spared him the full brunt of even that indirect punishment. By Friday, they were exhausted, and played like it, losing again to another team Brady felt they should have beaten easily.

They were riding, silent and depressed, in the Guppy back to campus after their loss, trying to fit together on the narrow bench seats while still wearing their sweaty uniforms and pads. McShane was the only person who seemed unfazed by their loss - an odd thing, given his usual competitive fury (and to be fair, he had played well, making numerous tackles and intercepting a pass). He started singing "Soul Man" at the top of his lungs, even getting up at red lights to dance up and down the aisles. Jimmy, the black equipment manager who'd handed out uniforms the first day, was driving the Guppy, and snapped at Ian repeatedly to sit the hell down, but to no avail.

Jack Spencer - ordinarily the quietest guy on the team - finally spoke up. "Shut up and sit down, dipshit. We lost the fucking game."

"And that's my fault, how? I don't play the whole fucking game because we're not supposed to play to win anyway! You got a beef, take it to Glendon. Or Leeds." He grinned. "See if you can make that work," he added, obviously pleased with himself.

Billy Hinchcliffe was angry, too. "Fuck you, McShane, we played as well you as you guys today."

"Yeah, really well, I was soooo impressed," Ian mocked him.

Jack Spencer stood in his seat. He was a big kid - a bit taller than Brady, even, and already surprisingly filled out and strong for a freshman. "Sit the fuck down or I'll cram your daddy's fucking wallet down your throat to shut you up, OK?"

Ian turned cold. "You fucking mock my father again and it'll be your ass, Spencer. You got that?"

Jack was unfazed. "Oh, are you gonna do something, Ian? Or are you gonna get your prick brother to jump me when I walk into the dorm some night? You ever do anything in life for your own fucking self or do you hide behind Daddy and Stud Douggie all the time?"

"Dammit, you boys got t' siddown right now!" Jimmy shouted from the front of the bus. Ian stared at Jack for a moment, then shrugged dismissively and wheeled back to his seat.

Doug shook his head. "Can I just kill him, please?" Brady wanted to help.

The weekend was more of the same. A constant grey drizzle fell, whipped by strong chilly winds. The varsity lost an away game to a much larger school up in Connecticut - too far away for Wilson to afford to charter buses to send the student body to watch. The result was that the students spent the entire time indoors, trying to stay warm and dry, with only limited success. Brady spent much of both days in Doug's room, hanging out, listening to records and the radio, shooting the shit with Doug. He had invited Doug to spend the open weekend with him in Cullingstown, but Doug hadn't gotten approval from his parents yet - they had been hoping to see him. Brady prayed nightly that the answer would be yes.

Doug wore t-shirts when not in dress clothes. Most were clearly old ones that he was in the process of outgrowing. A thin tanned strip of his stomach, dimpled with his belly button, showed often as he moved about or lifted his arms, offering Brady tantalizing glimpses of his smooth flat torso. The shirts also clung tightly to his shoulder and arms, allowing Brady a barely concealed look at the contours of his body. It was viscerally thrilling, but also agonizing. He yearned more and more to touch Doug, to run his hand down the curve of his throat and onto his chest, to kiss him anywhere he could. His dreams were becoming more and more explicitly erotic, with visions of Doug's face above him, scrunched up and open mouthed as he climaxed on him (or in him, or something - that part was still maddeningly nonspecific).

More than once, Dunc or somebody asked him a question two or three times before he even heard it. He explained how tired he was, from school and football. They seemed to believe him. Doug always smiled at these lapses tolerantly, his face like summer sunshine, and Brady would grin clumsily back. The words kept forming in Brady's mind, and he kept pushing them back down.

On Sunday night, Brady was huddled with David, trying to decipher his algebra homework even though study hall was formally over. He was angry with himself for not understanding things better (the first time in his school years he'd failed to grasp a subject intuitively), and he was thus simultaneously intimidated by it and bitterly determined to conquer it. For his part, David was a good tutor - patient, lighthearted, and encouraging. Their sessions seemed to involve as much laughter as learning.

Their door burst open, and Doug strode in. "Just talked to my dad on the pay phone downstairs," he grinned. "We're set."

Brady stood, feeling a bit dizzy. "Really? All weekend?" Doug nodded. Brady let out a whoop and leaped into Doug's arms, crushing him in a hug. It took him a second to realize what he was doing. He stepped back abashedly. "Sorry."

Doug was looking at him a bit oddly, he thought. "No problem, I think it's really cool myself. Wanted to let you know right off." Brady glanced sidelong at David, who was smiling slightly.

Several awkward seconds passed. "OK," Brady said, suddenly nervous, "let me see if the phone's free so I can call my mom and tell her. She'll want to, you know, make plans, and all." He hurried from the room. God, he thought, I hope I didn't blow it there.

His mother was sleepy, or maybe a bit drunk. Maybe both. She cooed happily over the fact that Brady would be bringing a friend home for the weekend. Brady suddenly felt nervous: what if she was like that when Doug was around? He wanted to ask her not to drink that weekend, but he'd never said a thing to her on the subject, and it was against his most basic nature to say anything now. She has lots of reasons to drink, he thought. She doesn't need me being all moral and disapproving and crap. He just prayed he wouldn't wind up being embarrassed.

His fears fell away back in his room, as he began talking more with Doug about their upcoming weekend. He knew Cullingstown would be playing a home football game, and they were determined to watch. He talked about contacting some of his friends as well (though he was still a bit unsure about Kenny, on many levels). They could bike to the trotter farm Brady had stablehanded on if the weather was good, and maybe even get to exercise a couple of the horses. Doug was especially interested in that. Brady grinned: That's right, his dad's a vet, of course.

David was in the bathroom a few minutes later, when Bill Fieldstone knocked on the door. Brady and Doug, huddled together plotting their weekend, looked up. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Brady stood quickly. "No, no, nothing ,we- um, I mean Doug and me - um, we're going to Cullingstown for open weekend."

Fieldstone nodded. "Cool, far out. You'll have fun. Just thought I'd stop by and see how you were getting along."

Brady felt vaguely nervous under Fieldstone's steady gaze. His face was always so placid, as if he hadn't a care in the world and was in complete control of everything, but there was an intensity there that seemed to pass right through Brady. It made him a bit queasy sometimes. "Doin' great,' Brady said, wishing he could avert his eyes from Fieldstone's gaze. "I mean, you know, nothing that getting rid of McShane couldn't solve." He meant that to be in jest, but he immediately worried if it had been misconstrued.

Fieldstone nodded solemnly, stepping further into the room. "I know what you mean," he said, dropping onto Brady's desk chair. "I was kind of hoping they were on the outs, too. I hear they've been bothering you."

"It's not bad," Brady said. "I can handle it." He didn't want Fieldstone intervening, even if on his behalf. He wanted to deal with it himself. That's what he did, after all - he dealt with things on his own. And he didn't want Fieldstone involved in any event, for some reason.

"Right." His gaze held Brady for another second or two, before he turned to Doug with an easy smile. "So how about you - doing OK so far?"

Doug seemed even less comfortable than Brady, but determined not to show it. "Yeah, doing fine."

"Cool. You guys are kinda tight already, aren't you?"

Brady felt a mild panic. Was he that obvious? Doug seemed not to be too bothered by the question, though. He smiled and relaxed back onto Brady's bed. "We're friends, yeah. Brady's a cool guy."

Fieldstone nodded, still smiling. "That he is." He glanced back at Brady, the smile broadening. It was both welcoming and somehow predatory, like a cat enjoying the squirms of the rodent it's about to kill. "OK, well I don't mean to bug you. Just thought I'd check in on the other Bevansman here, you know how it is. Later." He swung up from the chair and glided from the room.

Doug looked a bit perplexed. "Does he do that a lot?"

"No, not a lot. He just, I dunno, appears, sometimes, and . . . That was, y'know, kind of, um, odd, somehow, right? Weird?"

"Kind of. I mean he's a senior and a hotshot and all - what's he care how you or me are doing ?"

Brady shrugged and sat on his chair. It was still a bit warm from where Fieldstone had sat on it. "He has this thing about the scholarship. That's the 'Bevansman' bit. Like we're the only two members of this secret club or something."

Doug laughed. "Now that's really creepy. Do you have to do some weird initiation things like get paddled or run naked around campus or something to get in?"

"Branding. I think it involves branding." They laughed, and relaxed. With a glance at each other, both boys simultaneously launched into the "Branded" theme, and Doug lunged at Brady, pretending to rip epaulets off his shoulders.

This quickly devolved into wrestling on the bed, with Brady struggling some but more than willing to let Doug win. The feel of his body against him was wondrous. Doug sat on his chest, holding his arms over his head, and laughed. "Another win for Sammartino!!!" he shouted, laughing. "You give?"

Brady was laughing too, but also worried that he was starting to get hard. "Yeah, I give. Now get offa me."

Doug started tickling him. "Little boy in a Superman cape, huh?"

Brady squirmed, laughing. "Stop it!" He writhed his hips away from Doug to hide his tumescence.

Doug was grinning and leaning closer. "I am Lex Luthor and victory is mine at last!" he intoned in a fake portentous voice. Brady laughed, and wiggled one too many times. Doug lost his balance, fell back on his haunches, and his butt dropped right onto Brady's lap. Onto where Brady's erection was pushing up the front of his pants. Brady's eyes widened, and Doug froze for an instant, staring at him.

David opened the room door. "You guys are gonna get stung if you keep making so much damn noise." He was toweling his hair as he walked in, his bathrobe wrapped tightly about him.

Doug leaped up from the bed as if shocked by electricity. Brady sat up quickly, bending over some at the waist to conceal himself. His face was suddenly mottled red. Doug glanced rapidly between Brady and David, whose view of the room was still partially obscured by his towel. "S - sorry," Doug stuttered, "w- -we were - you know, just - we were like wrestling. Fooling around. I mean playing around. I mean . . . ." He looked at Brady in utter panic.

Brady started to laugh. The whole thing was so absurd, so awful, so damning. He couldn't help it. Doug stared at him for a second in astonishment before breaking up as well. David lowered his towel, looked at them both, and shook his head. "You're like dope friends or something," he muttered. That set them laughing even harder. As he rolled back on his bed, Brady felt himself soften to acceptable dimensions.

He spent a long time after lights out worrying: had Doug felt his erection? Would it freak him out, scare him off, if he did? Doug had been relaxed as always when he left the room that night. But the danger of discovery had been too real. He'd had a close call. He had to keep it from happening ever again. He rolled to face the wall, reaching down to touch himself. I can never tell him, or show him, or do anything to let him know. I can't lose him like that, and regret it forever after. I just have to be alone. He clutched himself and jerked off - silently, intensely, and he came in shuddering silence.

Since they had no game that week (Friday being the start of open weekend), Mr. Glendon used the time for conditioning (a miserable choice, in almost everyone's opinion) and in teaching the second unit players more (a much better idea, the team felt). Brady and Doug worked together with the line guys several times, and had immense fun doing it. Ian somehow managed to avoid doing much of anything - possibly because his coaching demeanor seemed to consist mostly of berating the other boys and calling them all wusses and faggots. This method, charitably speaking, had less than mixed results. His overall attitude, however, remained just as annoying. "You should run for class president," he told Evan one day as they walked in from practice. "I'd support you, and you'd win hands down."

Evan looked at him levelly. "Thanks, I'll think about it."

Later that night, Evan sat on Brady's bed with Doug, Dunc, and Alan Black crowded into the room to listen to an odd band called the Grateful Dead. "They're apparently big in California. San Francisco and all that LSD stuff," David said as he put the record on his stereo. "Durmeister let me borrow it."

"The senior guy Storeman's always after to cut his hair? The dope guy?" Alan was astonished. "Geez, David, you gotta be careful who you associate with, y'know? You don't wanna be labeled a hippie or anything!"

"Do I look like a hippie?" David laughed, opening his arms. With his dress shirt casually unbuttoned at the neck, revealing his white undershirt, his carefully combed hair, and his high colored smooth cheeks, David looked more like somebody's little brother fresh from altar boy rehearsal than any sort of hippie.

"So anyway," Evan continued, "I was thinking about running for class president anyway. I know Hunter, up on my floor, is thinking about it too. He's a nice guy. But now McShane wants me to run; he says he'll support me."

"Let me guess," David broke in, a mirthless smile on his face. "He guaranteed you'd win with his support."

"How'd you know?"

"Man, how else does he operate? I'm surprised he's not running himself. In fact, I'm surprised he hasn't already like anointed himself class president, king, and lord of all hosts or something."

"Well, I don't want his support. I don't need it. If he's gonna like glom onto me and think he's got some sort of, like, hold on me, because he supported me, well, fuck that, I won't run. I don't need the aggravation."

"Tell him to fuck off and run anyway," Dunc counseled. "Then when you win it'll really piss him off."

They laughed at the prospect, then fell silent as "Viola Lee Blues" wound its slow and meandering way to an end. "This guitarist is amazing," Alan Black whispered. "Who is he?"

"Jerry Garcia," Dunc answered in a reverent tone. "My cousin says he hangs out with this like commune up there in Frisco that's led by this writer, I forget his name. They do all sorts of weird shit, apparently."

Brady was leaning against the wall, with Doug's shoulder lightly rubbing his. The music somehow intensified his awareness of Doug's proximity. Could he actually smell Doug - not like B.O. or anything, but Doug himself? The essence of the boy, of his hair and skin. The air around him seemed suffused with it. He closed his eyes and took long, deep, relaxing breaths, savoring it like a good meal.

A sock landed against his face, its smell decidedly not anything like Doug's. "Hey Bray, wake up man!" Evan was laughing at him.

Brady sat forward, embarrassed. I'm awake, I was just, like, listening."

"With that smile on your face? You look like you were having this really good dream or something."

"I, uh - well I was dreaming of Viola Lee, right?" The conversation turned to why any parent in their right mind would name a kid "Viola," and Brady glanced at Doug, who was regarding him with a slight smile.

"So is that old guy gonna try to run us out of town or something if we go back to his shop?" Doug asked.

Brady grinned. "Nah, he can't live without the aggravation. He bitches about the damn kids every second of every day, but they're the only people who go in his store mostly. He's just a blowhard."

Luce knocked on the door. "Time to break it up, guys. Five minutes."

The week's classes went agonizingly slowly to Brady. Most of his teachers seemed to regard the coming open weekend as a perfect excuse to have major tests, which dampened everyone's spirits even more than the worsening weather. Brady was making surprising progress in Spanish. He was able to hold at least rudimentary conversations with Dr. Cortes or Alan Black in the language, and his grade was moving towards 80 - the honors level. He was determined to get all his grades well into the 80s by the end of the semester in December. He'd never been anything less than an honor student in his life, and he sure as hell wasn't going to fall short now.

To do so, however, meant making significant strides in algebra, and Mr. Wadleigh seemed an impossible mountain to climb. He was surly, and seemed contemptuous of anyone who gave a wrong answer. "Look at you boys," he would mutter. "Look at how much of your parents' money you're wasting, being here and not putting in any effort. You should be ashamed." Occasionally he would have some particularly recalcitrant (to him, anyway - the kids all seemed to Brady to be terrified of the man) student stand and show the class the label on the inside lapel pocket of his suitcoat. "Look at that," Mr. Wadleigh would snap. "You parents buy you suits at Brooks Brothers" (or J. Press, or sometimes Italian makers), "and what do you do? Nothing. You don't study, you don't learn. It's disgraceful." Try as he might, Brady knew his dislike of the class and the subject, driven by his dislike of Mr. Wadleigh, was hurting the way he performed in the class. Part of him wanted to smack the old man on top of his bald, liver spotted head with a baseball bat. He managed an 81 in the algebra midterm, and felt like a World Series winner. Mr. Wadleigh even gave him a grudging compliment on it - "Somewhat better, there, Mr. Conover. You may have a brain after all." - that he convinced himself to take as a good sign.

His other classes were going well. Earth Science remained a polite joke, with Coach Drake more interested in discussing game films than geology. Mr. Edwin and Brady had a great rapport in English, and Dr. Cortes continued to take a special interest in Brady's Spanish skills - an interest that Stud Douggie viewed with open contempt. Given the grades that Stud Douggie was pulling down, however, Brady wasn't surprised that he hated Spanish.

Brady's excitement over the weekend was at fever pitch Thursday night. They only had Saturday classes the next morning - fifth through seventh periods - and would be free to leave after 11. That meant English and Earth Science only, and both would be skates. David was already packed - his parents had arranged for him to leave that evening so they could attend some weekend family thing up in the Adirondacks somewhere. He seemed less than enthused about the prospect. "My mother's got like thirty-five sisters or something, and they're all total idiots," he complained. The closer he got to seeing his parents again, the more he resembled he sullen boy Brady had met the first day. "They talk to me like I'm two, or retarded, or something. And the rest of the time they're all bitching about the Negroes and Dr. King and how they're trying to take over. And they'll play like Lawrence Welk and crap like that all weekend. I may puke."

"Well, at least they'll have nice things to puke in, right?" Brady was determined to crack him up.

David wasn't receptive. "Plus I'm gonna get the third degree from my dad all the way up in the car. He like questions me, like I'm a patient or something. It's such a pain in the ass."

"But he's like helpful, though, isn't he? I mean," Brady lowered his voice, "like when you talked to him about Edward, and all."

"He's helpful, yeah," David sighed. "He like wants to fix everything sometimes. You can't fix everything. Some stuff is just fucked up, and that's it. I mean I appreciate it, and all, but I really don't want my whole life laid bare to him. It - it's embarrassing."

Brady nodded.

David's father boomed into the dorm about half an hour into evening study hall, which, given the day's short schedule, wasn't really being enforced anyway. "There's the young Cavalier!!!" he fairly shouted, opening his arms to hug his son. David complied reluctantly as his father ruffled his hair and looked at Brady. "And how are you, Brady? Looks like life's agreeing with you here!"

"Yes, sir, it's fine. Everything's fine." He wondered if he should leave to give them some privacy, but the look in David's eyes when he broke his embrace with his father told Brady that he was frantic to have Brady stay.

It took less than ten minutes to get David's suitcase loaded in their car, and for him to leave. "So, um, see you Monday night, I guess," Brady mumbled. He suddenly didn't like the idea of being alone in the room.

"Yeah. You guys have fun, OK?" He grinned slyly at Brady, who blushed and started giggling. David was at the door. "Don't worry - not a word."

"Thanks." The idea that David might say anything to his father hadn't even occurred to him. His relief was coupled with retroactive panic.

The door closed, and he was alone. The room seemed empty, its air thinned. It's actually pretty big, he thought - certainly the first time he'd ever had that idea.

Brady went immediately up to Doug's room when study hall ended. He and Dunc were packing and jabbering away excitedly. Dunc was headed to Delaware to see his cousins. "They know a lot more stuff than I do about music - records and stuff. I'll get some really cool things, I bet." The idea that anyone could know more about music than Doug was a stunner.

Doug was excited, too, but quieter. "So is your mom getting us?"

"Yeah, around noon. She'll close the store for lunch and drive over. We can just, you know, hang out, for the afternoon. Maybe take Grouch for a walk in the woods."

"That'd be cool. Let him run free in the woods a little, I bet he'd like that."

Brady laughed. "No way, he runs off for like three days if you do that. He gets off his collar sometimes and just goes. I've seen him get out of choke chains. One time in fourth grade, I was waiting outside school to go in, and across the road there's Grouch running around and having the time of his life. I left school to chase him. It took me an hour to get him back home."

Doug laughed, and their conversation drifted into other idle subjects until lights out. Brady didn't want to leave their room, to go sleep alone, for some reason. He trudged down the stairs reluctantly.

About twenty minutes after lights out, Brady heard a rapping on his room door. He clambered out of bed and opened it. Bill Fieldstone was leaning against the doorjamb, grinning. "Heard you got the bachelor pad tonight. Mind if I come in?"

Brady was startled, and a bit worried. "I really can't. Luce and Cureton'll sting me for being up after lights out. And Billips -"

"Not a worry, I already talked to both of them. As for Billips, well, if you haven't noticed, he tries to have as little to do with his kids as he can, right?" He stepped confidently into the room and switched on a desk lamp. "It'll be fine, relax."

Brady closed the door and padded back to his bed to sit. This, he thought, was odd.

Fieldstone opened a paper bag he had in his left hand. It contained a large glass bottle of Coke, and a smaller long round bottle. "Southern Comfort," he announced with a grin. "Janis Joplin's favorite." He popped the bottlecap off the Coke against the desk with a deft snap, and filled a glass on Brady's desk with a mixture of the two. "You got another glass?" he asked. Brady, shocked beyond words, gestured towards David's desk. Fieldstone followed the wave of his hand, grabbed the other glass, and filled it as well. He handed a glass to Brady. "To the Bevansmen!" he said with a smile, and drank.

Brady hesitated a long moment. The drink in his hand smelled oddly sweet and medicinal. He'd never tasted alcohol in his life. "Is this some ritual thing you do - or, I guess, we do? For the Bevans thing and all?"

Fieldstone laughed. "Nah, just relaxing a little. I told you I'd look after you, so I thought I should check in. Try it."

Brady regarded him a moment, then took a sip. It was sickly sweet, and burned all the way down to his stomach. He felt the color rise immediately in his cheeks. Fieldstone was laughing again. "You should see your face,' he said.

"It's kind of like cough syrup," Brady muttered. He didn't want to seem like a pussy. He could drink it, all right. "Really sweet cough syrup."

"Yeah, I think that's why she drinks it a lot. I mean she's got to have the rawest throat on God's earth the way she sings. Got to do something to soothe it and all." He took another swig, much larger than Brady's sip had been. Brady, seeing this, took a fairly large mouthful, and despite bulging eyes managed to swallow it all down. "So what's the deal with you and the McShane boys? They any better?" Fieldstone seemed genuinely interested, and solicitous. Brady began describing Ian and Stud Douggie's various misdeeds. He was cautious in his phrasing at first, but as he drank, and his cheeks reddened and warmed, he began to grow more animated. Part of him seemed to watch his accelerating monologue as if from a distance, bemused by the whole spectacle. I'm getting drunk, he giggled to himself. Wow. Fieldstone refilled his glass at least three times. Then he was talking about records that David and Dunc had played for him, and he wished he could put some on really loud for Fieldstone to hear what he was talking about. He started re-enacting things that had happened during football games or practices, standing and moving about the room's central space with increasingly intense movements to illustrate his point - whatever it was.

He was on his bed now, feeling drowsy. His shirt was off. Fieldstone was handing him his glass, smiling. He slopped a little on his sheets as he drank, which cracked him up. He dropped his mouth to the wet spot and sucked on it exaggeratedly. Fieldstone was laughing at him. His hand was in Brady's hair; that felt good. He drank some more, and then the lights were out so it seemed a good idea to sleep.

It was crowded. Brady felt crammed against the wall, yet he had no desire - nor, it seemed, the ability - to move a muscle. He felt vaguely dizzy whenever he opened his eyes. He heard himself groaning. He felt good, but really weird. A hand ran up his back, then down. It gave him goosebumps. He raised his hips for some reason to let his underwear slide down his legs and off. Did somebody else do that, he wondered? I sure couldn't right now. His butt was cold, exposed to the night air. The hand was back; it felt good and warm when it rubbed him there, down low and between his legs where he'd never been rubbed before. He squirmed a bit, and a noise came out of him that wasn't entirely volitional. Another hand was touching him, all over it seemed. His chest tingled as it ran over him there. He sighed deeply, and realized he was smiling and moving against the hands caressing his body. It felt really good. But this was weird, he shouldn't be doing this - this, whatever it is. He tried to sit up, but things were dark and spinny. Fieldstone's voice was in his ear in the dark, whispering stuff he couldn't make out, but soft and soothing. Why was he still here? It did feel so good, though. He lay back down, letting the sensations wash over him, and time passed into blackness for a bit.

The grass of the clearing was soft beneath him, like spring. He could feel its greenness even in the dark. Kenny was touching him, leaning slightly over his bare body, and he could feel his hips rise and fall in response to the stroking. It was beginning to build inside him. He liked to watch Kenny's brown forelocks wave back and forth, so he tried to open his eyes. It took several seconds, during which he felt himself start to slip over the edge. He groaned loudly and reached up to grab Kenny's shoulder for the last glorious ride.

"Relax, Conover," Fieldstone whispered, "this'll only take another few seconds."

Brady stiffened, his eyes now wide, and leaped from his bed as if being electrocuted. The room spun alarmingly as he stood, and he stumbled sideways against his closet. Fieldstone caught him in his arms and held him fast. Brady realized they were both naked. "What the fuck -" he managed to slur out.

"It's OK, really. Just let me finish it, c'mon."

Brady pulled away. Fieldstone?? "I - I was . . . Bill what the fuck're you doin', man?"

There was a moment of heavy silence. Brady swayed alarmingly. "I better go. I just - it was only . . . I'm sorry, Brady. I - look, just please don't - I mean . . . Oh, Christ . . . " Brady heard a rapid shuffling, then the room door opened and Fieldstone stood, silhouetted against the harsh light in the hallway, his pants half fastened, shirt in hand. Brady found himself groggily staring at his bare chest. "L - look, you should sleep and all. Let - let's talk tomorrow, OK? I'm really sorry." Fieldstone's voice was meek, his usual air of authority gone. He looked Brady over for a few seconds, a sad smile playing about his lips, and he was gone,

The darkness was worse than the hallway glare had been. At least with light he could keep his bearings. Now, back in the pitch dark, the spinning resumed and grew violent. Brady took one awkward sideways step, fell halfway onto his bed, and passed out.

The clock radio began buzzing at 6:30. It took about fifteen seconds for the radio part to warm up enough to work, with Herb Oscar Anderson saying something about a clothing store in Union, New Jersey. Then he played "Windy." Brady was on the floor, a blanket partly pulled off the bed to cover his chest. His legs were freezing, tucked close under his butt. He lay there for a few seconds, trying to figure things out. Why am I down here? Why does my head hurt like this? Wow, did I have a weird dream. It was only when he tried to stand, and t still felt dizzy, that he realized it was no dream.

He blinked hard, trying to reconstruct the night. Was that really Fieldstone, or did he dream of Kenny after all? The Southern Comfort bottle, empty, sat on his desk. Oh shit, that'll get me kicked out for sure, he thought. He grabbed it and tucked it into his suitcase amid his laundry, to take home with him for safe disposal. Realizing that the whole room must reek of alcohol, he threw open the windows and let the chill morning breeze rush in. Shivering, he stumbled to get his robe and toiletry kit. He didn't want anyone ever to look at him again.

Breakfast was late that morning because work program was cancelled, so Brady was initially alone in the bathroom. That was a relief. He stared at himself while desultorily brushing his teeth. He had an odd oval bruise on his belly, just to the right of his navel. After examining it for a few puzzled seconds, he stepped into the shower and stood for a long time, face into the spray, as other boys began trickling in.

A voice seemed to be talking to him from a long way away. "You OK, Brady?" Alan Black was under the nozzle next to his. He had paused while soaping himself up, and was looking at him with concern.

Brady blinked, realizing he had to snap out of it. "Fine. Just - just a long weird kind of night."

Alan nodded, looking at him, then began to giggle. Brady tried to focus on his face. "What?"

"Geez, Brady, you look like you got a hickey on your belly! Some girl come in and blow you last night?" He pointed and laughed openly. Other boys began to look as well, and the laughter and teasing grew in volume. Brady was redder than he could ever imagine being. He looked down at himself. Oh, shit.

Alan was clapping his shoulder. "You getting' some already, Bray? Goddam, you're a stallion!!!"

Brady realized he had to say something. "I - hell, I dunno, I think I got cleated there in practice yesterday. Or something." He made a show of starting to laugh along with the other boys. "God, I didn't even realize till now, that's really funny, isn't it?" The wolf whistles and joking continued for several minutes, with Brady making a conscious effort to keep up and ridicule the situation as much as his dorm mates.

He was, as always, good at hiding things, at small lies and passing obfuscations. He pulled it off without a hitch.