When the World Changed

Here's the latest part of this story.

Thanks as always to Flip, who assisted me with editing (and put up with my bad typing) - you should check out his story "Val 'n' Tyne" here in the HS section for some other fun reading.

This is entirely fictional ,and if reading stories involving sexual situations with teenaged boys is illegal where you live, by all means don't read it.

If you enjoy this, please check out my other Nifty story, "Seal Rocks," which is in this HS section as well, with the last chapter posted in April 2011.

All comments, critiques etc are more than welcome.

Thanks..

When the World Changed, Part 13

It took two cups of muddy dining room coffee to get Brady back into shape. He seldom drank the stuff, but felt a keen need that morning. He kept glancing nervously about him, wondering where Fieldstone was. And what either of them could, or would, say to the other when they met.

Bill was leaning against the door of the dining hall as the boys were dismissed. He looked completely normal - poised, mature,, in control. Every inch the senior celebrity with the run of the School. His blazer fit perfectly, his rep tie was impeccable. Brady had never noticed such details before, and found the realization that he was looking at those things now to be vaguely alarming. "Conover," Bill said in his usual confident voice. "Let's walk."

He led Brady up the stairs in Geiger, past the sophomore halls on the second, third, and fourth floors, and under an old rope that was supposed to bar students from going up to the now abandoned fifth floor of the building (it seldom did that task well, of course). The building, especially on its upper stories, was in a state of polite disrepair, with floors visibly buckling and paint chips occasionally dislodging from the high ceilings. The fifth floor was even more dilapidated, partly due to its disuse.

In the center of the fifth floor was the onetime band room, a large empty space with thin filigreed pillars at intervals throughout. A number of dusty desks and chairs, a bass drum on its side, a few music stands torqued from age and misuse It was a room of ghosts, and Brady felt them as he followed Fieldstone inside, their shoes making visible prints in the dirt and dust that covered the floor, having blown in through in gaps the window panes. The crown of one of the Norway maples, ablaze with its turning leaves, nodded gently in the morning breeze outside.

Fieldstone took a chair, dusted its seat off briefly, and plopped down on it backwards, forearms across the back, facing Brady. "You OK?"

"Um, yeah. I - I kind of felt lousy first thing this morning," he grinned in spite of himself, Fieldstone nodded with his own slight smile. "But I'm OK now. I actually drank coffee, and I think it helped."

"Good. I was wondering. You pumped it down pretty good last night. Did you stash the bottle?"

"Yeah, no problem, it's in my suitcase and I'll throw it away later today."

"Good." Fieldstone looked away now, out at the tree. "I hope I didn't freak you out too much. With the other thing."

Brady swallowed, feeling the color rise in his cheeks. "No, not at all, it's Ok, really. I - I just, you know, I was, like, drunk, I guess, and I didn't - I didn't realize you were, um, . . . "

"Right." Fieldstone took a long breath, then looked back at Brady. His eyes were soft now, and very brown. "Look, I, um, I like you, OK? And this isn't a Bevansmen thing or anything like that, it's just - I like you. I think you have, well, potential."

Brady shook his head. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Well, it - it's potential. To be somebody, I don't know. A leader, or something. Maybe that was a dumb thing to say." Brady had never seen Fieldstone stumble over his words like this. "You're different from most of the guys here, Brady. Where you've come from, why you're here, all of it. It shows. Hell, that's one reason Ian and Stud Douggie don't like you - they can't figure you out."

"They call me Jethro," Brady said quietly. He had always previously refused to admit how much that hurt him.

"I know. They're scared of you, in a way. Don't you get that?. You don't fit anything they know, or understand. Guys from, you know, places, and situations, like yours they're supposed to be the guys who mow their lawns and wipe their asses." What does this guy know about my "situation," Brady wondered. "And here you are, their - their peer. It doesn't figure to them, so they fall back on the universal answer: be an asshole."

"I don't want to be different, Bill. I just wanna be left alone and be like part of the crowd, OK?"

"Bullshit you do. If you wanted that you'd have stayed home on the farm and shit. Why'd you come here anyway?"

Brady blinked a moment, then smiled defensively. "Well, they offered me money and stuff, remember?"

Fieldstone laughed. "Good point. But why, really? You wanted to be more than you could be staying home. You wanted to be somebody special. Because you know you are, even if you don't want to admit it or have it show."

This was making Brady uncomfortable, and a bit angry. Don't play shrink with me, man, you just got me drunk and tried to have sex with me. "So you gave me a hickey because I'm so special?"

Fieldstone laughed again, his eyes dancing. "Sorry about that, chief. Just sort of happened. I was having fun." His face darkened. "You know what people say about me around school, right? That I'm a faggot?"

Brady nodded. "I heard that, yeah."

"Did you believe it?"

"I - I, um . . . I dunno, it, it like didn't matter to me." He keenly felt the need to be careful here.

"Does it matter now?" His eyes were suddenly intense.

Brady took a long breath. "No," he finally exhaled. "I just - I was scared - no, surprised, when I figured out what . . . I - that wasn't something I was expecting, you know. None of it was."

Fieldstone leaned back in his chair, his arms still across the top, and smiled. "You didn't complain."

Brady blushed; he felt trapped. He couldn't admit that, even to Fieldstone. "W - well, I was, y'know, I was like out of it, and - and hell, I don't even know what you did, really! I mean . . . "

"You were hot for it, Brady, don't bullshit me. I know when a guy's going to like it. I know when a guy is liking it. You think I do stuff like that all the time or something?"

"So, then, y-you are? A, well . . ."

"A faggot? I suppose, in some sense. I mean I like girls, too, not that I've had a hell of a lot of chances with them. Being at a place like this kind of cuts down on your opportunities for that, y'know? I had some fun at the Vineyard last summer, though . . ." His voice trailed off for a moment. "Anyway, I wanted to be sure you were OK, and not freaked out or anything."

Brady swallowed. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Good." Fieldstone stood up, and Brady tensed a little, wondering what else was in store. "And I wanted to be sure that this all stayed just between us. I don't wanna hear some ninth hand version of what happened floating around so some asshole like Stud Douggie starts repeating it. I have enough people saying bullshit stuff about me."

Brady shook his head. "You think I'd say anything? Jesus, Bill, what would I ever say? You think I want something like that getting around about me?"

Fieldstone regarded him for a long second. "Good. That's how I figured you'd go." He started towards the door, Brady following numbly. "I just wanted to be sure. I don't like to go after people much, but if I have to I can, and I can make things really ugly for the person I'm going after. You know what I mean?"

David's warnings flashed into Brady's mind: Don't fuck with Bill Fieldstone. "I don't want any trouble, Bill, you know that," he whispered. "I mean, why are you even, you know . . ."

The dust that their movement had stirred up, lit by the slanting morning sun, swirled about them both, glistening and fogging their vision. Fieldstone stopped at the door and smiled back at Brady. "I figured you were OK, Conover. I just wanted to be sure we understood each other. It's all copasetic, now, right?" His hand cupped the back of Brady's head and pulled it forward. Brady's eyes widened as Bill brought their lips together, and they kissed for a long moment. Bill lips tasted like maple syrup. Brady's heart was threatening to leap out of his chest at any moment. Was it from excitement, fear, embarrassment . . . ? He felt himself leaking a little into his underwear. When Fieldstone broke the kiss, he looked into Brady's eyes and smiled again. His hand ran forward, through Brady's hair and onto his cheek, before pulling back. Brady's whole body was tingling. Bill strode from the room and down the hallway, never looking back. "Don't get caught slipping under the rope, they'll sting you for real. Have a good weekend. We'll talk more later."

Brady stood in the center of the band room for a good minute before he moved a muscle.

Doug was walking out to class when Brady got back to Linsley. "Hey, where you been? I thought you might've bugged out on me."

Brady smiled at him, unable to keep any dark thought in his mind at the sight of his grin. "Don't be a spazz, I was just back in Geiger for a little bit."

"Everything OK?"

"Oh, sure, sure," Brady replied, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Just - just doin' nothing in particular, you know how it is."

"Yeah, it's really cool to have a morning where we're not like running from, one thing to another. I could get used to this open weekend thing pretty fast. Go grab your stuff, we'll walk together."

From across center campus, Bill Fieldstone watched from his second story window, arms folded, as the two of them walked side by side across campus. His face was stony, impassive. No one could tell what his feelings were, which was just the way he liked it.

Classes were a total waste of time. No one concentrated on anything, including the Masters, who seemed just as intent on getting a weekend off as the students. In English, Mr. Edwin regaled them with stories of his youth up in Newark, playing semipro sandlot baseball under an assumed name to keep his college eligibility (he posed, apparently, as an Argentinian named Rudolfo, to everyone's amusement - Mr. Edwin was about as un-Latin as a human being could get). His attempt to speak with a Spanish accent, given his normal Bowery Boy voice, was hilariously off. Brady wandered back to his room after that and finished packing, again checking for the Southern Comfort bottle.

Coach Drake's Earth Science class was its usual laughable self. The varsity team was staying on campus for an away game Saturday in central Pennsylvania, leaving by bus that afternoon. Perhaps fifty kids who lived within a reasonable distance of the game intended to go, though Brady doubted many would. It seemed a shame to leave the team unsupported like that, but Coach Drake was philosophical about it. "Part of the problem coaching like this is the open weekends," he admitted. "The team members don't get the time off, the students can't support the team . . . " He frowned for a moment. "But it's part of the sacrifice you make to play here. Not many other schools would ask that much of their teams, and the kids who give up their free time like that do it because they're damn proud to be Cavaliers. Makes me proud, too. Franklin Charter is gonna have its hands full tomorrow, believe me." He showed game films of the opponent's offense, talking about how to counter its most effective plays. Brady was fascinated and at the same time a bit dizzy - staring at the grainy images, given his condition, wasn't the most enjoyable thing.

The air, when he emerged from class, was crisp, cool, and slightly tangy from people in town burning leaves. He knew this was the weekend some of the farmers around Cullingstown would fire their corn and wheat stubble fields for planting before the frost set in. He wondered if Doug had ever seen that done. The faint fire smell was delicious.

The back of Linsley looked like move-in day in reverse, with boys and large sedans moving in every possible direction as parents arrived to pick up their children. Hasty goodbyes (it seemed hard to imagine they'd see each other again on Monday night) were shouted all around. Brady wandered the thinning group, talking to everyone he saw, smiling. He knew his mother wouldn't come by until her lunch break, so he had time to relax.

A large silver Cadillac, ridiculously wide and long, pushed its way down the center of the gravel path, the driver laying on his horn to scatter anyone who might be in his way. Many barely missed getting clipped. A tall man with a bit of a gut - the athlete slowly gone to seed - stepped out of it. He had thinning reddish hair, a jaw thrust aggressively forward, and a cashmere scarf around his neck above a dark blue suit of exquisite tailoring. Brady didn't need an introduction. The man looked about impatiently. "Ian!! Ian!!! Where th' hell are you, boy?" He sounded more irritated than concerned.

Ian McShane emerged from the back door of Linsley, carrying a small overnight bag. "Sorry, Dad, you said 10:55, and it's -"

This earned him a smack on the back of his head. "I said by 10:55, dammit! Get in the God Damned car and shut up! Bad enough I have to do this idiot women's work. We need to pull down and get your brother, if these peabrains'll get the hell out of my way. You!!!" He pointed at Brady. "Clear this road so I can drive down that way. Now!"

Brady stood motionless. He was intimidated, and more than a bit angry. 'Sorry sir? mingled with 'who the fuck are you anyway' for a moment, before he managed to say, "I need to wait here."

Mr. McShane clearly wasn't used to having his orders not immediately obeyed. "I don't give a tinker's damn what you're supposed to do, get this road cleared for me!"

Ian leaned out of the car, looking shaken. "Forget about him, Dad, he's just a punk asshole. I told you about him."

"And I told you not to swear in my presence!!!" He looked Brady over now with an appraising eye. "So, Conover, is it?"

"Y - yes, sir. Brady Conover."

Mr. McShane snorted. "Goddam faggot name, 'Brady'. You come here to be faggot, son?"

Brady flushed. "N - no, sir, I - I -"

Mr. McShane made a dismissive tutting noise. "Ian's right. You're a damn jackass. Go sweep out the stables, boy." He turned, climbed ponderously back into his car, and bulled his way down the path, honking even more. Brady got a brief glimpse of Ian, huddled in the back seat with his shoulders slumped forward, looking straight down at his feet. He found himself feeling overwhelmingly sorry for him, for a moment. He remembered David's pictures: things like that come from somewhere. He shuddered.

It seemed a good idea to go hide in his room after that, for a little while at least.

Doug came looking for him several minutes later, grinning and practically hopping with excitement. "We're free, man!!! We're outta here!!! Three whole days, can you believe it? I wanna just like walk, all over, someplace I've never been before, and see stuff. Get dirty, and be a total brat."

Brady laughed. " 'I'm a boy, I'm a boy, but my ma won't admit it' ?"

Doug cackled. "Exactly, just without being dressed up and stuff."

"Well ,we get dressed up enough around here anyway, it's close enough."

"You know it. No ties and shit either!!! I love it!" Brady nodded, glowing at the sight of Doug's excitement, and they started feverishly discussing what they wanted to do with their afternoon. Guys periodically stuck their heads in the door to say goodbye. It felt weird to think of the impending separation from so many guys he'd been in such close proximity with, even for so short a time. It felt like a real leave-taking to them all.

As the noise from the back path slowly died down, they leaned back against the wall, feeling contemplative. "This's weird," Doug said quietly.

"What?"

"Dunno, it - it just is. It - it's like we've been here forever and gone through all this stuff, and - well it's what, a month? Not even that. Everything seems so different, now." He stared somewhere into the medium distance. "It feels like it's been so much longer. Since I, you know, saw my parents, or anything."

Brady groaned inside. "I'm sorry, man, I should've let you go home if you miss- "

"Nah, it's OK. This'll be fun. It's just . . ." He shifted a bit. "It's just that it's all been so intense, and like constant. It never lets you go, not for a second. And - and it changes you, and you don't even know it." Brady was watching him intently; he'd never heard Doug become the least bit introspective before. "I mean we're different now, than we were. Don't you feel that?"

Brady felt his cheeks redden. Why the fuck am I blushing, he wondered. "I - I dunno, I never really, like, thought about . . . I guess, yeah, I do feel different. It's like . . . last weekend, when we were in Cullingstown, and that guy Kenny came by? I, I don't even know how to like talk to him now, and I feel bad about it 'cause I don't wanna be a snot or anything. But . . . I mean, what do I have to talk to him about, anymore?" Aside from the fact that he kept lurking on the corners of his sexual fantasies, somewhere just offstage.

Doug nodded vigorously. "I know. I know. I was actually kind of worried about going home. I don't know, it's like that's all part of the past now. Another life, or something. I didn't know what I'd do, or who I'd want to see or how I could talk to them. I - I got kinda scared." He smiled at Brady. "But when it's with you, I'm like never scared. It's always so cool." Brady swallowed deeply, trying to keep his emotions in check. "It's, I dunno . . . "

"A bond?" Brady managed to croak out.

"Yeah, that's it - a bond." Doug grinned at him and leaned in closer. "We gotta like prick our fingers and shit, make it official." Their heads were just touching now, hair slightly entangling. Brady felt he'd never be able to breathe again. Doug leaned his forehead against Brady's right temple. "I'm glad we're gonna hang out. You know what it's like. Nobody I knew at home would. You know me."

Brady was blinking back tears. "I do. You're my best friend ever, Doug." He choked on the next sentence, the one be wanted to say. Don't do it, Conover. Never do it.

Doug's hand swept through his hair for a second, much like Fieldstone's had. Brady felt an electric tingle run through him. He shuddered slightly. Doug clapped his shoulder and stood. "So whaddya want to do first?"

Brady took a deep breath, and slumped back against the wall, eyes closed for self preservation. "Rest," he whispered. "I'm really tired."

Doug sat back next to him. "You looked like shit this morning, are you OK? You can't get sick on me now, man."

Brady laughed. "I'm fine." He paused, weighing whether and how much to tell Doug, but decided against it. "It sounds pussy, but it was weird sleeping in here alone."

"I can imagine. It's weird, I was so used to having my own room at home, I thought living with another guy would drive me nuts, but Dunc's a cool guy. He's really funny, and kind of a weenie with the music stuff and playing guitar like Hendrix and all. Well, trying to, anyway. He cracks me up sometimes." Brady nodded, smiling, eyes still shut, letting Doug's voice wash over him. "And he loves to go off on us for being dumb jocks, just to pull my chain - 'You stupid football players,' he'll say, or 'you and Conover are joined at the jockstrap or something'c - you know, frap like that."

Brady kept his eyes closed, but felt himself flush with alarm. "What the hell is that supposed to mean," he asked in a forcedly casual tone while Doug chuckled.

"He's just bein' funny. You know, how you and me are always hanging out. Tanner teases you about it too - I've seen him rag on you about it. Evan and Alan Black joke about it, too. Just jawin', You know how it is."

Brady looked at Doug for a moment. He was smiling and staring at nothing in particular. "Yeah," he said softly, "just jawin'." He was suddenly conscious of Doug's leg lightly touching his, and shifted away.

Doug, startled out of his reverie by Brady's movement, looked at Brady. "What?"

Brady was self conscious all of a sudden. "Just - um, my leg was, you know, falling asleep. And stuff."

"Oh. OK. Sorry." Doug smiled softly at Brady. His smile was so amazing - open, handsome, flawless tan skin, dancing eyes and supple red lips. Brady smiled back shyly and fought the urge to bury his face in Doug's chest, inhale his scent and feel the pulse of his heartbeat against his cheek.

"I guess we are kind of joined at the hip, aren't we?" Brady managed to say, again in an unnaturally casual tone.

Doug laughed. "Suppose so. That's OK, we're buddies, we're supposed to be." There was a sudden honk from out back that Brady recognized, allowing him to escape the situation without further complications. He felt the flush in his face as he ran down the stairs. God, I got it so bad, he thought.

His mother, glowing with joy, pulled him into a tight embrace. "I have Hal and Trent's room all fixed up for you two," she said when she finally let him go, "and I got us some nice steaks to cook tonight. Do you want to barbecue?" She knew that Brady fancied himself quite the cook, having been taught by his older brothers, who in turn had learned it from their father. His grin was all the answer that was needed.

The boys threw their bags into the trunk, shut it with some small difficulty (they were bringing a lot of dirty laundry), and in moments were pulling down the path from Geiger to the street, a path now covered in fallen leaves crushed to mottled paste by the morning's passage of traffic. Brady and Doug found themselves turning to look out the rear window at the scene, as if they were leaving port for some far-off land.

The drive to Cullingstown was short and uneventful. Brady's mom was in a hurry to get back to the store, and the boys had too much pent up energy to spend in anything more than perfunctory conversations with her. She dropped them off at the house (with Grouch yelping joyously at the sight of Brady and Doug, who he clearly remembered with delight), and was gone.

They threw their bags in his brothers' room, the beds on opposite sides, with a floor grate between them that allowed warm air from the kitchen and water heater to flow up to heat the room. Doug looked round, puzzled. "Both your brother slept here together? It's, um, small."

"Yeah," Brady said, blushing. "My room's even smaller - Hal and Trent built a wall across my mom's room when I turned eight so I'd have a space of my own and not be in the same room with her." The shame of his poverty came rushing in on him again.

Doug smiled and shrugged. "So what, it's cool that you have your own room. I didn't mean to sound snotty or make you feel bad or anything, Bray." His hand rubbed Brady's shoulder, and the tingling began anew. "So do I get to see it, and all your cool stuff, or what? I bet you got a couple of your old Superman capes in the closet."

Brady laughed. "I don't have a closet, I use part of my mom's. Asshole," he added, shoving Doug playfully. He always seemed to know what to say, to make Brady feel good, no matter what the situation. It was amazing.

They spent the next hour doing a detailed inspection of Brady's tiny warren of a room - the old Three Stooges stickers on the metal bedframe, the World's Fair mug and pennant from New York (which led to a discussion about how lame Expo '67 up in Montreal looked), the Boy Scout patches and ribbons, the old Pop Warner pictures ("You look like such a baby in this, Bray! I can't believe this was two years ago!."), the model cars and airplanes Brady had meticulously glued together, painted and decaled. Doug seemed deeply fascinated in all of it, and Brady soon overcame his embarrassment at doing so elaborate a show and tell session, especially in what he was sure Doug had to regard as so small and shabby a room, and became far more talkative than he usually was.

After what seemed to Brady a long time, he finally ran out of things to say. He looked down, twirling a toy soldier that dated from his brothers' childhood in his hand. He wondered if Hal looked like this in his uniform, when he was out in the jungle somewhere. No, he stays at headquarters now. He had malaria. He got shot down. Was he hurt? He ran the calculation of days left in his head again, for the thousandth time. January 31. It's so close now, and them Mom can sleep again and watch TV without leaving the room whenever the news came on. He sighed, feeling suddenly tired, older than he ought to, and passed his hand cross his brow.

"It's OK, Bray," Doug said softly. "It's all gonna be OK. Trust me."

Brady looked up. Doug was smiling at him slightly, but his brown eyes seemed damp, and deep with concern he'd never seen in them before. He wanted again to say so much, but instead he looked down again. "Hal and Trent used to show me how to play war on the floor downstairs. They had like a hundred of these things, and a little iron model cannon with a hammer that really worked; you could put a cap in and fire it. We had to stop using the caps because it got Grouch so upset." He grinned at the memory of poor Grouch cowering in the kitchen and eventually pissing his bed from fear of the cracking noises the caps made when they went off. Trent had discovered the mess and started to yell at Grouch, but Hal, who by that point was already well along in ROTC in college and had done his basic training, called Trent off and sat with Grouch, arms around him, face in his trembling chest, for a good half an hour until the dog recovered.

"Hal's like my dad, sort of," Brady said, out of the blue, unprompted. "I mean, so is Trent, and I - I like know Trent more, because he was home still when I wasn't so little and all. But Hal is the Number One, to both of us." Doug was smiling a bit, but looking hard at him. "He wasn't even fifteen when my dad died. Like a week short, or something. I mean can you imagine that, at our age, and with two little brothers that you're supposed to look after - and, and I know my Mom, she kind of lost it for a while, after that . . . ." He couldn't admit to the drinking binges he remembered even as a five year old, the stale smell of spilled Roma port wafting from the couch in the morning or when friends would come to play. He had learned at an early age to try to play at their houses and not his own. He knew some of the mothers didn't want their kids in his house. Then when he was in third grade, she'd gone to live with Grandma up in Montclair for two weeks, and he and Trent lived alone, since Hal was at school. It was the two weeks of the Cuban Missile Crisis, and as he watched the heavy cargo planes drone into and out of McGuire Air Force Base and Fort Dix, both about twenty miles south, he wondered if the world was going to blow up before he ever got to see his mother again. She came home looking much better, happier (most of the time, anyway), and the drinking had stopped for a while. It hadn't gotten back to any sort of bad level since then, as far as he could tell, anyway, but it scared him that she'd lose it again. That previous summer he had periodically searched the house and poured out every bottle he could find. She never said a word about it.

"I'm sorry, Bray, but it's gonna be OK. You're gonna make her proud." Brady looked up startled, and realized he hadn't been daydreaming these things. He'd said them out loud. Doug had heard it all.

He blinked, swallowing hard, and looked around as if for some avenue of escape. "Doug, I -- I'm sorry, I shouldn't have - I didn't mean - I mean we're not really all as fucked up as that, OK? I just -"

"Sssshhhh," Doug whispered, and slid over to embrace him. He found his chin on Doug's left shoulder, his back being patted. Doug's hair tickled his cheek, the smell of it filled his nostrils. He held back a moment, then threw his arms around Doug and held on for dear life, his chest shaking. He still couldn't say it, but he knew his face, pressed wetly into the crook of Doug's neck, showed it. He couldn't hide it, and he couldn't say it. "Oh God," he mumbled shakily into the collar of Doug's dress shirt. "I am so fucked."

"It's OK, Bray, you hear me? It's OK. You - you're the coolest, toughest kid I ever met. I mean it," he insisted as Brady pulled away, shaking his head and trying to hide his face. "I mean guys like Dunc and David, Evan - me - hell, all of us - I mean what do we know about living, really? Our parents give us everything and they spend like four grand a year to send us to this fancy school and they buy us stereos and suits and all this other crap. And most of the time we bitch and moan because we missed the trip to Florida for Christmas this year or some bullshit like that." He looked around. "I - I never met anyone who, like, appreciated what he's got, and understands how good he can be, like you do. You're like a fuckin' fairy tale, man."

Brady was deeply blushing. I don't think I'm that good," he protested quietly, again finding it hard to meet Doug's eyes. "I - I'm not like that, am I?"

"No Bray, I don't mean like 'look at me I'm coolness on feet.' That's fucking McShane, and it's sick. I mean . . . " he struggled for words, looking away, and Brady stole a glance, his heart melting yet again at the sight. "It's like you fought and scratched and, like, earned, all of it. All you got. And you deserve it because you did all that. You deserve it a lot more'n I do, I mean shit . . ."

"No, c'mon, you - you're the best kid I know," Brady objected, again trying to choose his words carefully.

Doug glanced at him and smiled slyly. "No, you're the best kid I know."

Brady met his grin and returned fire, teasing now. "No ,really, you're the best kid I know."

"No, man, really, you are. Honest Injun."

Brady suppressed a giggle. "I insist, man, you're the best. Ever, really."

"Goddam it Conover, I said you were the best!"

"Who the fuck're you swearing at, dickwad? Ten laps for that," he added, imitating Mr. Glendon's voice and gesture when he'd send someone to run punishment for obscenities during practice.

Doug stood up and did the impression from that stance, his hand carving an exaggerated circle over his head with the index finger raised. "Ten laps, arooooouuuuund the field, young man, until you learn to be a gentleman!"

"A ferocious gentleman!" Brady added

"Ferocious!" Doug shouted, lunging at him, and they started wrestling with each other, laughing, tickling, rolling about Brady's squeaky iron bed for several minutes. Outside, Grouch heard the din and started barking in alarm.

They rolled apart after a minute or two and lay side by side, facing each other, grinning. "Asshole."

"Dickwad." Brady's face felt like it would split in two from the size of his grin. He couldn't help it - looking at Doug's sparkling eyes, his cheeks ruddy from their exertions, his smile shining like a June morning. He'd never felt so happy. The fear, the suppressed yearning, the desire, all melted away in a moment of silently exchanged bliss.

Doug bounded to his feet. "Let's go check things out," he said. "I wanna see if that old guy'll be an asshole to me again."

"He will, no question there," Brady assured him, propping himself on one elbow. Now that the moment was broken, it seemed lost, irretrievable. Please come back, he thought. I want it back, just for a little.

"Yeah well we'll see. And I wanna see the woods and all that you told me about, and the church, and the high school, and, you know, everything! I mean we got three days, right??

"Yup," Brady answered as he rose from the bed. "Lots of time." But never the right time, he mused. They slipped identical black Wilson School rain jackets - waist length, with a single sipper down the front - over their dress shirts, which were unbuttoned at the throat, and went out to visit Grouch.

Brady decided to hit the high school first, so they pulled Hal and Trent's old bikes from the cellar and pedaled slowly down over the dam for the lake, then up a steep hill on its far bank Neither bike had any gears, which Brady was used to, but Doug initially found it hard going, especially on the climb. "This is nuts, man, you could do this so much easier with a ten speed."

Brady laughed, his legs pistoning as fast as he could drive them. "Only one speed here in the boondocks." He started singing, off key, raucously, and between puffy breaths as they pushed for the top of the hill. "I love her / She loves me ' But I don't fit her / Society. / Lord have mercy on a boy from / Down in the boondocks . . ."

The ridge at the top of the hill, looking out over the lake below, was dominated by the Presbyterian church, a brick structure that dated from the early 1800s with a tall thin steeple. Its cemetery covered the ridge for a good five acres on either side. Across the road, the old high school stood behind a large gravel parking lot. It still had separate entrances in its front facade labeled "Girls" and "Boys," which Doug found hilarious. "They really kept them apart?"

"Yeah, I guess. In like the olden days. The built the school in what, like 1910 or something. That was around when Wilson stopped taking girls, too. I guess it was the big idea at the time or something."

Doug laughed again. "Like they were gonna be bangin' each other waiting to get let in to school? That's nuts, man."

"Hey I don't make this stuff up, that's just how it was. You're right, it's weird, though." He paused. "Well, maybe not, actually. I mean we're just as separated, right? From girls, I mean?"

"I guess," Doug answered contemplatively. "So where's the new school, I wanna see some chicks and get like boned up over it." He giggled at his impropriety.

Brady pushed aside the clutching feeling in his stomach. "Lots of farmer babes. They should be letting out soon. Come on." He pedaled away in front of Doug not wanting to look at him right then.

Set far back past huge athletic fields (one advantage of a school in a rural area was its ability to have as much open space for fields as it wanted) stood the brand new high school barely a year and a half old. Compared to the old building, it was huge and sprawling, but it was also low slung and lacked any real character whatsoever. Brady had never noticed that before: compared to the buildings at Wilson (which were, admittedly, a little over the top in the other direction), the new Cullingstown High School looked like a cheap warehouse. Damn it'd be depressing to go to school in a place that every day, he thought. You're not being taught, you're being stored.

"Looks cool," Doug piped up, as if reading Brady's thoughts and speaking deliberately to counter them. "Where you want to hang out?"

Brady motioned to a small patch of grass near the flagpole, across a driveway from the main entrance. A line of school buses occupied the driveway and blocked most of the view of the doors - some shiny and glowing with the deep mustardy yellow hue of school buses, some alarmingly old and shabby looking, the yellow faded to a tired washed out look. A couple of them made the Guppy look like a limousine. They parked the bikes and sat on the grass, feeling the fresh breeze growing stronger against their faces. It was going to rain later that afternoon, or that night - Brady could smell the coming storm on the wind. He took a deep breath of it and glanced at Doug, who was leaning on his elbows, head back, smiling slightly. He looked over at Brady. "I know, in a couple of hours I think." Brady grinned back. How did he know what he was thinking?

A frumpy middle aged woman strode from between two buses, shaking her finger at them. "You boys can't be out here until class is over! Get back into your class now or I'll send you both to Mr. Wians!"

Brady recognized Mrs. Shepard. She'd driven him to a school out in Portsville, a good twenty miles away, for fifth grade (the district was that far flung, and that overcrowded with kids), and had been a complete crab every day of the year. This'll be fun, he thought. "Hi, Mrs. Shepard, how are you today?" Brady asked in his most innocent voice. He heard Doug stifle a laugh.

Ms. Shepard hadn't expected to be addressed by name, much less politely; she paused, in a state of visible confusion. "I - who are you, anyway? Conover? Are you Conover?"

"Right - wow, Mrs. Shepard, you've got a great memory." Doug's stifled noises were becoming more conspicuous.

She made a valiant effort to re-take control of the situation. "Never mind about that, you both need to get your - your selves, back into class! Right now!"

But Mrs. Shepard," Brady continued smoothly, with a toothy grin, "I don't go to school here."

This was too much for Mrs. Shepard's brain to process. She stared at Brady, mouth open like a dying fish, for a long second, then turned completely around to stare at the school building. She looked back over her shoulder at Brady, mouth still agape, her larynx working pasmodically as if trying to form some articulate sound without any audible success. "You - this is - you go . . . you're a freshman by now, you . . . "

"I go to Wilson, Mrs. Shepard. Over in Summerton. Isn't that cool? We have the weekend off, so I came home and brought along a friend. This is Doug, he's from out in Pennsylvania." He threw a casual arm around Doug's shoulder and leaned in, striking a deliberately exaggerated buddy pose. Doug grinned and put an arm around Brady's waist, dropping the side of his head onto Brady's shoulder. For a moment, the fun of goofing on this mean old battleaxe threatened to give way to an entirely different set of emotions, but he blinked a couple of times and kept his focus.

"We're really really close friends," Doug offered unctuously. smiling at Mrs. Shepard like an altar boy. "Glad to meet you, ma'am."

Mrs. Shepard blinked quickly, several times. "You - Wilson? You?! How did - "

"I won a scholarship, Mrs. Shepard," Brady said in a helpful tone.

"He's really smart, too," Doug added. He rubbed his cheek a bit on Brady's shoulder. Brady wasn't sure if he should get hard or die laughing. Can you do both at the same time, or do you like black out and your eyes get permanently crossed? The question, the very idea of it, only made him giggle harder, which he forced himself to suppress as best he could.

For her part, Mrs. Shepard seemed to have suddenly become overheated. She stared, sweat gathering on her forehead ,and stared at the boys. "Well - well that's just disgusting, what you're doing there! Get away from each other! What do you mean, acting like that, like - like -" She either didn't know how to complete the sentence, or she didn't want to.

"It's OK, ma'am," Doug said, straightening up a bit. "It's just us prep school boys, you know how it is. Fine young stallions and all.' Out of nowhere he pecked Brady on the cheek. Brady felt his entire body redden - and stiffen.

He must have looked about as shocked as Ms. Shepard. The blood drained from her face (an odd bit of symmetry, given Brady's deep blush), and she shakily pointed at them. "I - I should, I should have you two arrested! You -you're trespassing, and you're - you're being just disgusting, and - you need to leave, both of you! Right now!"

Luckily (for everyone, it seemed, the bell sounded at that point for the schoolday's end, and within seconds the boys found themselves in swirling mass of kids rushing out the doors. Mrs. Shepard stared in their general direction for several seconds, with a face that looked like it could turn snakes to stone, before stomping off to her bus. Brady and Doug doubled over with laughter. "Oh God," Doug muttered to Brady over the growing din, "that was priceless."

Brady couldn't stop laughing, though he still felt both uneasy and smitten. "I wonder if anybody else saw us acting queer."

"Doubt it," Doug reassured him. "Bell hadn't rung yet." A number of people began yelling Brady's name, and soon he found himself in the center of a fairly large group of kids he'd known throughout his years in Cullingstown - Danny Bush, Wayne Probasco, Kathy Lyons and her brother Scott, on and on. Debby DBoise was there, too, which made Brady a bit nervous - he'd had a quiet crush on her during eighth grade. She was still very pretty - even more so, it seemed, with long brown hair primped up just enough, like Nancy Sinatra's, and her thin frame was filling out in a most womanly fashion. She stood back a bit, books held in front of her, and just smiled. Brady kept glancing at her as he exchanged excited hellos with people The questions overlapped and repeated: yes, he was fine; yes, he was having a good time; no, he hadn't' turned into a pussy (yet); of course he'd be at the game tomorrow; yes, this was one of his friends from school. Another small group soon was asking Doug various similar questions.

Brady glanced at Debby, who was smiling slightly at him, and shrugged helplessly. She stifled a giggle and walked back to her bus. Brady felt mildly disappointed - it would have been nice to talk to her. Maybe he even would have said something this time. After all, he had so much to tell.

Brady and Doug wound up walking down the hill from the high school with Danny and Wayne, chatting easily as if they'd all known each other for years. It was a relief to see Doug fitting in so well with the Cullingstown kids. God, Brady thought, is there anything he can't do? "Geez, Brady, you look like such a snob in that shirt and all, It's kinda funny," Danny teased him, flipping a finger at Brady's button-down collared dress shirt.

Brady felt himself blush a bit, yet again." It's just what you wear." He explained. I had class this morning, I just got out of my suit pants. It was easier."

Doug rose to his defense. "Yeah, you sort of get used to being dressed like this. It's weird when you realize it, but when you're in it it's just normal."

Danny grinned. "I was just bustin' ya, don't worry. It's cool that you're going there, Brady, it really is. Kind of sucks for us, though, There's nobody in class now who knows the answers to all the questions, so we gotta do all the work ourselves now." He and Wayne started laughing. Brady looked at Doug, who smiled and shrugged.

"Your hair's short, too," Wayne noted.

"Well, not that short," Brady objected. He like most of the boys at Wilson fought a constant guerrilla war against the hair length rules that Dean Storeman enforced, often arbitrarily. He would spy someone whose hair length offended him for some reason, and approach him from behind with a false bonhomie, grabbing a handful of hair in back. ?Getting a bit long there, isn't it?" he'd say, and the message was clearly delivered: get it cut by the weekend or get stung No one could figure out how he decided somebody's hair was too long, or how he picked and chose among students. It was just there, hanging over you.

Brady glanced at Wayne's hair, and realized that it was indeed getting far longer than Brady's was, falling over his ears and down the back of his neck. It looks nice, a small voice inside him opined before he could wipe away the thought. He glanced back at Doug, whose hair though long in front was precisely trimmed like Brady's to show skin around the ears and down the sides and back of the neck. That looks nicer, he thought, and he held that thought in his head as Doug told stories about Storeman's tyrannical ways, the dress code in general, Mr. Taber's thing about neck slobbing ("You got to button the top button too? All the time? Danny asked incredulously. "You can't even like breathe that way!"), and so on. Brady let the conversation proceed, listening and enjoying the company and the feeling of walking his hometown streets, with old friends, again. He wondered if Doug felt as good as he did.

An old Plymouth -a '59, with huge horizontal fins in the rear -slowed next to them as they walked over the millpond dam. Kenny Heuer leaned out the back passenger window. "Hey Brady ,what're you doin' back in town so soon again?"

Brady smiled, even though the disapproving faces of Tommy Winkler and Tony Feehan in the car behind Kenny made him a bit uncomfortable. "Got a reprieve for the weekend, I don't go back till Monday afternoon."

"Cool," Kenny said. "Um, maybe we should hang out." There was a searching quality to his eyes. He noticed Doug ,and his eyes and face went dead. "Oh hi, um - Doug, right?"

Doug smiled and nodded. "Yeah, and you're Kenny. Good to see you again."

Tommy Winkler, who was driving, blew some cigarette smoke out through his nose disdainfully. "Kenny, let's go, man. We're in the middle of the fuckin' road talkin' to the Wilson punks. Let 'em go."

Kenny flushed, brushing some overly Vitalis'ed hair back off his forehead. "Um, right. Sorry Tommy. Look, I'll call you later, OK?"

"Sure." Brady felt sorry for Kenny at that moment., as he slid back into his rear seat. Dommy revved the Plymouth's huge engine once. Brady heard Tony, in the front passenger seat next to him, mutter, "Faggots" with a sneering chuckle, and the car peeled out, leaving an acrid burnt rubber smell behind.

Wayne and Danny shook their heads a little. "He's been hanging out with them since the start of school, maybe a little before," Danny explained. "No idea why. They're such losers. So now he's like slicking his hair back and smoking all the time. He came to school drunk last week one day." Wayne nodded gravely. Brady and Doug exchanged glances. Brady felt oddly guilty, for no apparent reason.

They wandered up Main Street toward Jocko's without any specific decision being made - it just seemed the natural thing to do. There were a couple of older kids Brady didn't know too well in back at a table, but no one at the counter. The Hatchet Faces were behind the counter, in full glower mode. The boys ordered Cokes and sat on stools, chatting easily as if they'd all known each other forever (which it seemed to Brady he had in a way - literally in the case of Wayne and Danny, while his friendship with Doug was so deep and intense he could scarcely recall now a time when they hadn't been friends). The Hatchet Faces both eyed Brady and Doug warily, but stayed silent and out of the way.

Mr. Jocko shoved his way through the front door several minutes later, as the boys were laughing over some small joke. He glared at them for a long moment before walking back to the kitchen area. Wayne, Danny, and Brady tried to avoid his stare; Doug returned it with a friendly smile that seemed to piss the old man off more than the others' evasiveness. He stomped grouchily back and forth between his kitchen and the counter the rest of the time they spent in the shop, saying nothing, but eying the boys menacingly. After a while, Brady was no longer intimidated , but increasingly angry. Who the fuck is this guy anyway, is he deliberately trying to be a jerk here? Doug remained placid, smiling at Mr. Jocko - which seemed to set him off all the more. When they finally rose to leave, he waved cheerily. "Thanks a lot, sir. See you again soon, I hope!" Mr. Jocko halted in mid-stomp, glassy eyed, and stared at Doug as if he were from the Moon.

The group managed to keep their laughter stifled until they were safely away from the door. Wayne's face was brightly flushed. "I thought he was gonna bust a vein is his forehead or something! What'd you guys do to piss him off like that?"

Doug shrugged. "Noting I know of. Hey, I've only been here twice now." He grinned at Brady. "I think he might not like me."

"Might? Might?" Danny was shaking his head while still chuckling. "I thought if I sniffled he'd have us thrown in solitary or something. I mean geez." They talked idly as they got to the corner, where Wayne and Danny left them for home, everyone promising to meet up the next morning before the game. "We might even win this one!" Danny called over his shoulder as he and Wayne strode away.

"So," Doug said with a sly grin, "want to go back and see if we can raise the old guy's blood pressure any more than we already did?"

"Hell no," Brady answered. "I don't know what the problem is, but there's something about us - about me I already sorta know, he's never much liked me, but about you, about us - that really gets to him. It's weird."

Once back home, Brady took Grouch off his lead and put him on a leash. The two boys walked back from Brady's house down the hill and into the woods that bordered the pond. The trails were well worn and as familiar to Brady as the back of his hand. Grouch, having cavorted back here numerous times when he managed to get off his lead and run free, seemed just as conversant with each tree and shrub as Brady - and far more intent on making his presence at each known to future passersby. The walk was therefore leisurely, as the sun westered and the air grew cool and damp. They were mostly silent, with Brady occasionally glancing sidelong at Doug, trying not to stare too openly. For his part, Doug seemed perfectly relaxed, a slight smile playing about the corners of his mouth, his hair tousling slightly in the breeze. Brady again fought the urge to brush it back into place.

They came to the edge of the deeper woods, where the usually travelled paths petered out or turned back toward town. From here he and Kenny had pushed onward through the bushes, eventually to the small clearing they'd shared. Brady wondered what it looked like now - probably carpeted with fallen leaves. He felt vaguely bad about ripping up the branches and kicking the grass with his heels. Had it grown back? The desire to take Doug to a truly secret place battled with his remembered vow never to set foot there again, and he wavered. "What's up?" Doug asked.

The voice startled Brady. "I, uh, I just - well, the trails sort of turn back on themselves here at the creek."

Doug nodded. "We can jump it easy. Grouch'll love it I bet." As if on cue, Grouch began nuzzling Doug's hand.

"Yeah, well, there - there's not a lot back there. I used to like explore it. You know, with, um, Kenny, and all.' Mentioning Kenny's name seemed an admission of some sort; he blushed. "Just more trees and stuff, and the creeks that feed the lake eventually." Doug was evaluating the far bank of the creek (which was only a couple of feet wide, and lethargic).

"Wanna go further?"

Brady swallowed. "L - let's do it another time. I mean it's not like we won't be back here again, right?" He wondered if the hope showed in his tone of voice. "I mean it's gotta be past 5 by now, and my mom'll be coming home soon. I should get stuff going for dinner."

Doug cocked his head. "You cook?"

Brady smiled, a bit abashed. "Well, yeah, some. When I was in like first or second grade, my mom was already working, and I'd be home alone after school. Hal was in college already and Trent was either at practice or working at the drug store. So she'd leave some stuff out, and like instructions, and I'd get dinner started so we could eat at a decent hour. I been doing it a long time now. Tonight's easy, we're just gonna barbecue the steaks, but it'll take a while to get the coals going."

Doug grinned. "Geez Bray, what can't you do, man?"

Brady shook his head. "Oh, lotsa stuff, believe me." He turned and pulled Grouch to start the walk back home. The pang of what he couldn't do, at that moment, was particularly sharp.