When the World Changed

Here, after too long a delay (for which I apologize) is the next chapter of this story. My thanks to those who've inquired after my progress in writing this, and as always to Flip, my editor, whose own "Val 'n' Tyne" story is well worth the read.

The usual disclaimers apply. This is fictional, and since it involve sexual situations including minors may be inappropriate or illegal for some of you to read. If so, please pass it by.

And I'l lalso again plug my other Nifty story, "Seal Rocks," found in this HS section, with the final chapter posted in April 2011 (wow, time flies - exactly two years ago today!). . I hope you enjoy both that story and this.

When the World Changed, Part 14

That night, Brady slept in Trent's bed, barely eight feet away from Hal's, in which Doug snored contentedly. The streetlight on the corner cast a slight glow through the window, outlining Doug as he lay beneath the covers. Brady couldn't take his eyes from the sight. Doug had stripped to his underwear at bedtime and slid unceremoniously under the covers. As he did so, Brady had worked hard not to stare at his perfect smooth torso. Intent on hiding his tumescence, Brady yanked his own pants off and leapt too quickly into bed. Did Doug see him look over? Was he really asleep now, or was he lying there waiting for Brady to come over? Was he scared Brady would attack him or something, the way Fieldstone had gotten him the night before? No, Brady decided, I'd been drunk, Doug wasn't drunk. He'd slug me for sure if I tried anything queer on him. The night seemed endless, and the soft musky smell of Doug's body as he slept mixed with Brady's fears to keep him at a heightened awareness.

At one point Doug abruptly sat up in the night, muttering incomprehensibly. He looked toward Brady, his dark eyes catching the tiny bit of light in the room. "It's OK, man," Brady said quietly. "We're sleeping now."

"Got class," Doug mumbled

"Not today. Go back to sleep."

Doug mumbled something else and fell heavily back into bed. Silence fell.

"Bray." Doug's voice was barely audible.

"Yeah?"

Minutes passed. "God, Brady," Doug said, shifting onto his stomach.

Brady smiled a bit. It felt good somehow to hear Doug say his name in his sleep. Maybe he was dreaming about us hiking in the woods or something. The memory of their walk, of their laughter filled cooking earlier that night, of sitting on the couch watching TV with their shoulders lightly touching all evening, washed over him, and sleep started to win out.

But there was a new noise, one he couldn't place. He pushed it aside for a bit, but it persisted. It was a squeak, slow and rhythmic. From Doug's bed. He lifted his head to see Doug's butt grinding slowly up and down against the mattress as he slowly humped it in his sleep, occasionally making some inarticulate sound. Brady's cheeks reddened and burned. Doug was jerking off in his sleep, fucking the mattress unconsciously. The sounds remained faint but unmistakeable (He and David had long since dispensed with any real effort at stifling the sounds they made when they jerked off at night, preferring simply to pretend that it never happened). He saw Doug's right arm, pale against the dark blanket, slide out to grab the pillows under his head as his movements got more pronounced. He was whimpering. Suddenly he froze stiffly shuddering a bit, and Brady knew he was coming in his briefs. Brady thought he might lose it himself at any moment. Doug remained like that for about twenty seconds, then exhaled in a long snoring breath and sank back down.

"Bray," he repeated.

Brady caught his breath. My name? He said my name, right after he came? Was he thinking of me, dreaming of me, when he did it? Oh God . , . Brady's hand was already under his waistband, and he barely moved it before his own climax hit him like an electric shock. He didn't freeze in place, he shuddered and thrashed jerkily about, out of control for what seemed like ages. God, he'll wake up, a small cautionary voice in the back of his head kept telling him, but he couldn't stop it.

When he finally regained his self control, he found he was sweating. He also definitely needed to change his underwear; the front was soaking. He lay nervously for a few minutes, listening to Doug's regular breathing to convince himself that he was truly asleep and hadn't heard him, before sliding out and grabbing a new pair from his suitcase, since his own dresser was back in his room. He hesitated for a moment over what to do with his wet underwear, then tossed them to the foot of his bed, making a mental note to grab them in some casual manner the next morning to throw into the laundry.

He was suddenly very tired. What did it all mean? It couldn't be - that he knew was impossible - but he'd said his name . . .

He slept very soundly after that.

Their room was unheated except through a grate in the floor that allowed warmth from the kitchen and the water heater below to rise into it. Brady awoke warm under the covers to crisp cold air, the smell of bacon, and a bright morning. Doug's bed was empty. He heard his mother's voice, and Doug's, through the grate. He couldn't make out what they were saying, and he didn't really care. It felt good to be home, to hear them below him and smell good food and be warm under covers. He drifted back to sleep.

"Hey lazy!!!" Doug sat down hard on the edge of Brady's bed and shoved him. "Get the hell up, it's like 9:30 already."

Brady, having bolted up at the intrusion, groaned and sank back downwards. "Lemme sleep," he muttered.

"Uh-uh," Doug said, laughing, and yanked the covers down. Brady curled up, now very wide awake - not just from the cold, but from his realization that he had an erection, and needed to hide it at all costs.

Doug laughed. "Gotcha!" He stood and moved back to his own bed, arranging the blanket. "I had breakfast with your mom before she left for work. She made a bunch more food. I even saved a little for you." He laughed. "And I collected the wash stuff here and got a load going." He turned and grinned at Brady. "Have some fun last night?"

Brady blinked, his attention divided between listening to Doug and willing his cock to go down.

Doug laughed. "It's OK, man, I did it too I guess. Woke up and my underwear was all, you know, sticky." Brady started to blush. "Musta had one hell of a dream. Then I found the ones you stashed under the bed when I was gathering stuff up to wash. Damn, you need some fluids after that emission, boy."

Brady turned away. He was caught. How could he explain this one? "I - I - "

Doug laughed again. "Relax, Bray." Hi using that nickname didn't help Brady's attempts to shrink his erection, right at that moment. "I mean it happens, right? I mean it's an event when Dunc doesn't sperm himself at some point in the night, we're always laughing about it. An' like I said, I made a bit of a mess, too." He gestured at the bed he'd been in. "I had to wash the sheets, that's why I was looking for other stuff to put in with them." He dropped his gaze for a moment, his embarrassment showing through. "I - I didn't want, you know, your mom, to find that, or anything - you know, after we've gone back to school and stuff."

Brady looked at Doug. He was grinning at the floor with a mixture of apology, sheepishness, and wicked glee at how bad they'd both been. Brady started to laugh. Doug joined in, and sat again on the bed, reclining a bit to lean against Brady's shoulder. "So'd you beat off to that girl who was flirting with you at the school yesterday?"

"Who? Debby? Um, no, I, um . . . well, yeah, sort of. I mean what can I say?" He realized he needed to keep up appearances. Plus, he decided a little gambit couldn't hurt. "How about you - Racquel or Veruschka?"

"Definitely Veruschka, man. Hot chick times twenty." He stood nd grabbed at his crotch. "Want her like now, now, now!!!" Brady rolled back in bed, laughing, and relieved that his erection had finally subsided. He felt quietly disappointed at how quickly and assuredly Doug had responded. "Racquel's got those balloon tits, man, like they're not even human."

"A new life form?"

"Yeah, we gotta beam down onto 'em!" He put on an exaggerated, and poor, Scottish accent. "Captain, if I give 'em any more they'll blow!!!"

Brady stretched, relaxing again. "OK, I gotta go piss. You shower yet?"

"Yeah, before I put the wash in. I, uh . . ."

"What?" Doug's hesitation was out of character.

"Well, I, you know, I wasn't sure how much hot water there'd be, that's all." He looked away sheepishly. "Sorry."

Brady stood and rubbed Doug's back a moment. "No sweat, you were right to worry. The heater is for shit sometimes. How long ago did you start the wash?"

"About twenty minutes."

"OK, I should be fine then, I just gotta hurry." He grinned. "Sorry about the poorhouse here, man."

Doug flushed. "Bray, I didn't mean it like that, I just - I wasn't sure -"

"Relax, it's OK. I know how it is. I mean shit, I live it all the time, right?" It wasn't easy, laughing off the reality of his life at home, but he knew how to put up a good front.

The shower was at best tepid, but he got through it fine.

They strode out into a dazzling sunny day, warmer than it had been Friday, at about 11. Brady led the way down Main Street, poking his head into most of the stores to say hello. The storekeepers most all knew him - he'd grown up running from store to store after school each day, sometimes wearing his Superman cape -a fact some of them brought up, to his own consternation and Doug's teasing delight. They were set to meet up with Wayne Probasco, Danny Bush, and some other kids at Jocko's for lunch, then head up to watch the football game. Brady wondered in the back of his mind how that would feel - his first Cullingstown High game as a high schooler, but now something he'd never be part of. Unless I fuck up and flunk out or something, he mused, then I'll be back anyway.

Jocko's was, predictably, jammed with kids, all jabbering excitedly about the day's game, even though most everyone expected Cullingstown to get its ass licked, and all the various gossipy bits that are the staple of high school conversation. Brady was greeted by many boisterously, and Doug was made to feel at home. The Hatchet Faces were both visibly flustered trying to keep up with the demands of their customers, and Mr. Jocko himself was rushing around, in a visibly foul mood, trying to serve everybody.

Brady and Doug wound up at a table toward the back with Danny, Wayne, and about four other kids. They ordered burgers (Jocko's was sadly renowned for the poor, roofing shingle quality of its grilled products) and shakes, and relaxed and laughed. By noon, much of the crowd had moved out, but with kickoff not set until 2 PM, they felt no need to hurry. As the crowd thinned, Mr. Jocko began to give vent to his mood, scolding the table next to them for making a mess (which, in truth, they had) and generally shouting at everyone to keep it down. This of course had only momentary effect.

Around 12:30, Doug stood and carried his glass to the counter. "Excuse me, sir," he said to Mr. Jocko, who was washing dishes with his back resolutely turned to the rest of the world, "could I get another shake when you have a second?"

"Sir?" Mr. Jocko turned, his chubby face mottled with sweat and suppressed rage. "You're calling me 'sir,' kid? What the hell are you acting at? And who the hell are you anyway?"

Brady knew the tone. Mr. Jocko was getting ready for a good, sinus clearing tantrum, in which he'd scream at every kid in the place, say ugly things about hippies and Negroes and Dr. King, and generally making everyone want to leave as quickly as possible. Hal and Trent firmly believed he did it to clear the store so he could rest. Brady started to rise to pull Doug away from the approaching storm, but Doug waved him off. His brown eyes were glittering hard, in a way Brady only saw in the middle of football games when he was intent on beating the pulp out of any opposing players who got in his way. The room had gone dead silent.

"Yes, actually," Doug said in a very formal tone that reminded Brady of Mr. Taber. "I did call you 'sir.' It's a term of respect that I've been taught to use towards people, even when I don't entirely think they deserve it. Are you uncomfortable with it? Maybe you'd be more comfortable with some other term?"

` Brady was pulling Doug's arm now. "Let's just go, OK?" Doug brushed him off, staring very directly at Md. Jocko.

Mr. Jocko raised himself to his full rotund height (which was, to be honest, barely 5'6"), his back arched slightly, his black eyes fixed on Doug. The Hatchet Faces stood near him, worrying dishrags in their bony hands. "This is my store, you little snot-nosed brat!!! You treat me with respect in my store, Goddammit!!!"

"That's why I used the term 'sir.' It seemed appropriate. But, maybe not." Doug was still as stone, his face set. He's like a god, Brady thought in a fleeting moment between panic waves.

An older man Brady vaguely recognized, sitting at the counter and nursing a cup of coffee, extended his hand toward Mr. Jocko. "Let it go, Deno," he counseled. "The boy was bein' respectful, no cause to blow up at him."

Mr. Jocko waved him off. "You come into my store," he bellowed at Doug, "with your snotty little boy's school jacket and act like you're superior to me? I fought in a Goddamned war for pansy little punks like you? Get your candy ass out of my store right now before I throw it out!!! And take your low life friend with you." He wheeled toward Brady. "If I ever see your sick shoplifting face in here again I'll have you fucking arrested, you hear me?"

Brady had had enough. "I've never taken a damn thing from your store, you miserable old . . ." he decided to leave it at that and not make his terminology explicit.

Mr. Jocko snorted. "You think I believe anything that comes out of the mouth of some trashy juvenile delinquent like you? You think going to some fancy pants faggoty boy's school makes you less trash? Or better than me?" He leaned across the counter toward Brady, his face drawn up in a sneer. "You're nothing. Not you, or your no account worthless brothers, or especially your drunken excuse for a mother -"

Brady had Mr/ Jocko by his tie, dragging him over the counter, before he realized what he was doing. Mr. Jocko's normally beady black eyes were very wide and very white. His mouth flapped open. Hatchet Face One (or maybe it was Hatchet Face Two) dropped a Coke glass she'd been idly polishing. The silvery report of its impact on the floor, as it broke into untold pieces, brought Brady back to his senses. Doug was prying Brady's hands off Mr. Jocko's tie. Dazed, Brady looked at Doug, than down at his hands. They had become those of another person entirely, he had no idea how they'd done that or what to do with them now. He managed to pull his arms back down to his side shakily.

Mr. Jocko remained beached atop the counter, like a great white aproned whale His feet kicked behind him, trying to shift his weight back so he could stand again, but with little apparent hope of success. His breath came in short puffs. He waved his arms feebly. Brady stepped back, horrified by what he'd just done and the sight before him. The Hatchet Faces seemed unsure which was the greater immediate crisis - the broken glass on the floor or Mr. Jocko's plight.

"We should go, Bray," Doug was saying in his ear. A hand tugged on his arm. "C'mon. Now." Brady stumbled sideways down the length of the counter and out the door under Doug's guidance, watching Mr. Jocko trying to get himself back on solid ground. He made no visible progress before Doug closed the door behind them.

The air outside was brisk, windy. It struck Brady's face coldly. He gulped in several breaths. Doug was walking them to the corner, and around it, as fast as he could without making too much of a spectacle of things. "Is this the way to your mom's store, Bray?"

Brady blinked at Doug twice, trying to clear his head. They were just around the corner, leaning against the brick facade of the Rexall store. He looked around to orient himself. "Y - yeah, it's right - tight there, past the bakery." He had wanted to take Doug to the bakery, he emembered now, and have him taste the hot freshly sliced bread they made every afternoon. He started to point to it, then shook his head vigorously. "Come on."

Sal was seated at his sewing machine, back to the door. This surprised Brady - Sal didn't often work on Saturdays. He must be busy he thought, a hopeful sign for any small business. Sal was a short, squat, and very old man, with a broad face, barely any hair, and a wide thick lipped smile that should have been grotesque but was actually endearing. "Just a minute, please," he said without moving from his work. The machine hummed loudly as he drew a pants leg down its length across the table. He lowered his glasses to inspect the seam, his thick fingers aiding the process. After several seconds, he nodded. "All right, sorry to keep you waiting," he said as he slowly placed the trouser leg on the sewing table. "Mrs. Conover is in the back right now," as he started to turn. His face lit up when he saw Brady. "Bambino!!!" he cried, slowly pulling himself to his feet and holding out one arm. Brady stepped forward to accept his embrace, stooping over the small man. "Lemme look at you! My word, you're all grown up now. I gotta get a ladder t' give you a kiss." Which he did, grasping Brady's head between his hands to plant one lightly on his forehead. As Brady straighte3ned up, Sal's hand patted his cheek softly.

"And this must be your friend!" Sal said, turning with a wide smile to Doug and holding out both hands. Sal had immense hands, especially given how short and stooped he was, and Doug's hand vanished as Sal closed both of his meaty paws around it.

Doug was smiling, but a bit uncomfortable. "Nice to meet you, sir," he said gamely.

"Doug, this is Sal. He's worked here with Mom as long as I can remember."

Sal, still holding Doug's hand fast, turned to Brady with a laugh. "You used to hide in the racks in your Superman outfit that you made. All those sheets!!!" he laughed.

Brady started laughing in spite of himself. "Is everybody gonna bring that up? Geez."

"We get to tease you, that's why we're the grown-ups," his mother called as she walked down the narrow lane between racks of plastic covered clothes.

Brady smiled, trying to compose himself. He glanced at Doug, who let slip, "What, you're not gonna say anything?"

"About what?" Brady's mother cut in sharply. She glanced sternly at both boys; she'd clearly sensed a problem.

Brady tried to avoid her gaze. "It's nothing, Mom, don't worry, OK?"

His mother looked at him for a long second, then turned to sit down and light a cigarette. "You will tell me, please," she instructed very quietly, "what is going on."

Brady glanced at Doug, who had such an abashed look on his face from letting it slip that there was any problem at all, it was almost cute. In fact, it was cute, Brady started to smile a little in spite of the situation. "I just - I kind of had a run in with Mr. Jocko just now."

"All right," she answered calmly. "What happened?"

Brady described in as general terms as he could how Mr. Jocko had gone off on Doug. "And - and he started saying stuff about how I was worthless, and Hal, and Trent, and - and like all of us . . ."

"I see," his mother said, looking at Sal. "And what happened?"

"I - I sort of grabbed him and started to pull him over the counter. Doug stopped me right away, Mom, I swear, and I didn't hit him. If he says I hit him he's lying, honest. And - and then we just, you know, left."

His mother let out a long stream of Chesterfield smoke. "That man," she muttered. She stood, picking up her purse. "Let's go. Sal, will you watch things for a bit?"

Sal nodded, his face dark with anger. "I should go over there and give him a piece of my mind right now, that'll stop him."

"No need, we'll handle it. Come on, Brady."

"W - where are we going?" He didn't want to have to apologize to Mr. Jocko, the thought of saying he was sorry after what the old bastard had said was repellant.

"We're going to talk to Barry Switlik. Before Mr. Jocko does."

?The cops?!? Brady squeaked. Barry Switlick was with the township police, and occupied an office just up the street. Cullingstown was too small to have its own force. Barry Switlick, who had graduated from Cullingstown High, had only last year taken over from old Mr. Imlay. Swallowing hard, Brady dutifully swung in behind his mother as she strode out of the store, with Doug following. Brady glanced behind him once or twice, half expecting Mr. Jocko and the Hatchet Faces to be pursuing them with pitchforks. But all hw saw was Doug's face, flushed and nervous. He tried to smile at Doug and tell him to relax, but he didn't feel very relaxed himself.

Barry was only a few years older than Trent. He'd been a senior when Trent was a freshman and had played football with him. He now looked the part of the athlete starting to go to seed - his waist was a bit thick, and the strong neck was slowly turning jowly. He was leaning against the door to the building, smoking, as Brady and his mother approached. "Hey Mrs. C,: he cried out with a wide smile. "How are ya today? Isn't it great out here?"

Brady's mother smiled and accepted his light embrace. "Can we talk to you a minute?"

Barry glanced at the boys, and their shamed expressions, and his smiled faded "Sure, come on in." He stubbed out his cigarette on the brick wall and dropped the butt to the sidewalk. Brady frowned a bit. That's littering, he of all people shouldn't do stuff like that. But given his situation at that point, he didn't feel that pointing out Barry's transgression was the wisest policy.

Brady's mother briefly described what had happened. Barry nodded, taking a few notes, then turned to Brady. "OK, that's the short version. Now, I want you to tell me exactly, everything that happened. Don't leave anything out." Brady did, with frequent interjections from Doug. When he got to the final insults from Mr, Jocko, however, Brady esitated. "And he - he said bad things, about my brothers, and my mom . . . "

"What bad things?"

Brady blinked and glanced at his mother. "It's all right, baby doll, he's said things about me before."

Brady gulped. "He - he called Mom a drunk. And - and I just, I like saw white." He looked at his shoes, ashamed. "It was stupid, I know, but - but you can't talk about my Mom like that, that's all. Nobody can."

Barry let out a long breath. "Is that what he said?" he asked Doug, who nodded. "Did anyone else hear it?"

"I think a bunch of people. Some friends of Brady's - what were their names, Bray, I'm lousy at this -"

Brady sighed. He didn't want to involve his friends in this, too. "Wayne Probasco, Danny Bush, Wendy and Denise, probably some other kids. Mr. Orr was at the counter, he said to Mr. Jocko to back off right before - before, you know . . . ."

Barry nodded. "John Orr's a good man." He leaned back in his chair. "You feel proud of yourself now?"

Brady blinked. "Me? Proud??? No, God, I - I feel awful, I never - I don't want to, to, you know, do stuff, like that . . . ." He wondered if he was going to cry.

Barry smiled. "What is it with Mr. Jocko and your kids, Mrs. C? I thought he'd leave it alone after Trent went after him back when we were in school."

"He just carries grudges, I guess," Brady's mother sighed.

Brady looked around. "What - what happened with Trent?"

Barry laughed. "He doesn't know?" His mother shook her head. "Well, Trent's freshman year, we won a game against Frenchtown, but he fumbled maybe three times. Got benched. It was hard for him, playing varsity as a freshman, even though he was really good. And of course it was right after your dad had passed. So Mr. Jocko went off on one of his little tirades, like today, only he said things about your dad as well."

Brady's head shot up. His eyes glittered. "What'd he say?"

Barry held his hand out admonishingly. "Never mind, you did enough today already. Anyway, Trent reacted just like you did, only he made kind of a mess of Mr. Jocko's nose before they pulled him off. We all stood up for Hal, and Mr. Jocko got turned away by Lt. Imlay, and that got Mr. Jocko so steamed that he .just about had a heart attack." He turned to Brady's mother. "I didn't know he'd been bothering Brady - did you know about it?"

"Only in general terms," she said, his lips tightly pursed. Brady could tell that Mr. Jocko's nose, and probably his nuts too, were now in serious jeopardy, and not from him. "Should I have a word with him myself?"

"Definitely not, Mrs. C," Barry said with a laugh. "You'd do more damages than Trent, Hal, and Brady combined.. I'll talk with John Orr, and presuming he backs up Brady's version of events, I'll deal with Deno. He'll probably be over here soon enough anyway." He leaned back in his chair. "It's hard keeping things under control, Brady, even for adults. Believe me, I know - I see too many people who're old enough to know better get into all sorts of dumb fights. And I know Mr. Jocko's got a bug up his rear about you and your family - wish I knew why, but then he's always been pretty disagreeable toward the world in general. But you have to hold it in, even when it really gets you mad sometimes. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Brady muttered, his shame returning.

"Sir??? Geez, Brady, I'm still Barry, even with this monkey suit on. So tell about your school, I wanna know everything." He spent the next twenty or so minutes coaxing Brady into an increasingly enthusiastic description of his life at Wilson, much of which of course included Doug. Brady wondered in the back of his mind whether Barry was really interested, but he understood it was in his interest to tell him all he could (and to make himself sound as thoroughly respectable as possible), so he talked and talked.

Eventually, Barry glanced at the wall click. "Sounds pretty amazing, Brady, we're all proud of you." Brady blushed. "Even when you make like your older brother." Brady's blushed deepened as its motivation changed. "In fact, I especially like it when you're like Hal that way, but don't quote me, OK?" His eyes sparkled mischievously, and Brady found himself grinning. "You guys headed to the game? It's almost kickoff time. Want a ride?"

Brady's face shone. "What, in your police car and all?" Barry nodded. "Cool!!! Mom, is it OK?"

"Of course. At least I'll know you're safe, and that you won't have to walk past Mr. Jocko's - he'd probably come out after you with a bat."

Barry grinned. "I kind of intended to drive past Jocko's a little slowly, and let the boys wave at him a little. I need my fun, too, after all."

Outside, Brady's mother hugged him tightly. "Be good, now, all right?"

Brady sighed. "Mom, I'm so sorry -"

"Nonsense, it wasn't your fault. Well, not all your fault, or even mostly. But I think you need to stay out of Jocko's from now on, understand?"

Brady nodded. "Yes, ma'am." Given that he was usually away at school, this wasn't a hard concession, but since Jocko's was the town's central gathering place for kids after school and during vacations, Brady knew he'd be even more isolated from his old friends if he couldn't hang out with them there. The rift between his past and present was widening.

Barry made a great show of driving at an achingly slow pace down Main Street, sirens and cherrytop lights going like mad, as he announced over his bullhorn that the Cullingstown football game was about to begin and that everyone should go up to the high school field to support the team. Brady and Doug waved madly out the windows, grinning and hooting their support. As they passed Jocko's, Brady saw Mr. Jocko step out the door, glare at the patrol car for a long second, and spit on the sidewalk in disgust.

"Careful, there, Mr. Jocko!" Barry chided over the bullhorn. "Expectorating in public is a violation of the Municipal Code!"

The Cullingstown football field was off to the east of both the old and new high schools, bounded on two sides by those structures, on a third by a cow pasture, and on the fourth by a corn field. The pasture's bovine aromas mixed with the smell of hot dogs grilling in the concession stand hut The odors were familiar and deeply comforting to Brady; he inhaled deeply as he hopped out of the patrol car. "Thanks Barry, this is great."'

"No problem. Go have fun. Wish you could play today, I think we could use the help. You stay away from Jocko's now, right?"

Brady nodded, and he and Doug hurried to the stands. They held at most a couple of hundred people only, and they were far from packed. A large knot of high school kids, however, clustered together in the center, and they greeted Brady and Doug's arrival as if a conquering hero had returned from battle. Questions about what had happened at Jocko's, about how and why they'd driven to the game in the patrol car, about who Doug was and what Brady was doing and how life at Wilson was and how they wished he was on the field now, swirled around him. Brady felt embarrassed, welcomed, humbled, even cozy. He was home. He tried turn his attention to the field, where he saw the Cullingstown team both outnumbered and apparently outweighed by a considerable amount per man. Geez, he thought, this isn't gonna be pretty. Even just warming up, this had the look of a massacre. He glanced at Doug, who was making a similar evaluation. "Are our guys at least faster?"

Brady smiled sheepishly. "I don't think so."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, I know. Welcome to small town football."

Their evaluation proved to be all too correct. Perrine High started fast and didn't let up. By the early second quarter, it was already 21 - 0, with little prospect of thing changing or getting better. The even sparser crowd on the far sideline was having a great time, cheering and occasionally making faintly heard insulting remarks about hick farm kids. Brady held in a growing desire to sneak into the locker room, get into a uniform, and beat the crap out of someone just to make the point. Doug nudged him in the ribs. "Calm down, you can't play anyway."

Brady jerked at the touch, then started laughing. "I want to, though - isn't that stupid?"

"Nah," Doug said, laughing in turn. "I'd probably feel the same way watching a game in Mechanicsburg."

Wayne Probasco leaned in over Brady's shoulder. "Do it, Brady - sneak in for the second half. No one'll know, and you'll kick ass."

Brady laughed. He needed to blow off steam, move around a little. "I'm gonna get a soda, you want one?"

"Sure. Mind if I stay here and watch?"

"No prob. Be back quick, I hope."

He slid through the crowd down the bleachers and strode off toward the concession hut. He noticed Kenny Heuer leaning against its back side, away from the game., smoking. He walked slightly toward him, lifting a hand to wave. "Hey."

Kenny smiled, brushed his hair off his forehead, and stubbed his cigarette out against the plywood wall, staining its cheap grey paint with a small black smudge. "Hey yourself." He stepped back a little, into the narrow space between the rear of the building and the pasture fence. Brady followed unconsciously. "So I hear you had a blowup with Mr. Jocko?"

Brady felt his color rise again. "Yeah, it was pretty stupid."

Kenny shook his head, "Old bastard deserves it. And a lot more." He was by a small door. "Wanna check out the cleaning closet with me?"

Brady cocked his head at this odd question. Kenny had a slight knowing smile as he pulled the door open. "C'mon," he said.

Brady glanced behind him. No one was near, everyone was watching the game. He slid down the narrow space and stepped in behind Kenny, who pushed the door closed quickly.

After the sunlit field, it seemed very dark inside. And very cramped. Small slivers of light knifed randomly through the dusty air, the smell of cleaning supplies was strong. "So," Brady started to ask, "what -"

Kenny's hand grabbed at his crotch hard. Brady doubled over a bit, his breath taken away. Kenny kneaded him hard, pushing him back against the door with his other hand. "Just be quiet so nobody hears, OK?" he whispered, his breath heavy with tobacco. Brady was hardening quickly, despite his surprise and fear of being caught. In fact, that fear seemed to make it all the more exciting, illicit. He groaned and sagged backwards as Kenny quickly opened his pants. By the time Kenny pulled his cock out and began stroking it, he was fully erect and the sensations were thrilling.

Then, without warning, Kenny dropped to his knees and took the full length of Brady's cock into his mouth. Brady let out as loud yelp - half shock, half ecstasy. Kenny pulled back for a moment. "Keep it down, dammit." He went back to sucking Brady, and Brady after a moment's further bewilderments, fell back as the incredible feelings started to wash over him, feelings he'd never imagined before, of desire and heat and the need to thrust himself forward. Kenny was bobbing rapidly up and down along his erection, making random slurping noises and grunting. Brady's hand drifted down to Kenny's lank Vitalis'd hair. He felt his toes curl involuntarily as he rapidly approached his climax. "Kenny . . . Oh God Kenny, I'm - I'm gonna -" Kenny took the cock from his mouth and stroked it vigorously, pointing it away toward the corner. Brady grabbed the handle behind him, arched, and came violently, spattering the far wall a good five feet away. He kept quiet, but couldn't help wheezing alarmingly as he emptied himself. God, I think I just shot out my spleen or something, he thought dully.

Kenny was standing next to him now, wiping his hand with a dirty rag. He used it to clean off Brady's cock as well. .Brady was still slumped against the door, glazed, panting. Kenny leaned in close. "See if your prep school buddy can make you feel like that, huh?" he whispered. Then h shoved Brady aside and slipped out the door.

It seemed he would never catch his breath again. His cock was still jutting out from his jeans, rock hard. It was still oozing. He seemed incapable of rational thought,or volitional movement. A cheer rolled through the air, from the Cullingstown side he could tell. He blinked, tucked himself back in, and after a few deep breaths slipped out into the light, glancing nervously about to make sure he hadn't been seen. He walked directly back to the bleachers like a zombie.

Doug was clearly enjoying himself, chatting animatedly with Wayne, Danny, and the rest of the group. Debby DiBoise was around him, too, with a few of her friends. The sight of Doug made him momentarily nauseous. Oh God, what'd I just do?

Wayne was waving his arms enthusiastically when Brady got back to the group. "Man, you missed it! George Lopato, he like ran through all or 'em! It was so cool!!!"

Doug nodded in agreement. "You missed this great punt return. You got one guy who's a good runner, shifty and all. Hey, where's my Coke?" Doug looked at him, a bit puzzled.

Brady blushed brightly. "Sorry," he muttered, "I forgot. I, uh, I got caught up watching I guess." He waved vaguely toward the concession shack, and, looking that way for verification, saw Kenny Heuer leaning again against the wall, smoking, and smiling quietly. He was looking directly at Brady. A wave of deep guilt washed over Brady. I betrayed him, he thought. I betrayed Doug. I did this stupid dirty thing, in a dirty janitor's closet, and got cleaned off with an oily rag after. He felt a need to shower, to sterilize his whole body with rubbing alcohol or something. How can I look at him again, ever? He recalled stories Hal had told while in college, of being accosted by sleazy old men in the Trenton train station bathroom when he was waiting to go back to Philadelphia. How Hal had beaten the snot out of the sick bastard. Is that me, is that how I am, how I'll wind up? His legs suddenly went shaky, and he sank down onto the bleachers, head in hands.

"Bray?" Doug's voice was in his ear, the warmth of his breath gave him goosebumps. "You OK? What's the deal, man?"

Brady rubbed his face and glanced at Doug, trying his best to put on a smiling face. "Tired, I guess. No - no big deal, y'know?"

"Wanna split? We don't have to stay." His hand rested on Brady's shoulder, warm and soft.

I don't' deserve to have you touch me, he thought. I'm filth.

He had a strong urge to rest his cheek against Doug's hand, which he resisted with difficulty. I'm so sorry, so sorry. Never again. Not Kenny, not fucking Fieldstone with his Southern Comfort. I promise, I'll be good.

He even, almost, believed it.

"Nah," he managed to answer in an even voice. "Gotta cheer 'em home, right?" He stood, squinting and gulping in air. "They can make a game of it yet."

Cullingstown indeed made a game of it, but wound up losing 28-20. The deflated group around Brady slowly trudged down the bleachers, talking in terms of moral victories and all the stuff that Brady hated: you won or you lost, that's it. A moral victory is a loss. He tried, though, to be polite, agreeing that yes,. the team had real potential still, and the season had a long way to go. He glanced at Doug, who smiled conspiratorially for a moment - he knew exactly what Brady was thinking. That exchanged glance made Brady feel much better. He's still there, he doesn't have to know. It can still be OK.

Mr. Trout, the Cullingstown coach, spotted Brady amid the crowd and called out to him. This wasn't a meeting Brady relished. Mr. Trout had coached Hal and Trent, and had spoken to Brady numerous times about how much he was looking forward to when Brady got to Cullingstown High. "Good to see you, Conover, how's school treating you?"

"Fine, sir." He didn't know what else to say, he had a whole new set of the guilts now. "I - I, um, I'm sorry about the game. Today, I mean." He suddenly felt somehow responsible.

Mr. Trout smiled. "It's OK, really. We competed hard, that's all you can ever ask. We just got jumped that first quarter. Could've used you, though. " Brady's guilt deepened. "You a classmate of Conover's?" he asked Doug, who extended his hand politely for a greeting. Mr. Trout gave Doug his full patented knuckle-crushing handshake, the one that was famous and feared among all the boys who'd played under him. Doug's eyes widened a moment before Brady saw him give back as best he could. Mr. Trout smiled placidly and held the grip for a couple more seconds. "Good job," he said amiably when he released Doug's hand. "Most boys fold up like a card table the first time I shake their hand."

Brady had to smile. "I should've warned you," he said to Doug.

No problem, my dad likes to do stuff like that too. I'm used to it."

They fell in together, walking toward the school and the locker room door. In between the various people coming up to him to offer congratulations or commiseration on the game, Mr. Trout quizzed Doug on his background. "You know," he said, turning back to Brady, " I saw that game you boys played against Summerton. When they started throwing varsity kids in against you? Damn good job you boys did, the conditioning really told the tale that day." He smiled a little. "I'm glad we don't play you."

Brady felt a glow. "Really? Why were you there?"

" I make it over to Summerton a couple of times early each season to scout them for the game." Summerton and Cullingstown traditionally finished the season playing each other, and the games were famously intense. "On the sly, you know," he added with a slight grin. He glanced at Doug. "I take it you were in that game too?"

"Yes, sir, I played center, and a couple of positions on defense."

Mr. Trout nodded. "OK, I remember. The seal block on all those counters. Good job, that." Doug smiled, and Brady surged with pride.

"Hey, Brady!" Kenny Heuer swung into step with them, to Brady's mortification. "Good game coach, sorry it didn't turn out."

Mr. Trout glanced at Kenny, and replied, "Thanks," without much real conviction or interest. They reached the locker room door, and others started competing for his time, so Brady and Doug stepped back with a silent wave. God, make Kenny leave, Brady thought over and over again.

Kenny, however, seemed intent on staying right where he was. He started talking animatedly to Doug about something, though Brady in his state couldn't keep track of what it was. It wasn't until he heard the words "dinner' and "Mrs. Conover" in close proximity that he jolted back to reality. Eyes widening, he spluttered the only thing that could escape is lips: "Huh?"

Doug smiled tolerantly at him. "I think it'd be fine with your mom, don't you?"

"Sure it would,". Kenny joined in, smiling at Brady as well, his eyes glinting slightly. "Mrs. C's always been great with the guys. Right Brady?"

Brady licked jip lips nervously. "Y - you want, to, like, have dinner? With Doug and me? And my mom? T-tonight, like?"

Both boys laughed. "Calling all cars, calling all cars! APB for Brady Conover!!!" Doug did a good imitation of a scratchy police radio dispatch call, complete with pretend static, and this one was near perfect. Kenny started laughing hard, and even Brady had to giggle through his terror. Gotta do something, he thought. Say something. He looked at Kenny, who met his gaze with a sly smile and an arched eyebrow.

"Um, uh, sure. I mean, if it's OK with my mom and all." He blinked. "It, um, it'd be cool to, you know, hang out, again, Kenny, right?"

"Yeah. Long time no see, tight?" Kenny's grin was dazzling.

Brady was trying to think of something, anything, to get out of it. "So, Kenny," he said in a forcedly casual manner, "you gonna need to let Tommy and Tony know? I mean you probably rode with them here, you know, like when we saw you yesterday."

"Nah, they don't come to shit like this, they think it's all bullshit. You know how they are." He had a point.

"Um, right. So - so, I'm , well, surprised, you know, that you showed up. I mean it seems like you hang with them a lot these days."

Kenny shrugged, his grin slipping. "I gotta hang with somebody, don't I?" He glared a moment at Brady.

"Oh, sure! Course!!! I just - I meant, like, you might've wanted to like check in with 'em, let 'em know what's happening." He swallowed loudly. "And all."

"They ain't my keepers, fuck 'em," Kenny answered evenly. It was clear he had no desire to talk about them.

Wayne and some of the other kids caught up with them, and the group began the walk downhill and over the millpond back to downtown. Many were surprised to find Kenny along with them, and the conversation centered on him for a while. Brady and Doug drifted to the rear of the group.

"Is this dinner thing OK?" Doug asked. "You seemed pretty weird about it."

Brady blinked, trying to keep calm. "It's OK," he answered. "I - it was just unexpected, you know?"

Doug nodded. "He seems like a nice guy. A little too much into the greaser thing, but overall nice."

"Yeah, that's new. I haven't seen him like that before." They walked silently for a minute or so. "He - he's, like, different, now. I dunno how to say it, but - you know, different."

"Is he different or are you?"

The question was jolting. Brady looked at Doug, whose liquid brown eyes had a hardness that belied his soft smile.

"I - I dunno. I mean, yeah, he's definitely different, hanging out with Tom and Tony. They're like skuzzy greaser guys, and that was never Kenny. But," he added slowly, "I - I guess it's me too, sort of. This weekend - it's weird, in a lot of ways. I don't want to, like change - to turn into McShane or some stuff y asshole like that. I haven't, have I?" he asked, alarmed for a moment, before Doug's laugh provided the answer. "I guess, well, we're all changing. Growing up, and stuff. But it's like everything's changing, and it's all happening in this like whirl. The government's fucked up, the war -" he gulped '- the war is stupid and, and pointless, and black people still get treated like shit, and most of the adults are like Mr. Jocko it seems, . . . I mean how do you tell what part's you changing and what's all of that other stuff moving around?"

Doug shook his head. "No idea, man." He frowned. "But I - we - all of us, we're not the same as we were. School's like that, it changes you. Especially a place like Wilson. It's gonna be so weird to me to go back home for Thanksgiving -"

"You don't have to, you know. You can spend it here." Brady hoped his rushed invitation wasn't too obvious.

Doug smiled but shook his head. "My mom and dad like died when I asked to spend this weekend here instead of coming home. They were cool with it, but I could tell. Thanksgiving'd really kill 'em." Brady slumped a bit; the thought of a whole long weekend without Doug hurt terribly. Doug seemed to notice, clapping him on the back lightly. Hey, it's just another long weekend, right? But anyway, it's gonna be so weird, for me, going back. I know - I can tell from what you're going through. It's all gonna be different, in weird little ways." Now it was Doug who swallowed visibly. "I, I really don' know how I'm gonna handle it all, sometimes."

This was unusual for Doug. Brady rubbed his arm a bit. "It'll be fine.. You'll be fine. I think it's just like, you gotta sort of catch up. Like you were sick or something, and all this stuff's gone only you didn't know about."

Doug grinned at him, and Brady forgot everything for a few long seconds, staring back into Doug's bright beautiful face. A loud cough startled him back to reality. Kenny was staring at him, his expression both smug and resentful.

Brady heard Tommy Winkler's Plymouth groaning up behind them. "Hey Heuer!!!" Tony Feehan shouted as they drew close,, "what th' fuck, man? Get in, we got stuff t'do."

Kenny flushed brightly. "I - I'm just, you know, talkin' here -"

"Fuck that, an' fuck these woosies. You comin' or not?"

Kenny closed his eyes tightly for a long second. When he opened them, he stared at Brady, who wanted to grab him and take him away from those two assholes. He couldn't think of anything to say, though. Kenny's face slowly composed itself, turning back into the disinterested tough guy pose he'd affected before. He curled one side of his mouth at Brady leeringly. "Guess I done all the damage I can do here, huh?" he said to no one in particular. He pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and spun on his heel to jump into the back seat of Plymouth. Tony Feehan hacked up a large wad of phlegm and spat it theatrically into the gutter near Brady and his friends as Tony peeled out. The laughter from inside the car was audible even over the throb of its huge engine.

Wayne Probasco shook his head. "I dunno why he hangs out with those douche bags," he said. "He's like a nice guy most of the time, but then . . . " he gestured at the Plymouth as it vanished around a curve.

Brady nodded silently as the other guys talked on about how Kenny was fucking up his life. Boy, did I dodge that bullet, he thought.

"Sorry about Kenny, it would've been nice to get to know him better," Doug said, patting Brady lightly on the shoulder.

"S' OK," Brady breathed after a couple of seconds. "He - y'know, he's doing like whatever with those guys. I guess he's happy. Or something." The guilt was back. Guilt for what he'd done with Kenny, for abandoning Kenny so he fell in with jerks like that, for deserting Ciullingstown High and his friends, for betraying Doug, for just about everything in his life. He wanted to say he was sorry, but to whom?

In the middle of a crowd of friends, with the boy he loved beside him, Brady suddenly felt very alone.