When the World Changed

Here, at long last, is the next chapter of the story. i apologize for the long hiatus in writing, and am grateful to the many people who've written me during that hiatus to encourage me to pick the tale up again. Their kind comments were and are welcome - as are (polite) critiques, since I don't claim to be a genius at this stuff. The usual disclaimers apply. This is a fictional story, and any resemblance to anyone or anything in the real world is unintended and coincidental. If reading about sexually explicit activities is illegal where you live, or not something you want to read, then don't read this. Simple solution.

I will put in my usual plug for my other Nifty story, "Seal Rocks," in this same section and completed way back in 2011.

And as always, let me encourage you all to contribute to Nifty, to keep this resource for readers and writers available. Thanks to them.

When the World Changed, Part 30

Thanksgiving passed in a whirl. The ride back to Cullingstown, helping out with preparations for the meal, Hal's arrival in a buddy's beat up Chevy with huge tail fins and no discernible muffler, the rush of the day itself, Aunt Lois and Uncle Daniel sniffing haughtily over everything. Uncle Daniel, a round baldheaded man who was semi retired from working at some job in the insurance industry, was at least impressed by the fact that Brady was attending Wilson. For her part, Aunt Lois could have cared less. She spent much of the day dropping not so subtle insults towards Brady's mother - her home, her cooking ability, her clothes. Brady found himself ready to burst several times, only to have Hal nudge him and wink, or his mother smile slyly. This was the family's coping mechanism where Aunt Lois was concerned: mock her all the time, even if just in your own head.

On Saturday he went around town, curious to see if anyone was around. Kenny Heuer was out of town for the holiday, which simultaneously disappointed and relieved Brady. So, it seemed, were most of the kids he knew. Danny Bush, Wayne Probasco, the Lyonses - all were off someplace with family or something. The only person who seemed to be in town was Debby DiBoise, who Brady saw walking down Main Street at midday while he was leaving his mother's store. She waved, and they fell in together, walking fast through the chilly air, breath blowing in clouds around them.

"I didn't really get a chance to talk to you last time you were home," Debby said with a bit of a pout. "How's your school going?"

"It's good," Brady answered, flapping his elbows a bit against his sides for warmth. "It's, um, different, y'know? Really different."

"How?"

Brady took a breath. "Well, I mean you live there and all. Away from home. That's really different right off the bat. And it's really formal in a lot of ways, how you dress and talk to the Masters -"

"Masters? Is it like a plantation or something?" She was giggling.

Brady started to chuckle as well. "Nah. Frankly, it's too white." That got him thinking. He'd always had Negro friends and classmates through elementary and middle school. But he could think of only three Negros at Wilson - a junior named Chip something, who played basketball, a PG senior who'd been a receiver on the varsity football team (he had heard he wanted to get into Yale but needed to get his SAT score up some), and a freshman kid named Greg who lived in one of the outlying house dorms, who he'd only passed in the halls and exchanged the most perfunctory greetings with. That realization bothered him a little. Why weren't there others?

But his response had put Debby into fits of laughter. "Wow!!! Well, what did you expect, going to a hoity-toity place like that? All the upper crust. You must stick out like a sore thumb, not being all snooty and stuff."

"They're not snooty, I - I've met some really nice guys there." He paused. "Well, and a couple of complete assholes, but they're gone now, so hooray for that."

Debby giggled more. She obviously thought her giggle was cute, and on some levels it was, but Brady also felt a vague discomfort at it. She was trying too hard. "So, do you want to get a soda or something?"

Brady smiled. "I think Mr. Jocko'll lose a kidney if I go in his place again." He really did want to, though.

She nodded, with another giggle. "That's OK - we can go to my house. My mom's always got some bottles of Kern's orange soda in the pantry. That's your favorite, right?"

Now it was Brady's turn to giggle - a slightly embarrassed one. "How'd you know that?"

"You always ordered orange soda at Jocko. And I've seen you like clear off the shelf at the Acme." She was smiling warmly now. "So c'mon, it's better than talking in the cold like this." She strode away without waiting for his response.

"Good point," Brady breathed, falling in behind her.

Debby's house was about half a mile away, in the one suburban style subdivision that had been built in Cullingstown, about ten or fifteen years before (Brady was unclear on the details). The house, though small, seemed luxurious and modern to Brady - certainly when compared to his own home. They entered through the back, into a small service porch that held the washer and dryer (Brady's home had no service porch - the washer sat next to the kitchen table - and no dryer - they hung clothes from lines in the back yard, and in the basement in winter). Debby indicated that he should take off his coat and shoes, as she did. The floor felt warm through his socks. Debby moved past him as he did so and into the kitchen, calling for her mother. "Guess she's out or something." She smiled again.

Brady felt the color rise in his cheeks. "Um, is this a good - "

"Oh come on, Brady, I'm just getting you a soda! Although," she added, "maybe a hot chocolate would be better after being outside."

"Sure! Yeah, that'd - that'd be great. Thanks."

She bustled about the kitchen, which still held the faint residual odor of turkey (which in turn made Brady's stomach growl a bit). As she handed him a large steaming mug, her fingers seemed to linger a second or so on Brady's. She smiled again. "Why don't go watch TV downstairs? I think Jeopardy might be on now." She pulled open a door next to the refrigerator. "Come on, I've got a color set down here."

Brady, torn between excitement and discomfort, followed.

The basement was nicely finished, with pine wood paneling, thick curtains on the small high windows, and a deep couch along one wall. It had a large cushiony couch, piled high with throw pillows and lap blankets, against one wall, and a massive TV set opposite. Debby set her mug down on the glass coffee table in front of the couch and clicked on the TV, waving her hand to indicate Brady should sit as well. She lingered by the TV as it warmed up, taking about twenty seconds until the small dot in the center of the screen expanded into a riotously colorful commercial for a car dealer. The dealer, speaking rapidly at the camera, had an alarmingly green face. "My brother always play with the color knobs," she muttered sulkily. "Takes me forever to get it right again." She twisted some dials on the front of the console. Brady, having never owned a color TV in his home, was clueless.

When she finally had the color to her liking, Debby plopped down next to Brady, sinking low into the couch cushions. She grinned at him, reaching for her mug. Brady sipped nervously, staring at the TV while watching her from the corner of his eye. A bit of foam remained on her upper lip as the set down the mug. She licked it slowly off, her eyes on Brady the entire time.

A soap opera now came on. "Oh crap," she muttered, lifting up a large remote control box. "Barry always switches the channel." She pushed a large oval button, which clicked loudly as the screen went dark. Several seconds later, the picture slowly resolved again, this time to Art Fleming's smiling face. "There," she said, visibly pleased with herself. She sat back in the couch, sinking over towards Brady, and their shoulders met.

Brady enjoyed Jeopardy. He usually knew many of the answers. The fantasy of going on the program and possibly winning several hundred dollars was one he indulged in more than he might openly admit. He therefore found himself quickly absorbed in the game.

Then Debby broke his concentration by leaning her cheek against his shoulder and laying a hand across the top of his left thigh. He felt an immediate involuntary rush in his groin, which panicked him even more than her sudden intimate touch. He turned his head to look at her, and found her face inches from his, looking right at him. She leaned forward a bit more, and her lips met his.

Making out with Debby DiBoise turned out to be pretty nice, actually. Her lips were full and soft, her mouth tasted minty when their tongues soon began to clash. Her hand slid up and down his thigh, soon passing perilously close to his erection. Brady's arms were about her now as well, turning her to press their chests closer together, and he felt a desire to touch her breasts - what do they feel like, he wondered, and will I like it if I do. He slid his right hand down through her hair, onto the side of her neck , and then below towards her collarbone, until the top of her blouse prevented further movement on her bare skin. She was occasionally whimpering softly into his mouth, and her hand now ran slowly up and down the front of his jeans. His moans were louder than hers as he pushed his hand between their chests and ran his fingers over the soft swelling.

She broke their kiss, pulled back a little, smiling, her lips glistening with their combined saliva. "I don't want to go too far, Brady."

"Sorry - sorry, I just - "

"It's OK," she giggled, squeezing his erection a bit and laughing harder as he arched upwards with a loud groan. "We can do some stuff - I'd like that. But I'm not going to go all the way. OK?"

"Sure! Of course! I - I didn't, you know, want - or, like expect - " But she ran her hand up and down him now, and his breath left him. They kissed again, and he pushed his hand inside her blouse. Her bra felt like it had coat hangers sewn into its underside, its structure baffled his fingers.

She pulled back again, giggling. "You've never done this, have you?"

Brady felt the flush of his excitement turn to embarrassment. "Um, no. Not with a girl, I mean." Part of him panicked at that statement - would she realize what he meant?

She laughed. "It's OK. It can get kind of tricky. Here," she said, moving back from him a bit more and unbuttoning her blouse. "I'll show you." Then she smiled wickedly. "You too. Open your shirt."

Shaking, Brady did so, watching her body reveal itself as she untucked the blouse and swept it back. She reached between her breasts and unclasped a small hook. "Bet you didn't know it was there, did you?"

Brady was dry mouthed; he could only shake his head as she lifted the cups of her bra out and toward the sides, allowing her breasts to come into view. They were small, very round, with what to Brady seemed enormous dark nipples. He blinked; she laughed again. "Sorry," he croaked. "They're just - I mean, your, your, um, nipples - they're like, really big. I mean compared to mine."

"Yup." She ran her hand over his bare chest, toying with one nipple with her index finger. "Boys have little useless ones." He felt a new sort of tingle as she tweaked him.

"So, um, is it, like, sexy, to have a guy touch them or anything?"

"You want to find out?" she laughed again. "That's sweet, that you'd ask that. Most guys just grab at them. Well, not that I've done this a lot, but you know, my girlfriends and I talk." She shrugged, Brady noticing how her breasts moved with her shrug, about a half second behind her shoulder. A poem Mr. James had assigned a couple of weeks before flashed in his head - "That strange vibration, each way free." So that's what it meant. "It's OK. Some girls like it more than others. I think it kind of depends, you know, on the situation. Who it is, what's happening." Her hands ran again across his chest, and down onto his stomach. "Right now, I think it'd be nice."

They kissed again, pressing their chests against each other. Brady felt her flatten against him before he reached in and cupped her left breast in his hand. Her nipple slid between his index and middle finger. Debby sighed deeply and began kissing his throat, sending tingles through Brady. She moved quickly onto his lap, straddling him, and pressed his face into her chest. He kissed the soft skin, licked at the now hardened nipples, and felt her hips slowly grinding against his hardness. Oh God, he thought, I'm gonna come if she keeps that up. "Deb," he gasped, "you gotta stop, I - I can't -"

She lifted off him, giggling again. Her face and upper chest were flushed, her forehead a bit damp. "That fast?" She reached down and touched him again, feeling his shudder. "Well, you can't do that in your pants." She quickly unzipped his jeans and reached inside, pulling his erection out. With a smile, she started stroking him, leaning back in to kiss him. Brady gave in completely at this point, groaning and thrashing, his hands running all over her. He could slide partly under the back of her panties to feel her buttocks - they were soft and squishy, not like Bill's, or like he imagined Doug's would be. That thought froze him for a moment. Doug. He wanted to do this with him, to feel the heat of his body pressed against him, to writhe and squirm and shudder with pleasure. His eruption was almost immediate. Did he cry out Doug's name as he emptied himself, streaking his chest and stomach and covering Debby's pumping hand? He couldn't tell, and then he went blank for several long blissful seconds.

Debby was kissing him again. He returned the kiss absently, unable to focus on anything too clearly. She started to kiss down his neck again, but stopped abruptly and laughed. "You got messy all the way up here! I almost kissed it. That would've been gross!" No it isn't, Brady thought absently, before pushing the memory from his mind. She wiped along his collarbone and up to his Adam's apple with her finger, then reached over to the small table alongside the couch for a tissue. She stood, her breasts dangling as she bent over him. "You need a towel." She bounced over to a laundry hamper and threw a dish towel at him. He caught it fumblingly, still trying to recover. "Well, clean yourself up, silly," she admonished as she used another towel to wipe her left hand.

Once they were both wiped at least tolerably clean, she sat back next to him and moved against him, bare skin against bare skin. "See, this is the nice part. You get all that out of the way, and you can cuddle."

It did feel good, but Brady felt suddenly guilty on several levels. He kept thinking of Doug, and how again he'd been unfaithful to him. His lack of self control shamed him. Did this mean he really wasn't queer? He tried to evaluate how he felt about what had just happened. He'd been aroused, certainly, but the release had been purely physical. He felt no other attraction to Debby, though he sure wouldn't mind having her do that again.

And he realized that he had no idea if Debby had gotten any sort of physical release like she'd given him. "Well, did you - I mean do you want, you know, to do anything else - or for me to -"

She lifted her head from his chest and looked at him. "You're so sweet," and kissed him again. "It's OK, I had fun. It, um, it takes me longer, and I sort of have to do it right, to - "

"Do you want me to? I mean, I don't know how, but I, I sort of owe you, y'know?" He couldn't help giggling himself at that.

She started laughing too, and they rolled against each other for several seconds, laughing, touching, kissing, tasting each other. She was above him now, and she tossed her hair back with a flick of her neck. "You are new at this, aren't you?" Brady nodded. She smiled. "That's cool," and they kissed again, her hair cascading around their faces.

She rolled off and started opening her jeans. "OK, I'll show you how." Her panties were an odd off white color, shiny as if made of silk. "Now, reach inside," she directed. He stared at her for a moment, then placed his hand on her belly and slid downwards, beneath the thin elastic waistband. He felt coarse hair, then a groove in the flat skin amid the hair. He had never seen a vagina. She opened her legs. "Rub there," she murmured." As he did so, the groove opened slowly, and he felt the heat and moistness of her inside. It was damp, almost slimy. She sighed, opening her legs further. "Be careful, there are a lot of little folds and things."

He hesitated. "I - I don't want to hurt you or - "

"Relax," she cut him off. "I trust you. Now, slide your finger up and down, and it'll find the way." As he did so, he felt the folds of skin slip and give way, admitting him deeper into her. Suddenly he felt his finger slide into a deep crevice. Debby stiffened. "That's where you put it in. That's one place it feels good." He slid his finger further in, up inside her, and her hips rose to meet it. After several long seconds, she continued, "Now feel up along the top of there. It'll feel like a little button. Be gentle, OK?" Her voice was a bit thick now.

Brady nodded, mouth dry again. He realized he was sweating, and that his cock was achingly hard again. His finger slipped upwards, withdrawing from her, and he felt it. She sighed deeply. "Now, rub that real softly, OK?"

"OK."

"Like you're barely touching it, OK?"

"OK."

It took about ten minutes. Debby sank back into the couch, breathing slowly and deeply. Then her breath became more ragged. Brady saw small muscles in her belly begin to twitch in apparently random patterns. Then it subsided, and she breathed deeply again, only to have the tension and muscle spasms return after several seconds. Brady could feel she was on the brink. His wrist and finger were starting to ache from the awkward position they were in, and from the repetitive motion, but he was determined to finish this. He owed her that much. Suddenly her body seemed to relax completely, sinking down as if going to sleep. About a second later, with a loud groan, her abdomen ballooned and her hips shot upwards, bucking again and again, her groans and gasping breath keeping time. It kept going for what seemed to Brady like forever. Finally she grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. "No more. Please. Too much!"

Brady sat back, watching her shudder for several more seconds. He was afraid he'd done something horrible, hurt her, made her so she couldn't have babies or something. He put his hand close to his face. Her smell was yeasty, almost fishy. It stimulated and repelled him in equal measure. "Deb, are you OK?"

She lifted her head, looked at him a moment (her hair a mess, her face flushed, her brow wet), and started laughing hard, the laughter turning periodically into more shuddering. She sat up and embraced him, pressing her skin to his. "God, yes," she whispered shakily. "I'm great." Her hand landed in his lap and she felt him hard again. "Mmmm," she sighed, and started stroking him again.

Now it was Brady's turn, again, to gasp. "Deb, c'mon, I -" But she pushed him back and lay atop him, kissing him as she jerked him, and her skin was soft and vaguely yeast smelling like her vagina had been, and it tasted slightly of salt sweat, and his cock refused to behave, and within seemingly seconds he was spurting over them both again.

Now they rested, as game show after game show blathered on the TV. Ads for Polident, Winston cigarettes, Serutan, washed over them unheeded. They kissed, they breathed, they felt each other, and Brady felt physically closer to Debby than he ever had with another human being. But it felt wrong in some fundamental way. Doug kept flashing into his mind. His hands imagined they were caressing Doug's smooth back, sliding beneath underwear to his ass, tasting his skin. He grew confused. Why did Doug have such long hair all of a sudden? When he realized where he was again, and what he'd done, he started and sat up.

Debby rolled off him, still sleepy. "What's wrong?"

His nostril filled with the smell of his come as their bodies separated; he realized he'd gotten it all over her chest as well as his. They'd laid together in it for God knows how long. "Sorry - I, I got you all, like dirty - "

She giggled, sitting up and pecking his lips. "I know, it's all smelly." She stood and ran again to the laundry hamper. This time she wet a large towel in the sink next to the washer before bringing it back. She tossed it to Brady. "You turn first." As he started wiping himself, Debby ran her hand over her crotch. "I'm all wet," she observed, and giggled again. With a smile, she slid out of her panties and walked, nude, back to the hamper for another pair of panties. She strode back to him slowly, making sure he got a good look (as if he could have turned away). She leaned down, took the towel, and wiped his penis, which of course immediately began to swell again. "No more today, Brady. My mom'll be home anytime now."

That thought sent Brady into frenzied action. He quickly finished wiping himself, handed her the towel, and dressed as she cleaned her chest and belly. He watched her dress, determined to remember every detail. He felt constrained to step up to her and kiss her again as she hooked her bra back together, though he no longer felt any great desire. He was now conscious of her faint aroma in the chilly room as well, and he found it less than appealing. She giggled, squeezed his crotch briefly, and turned away, fluffing her hair.

Deb's timing was close to perfect. They hadn't been dressed more than five minutes when they heard footsteps above them, and her mother calling for her. They climbed the stairs, Brady blushing furiously the entire time. How do I face her mom, he thought. But she seemed her usual friendly, if somewhat ditzy, self, rattling on about how the Acme needed more cashiers and maybe Debbie could apply to work after school, and from there on to a critique of every other store she'd visited that day (a long list, as it turned out). Brady listened respectfully, not really taking in a word of it naturally, and smiled with false sympathy. Deb looked like she was on the verge of hysterics.

The sky was darkening by the time Brady managed to get out the door, pausing briefly for a goodbye kiss with Debbie on the service porch. "Hope we can see each other again, Brady," she said with a knowing smile.

"Um, yeah. Definitely. I, uh, I have to go back, like, late tomorrow, so I dunno, but I'll try." That wasn't true, he didn't need to be back on campus until Monday night. Why did he feel compelled to lie?

Debbie's smiled faltered a bit. "I kind of figured. Too bad you have to go away again."

"I'll be back in like three or four weeks, though - Christmas break and all - so it won't be long anyway, right?" Brady blurted out, hoping to make her feel better.

"Definitely," she smiled, kissing him again and rubbing his crotch quickly. She broke the kiss and giggled. "Better go, your mom'll be wondering where you are."

Brady made a show of striding briskly down the street until he turned a corner and was out of sight from Deb's house. Then he slowed, thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets, and trudged the rest of the way, thinking through what had just occurred. On the one hand, it thrilled him: wow, that felt really good, and maybe this means I'm not as fucked up and abnormal as I thought I was? Maybe it's just a phase, or something, with Doug, and I'll leave it behind me and be like everybody else?

But another part of his brain immediately rose up to set him straight: don't kid yourself, Bray. He felt himself stir at the mere thought of the nickname. See, you're hooked. It's not just about getting off with Doug. Is it? Deb's cool, but she's not Doug. However nice and fun it was being with her, and doing things with her - even physically - she doesn't push the buttons like Doug does. You can play at being normal, but you're nothing but a faggot when it gets down to brass tacks.

That slowed him to a crawl.

"What's wrong, Brady?" his mother asked as he slumped through the door.

"Nothing, " Brady lied. "I'm just, you know, tired. I - I think I'll go up and crash for a bit."

"Without dinner?"

Brady's guilt was overwhelming. "Yeah, Mom, I'm just not, y'know, really hungry right now. I - I'll get some later, OK?" He fairly ran up the back staircase, hoping against hope that he could hide - from her, from Deb, from himself.

He must have fallen asleep. It was dark in his room, and his mother was calling him from downstairs. He stumbled to the door, squinting at the light in the hall as he approached the stairs. "You have a phone call, Brady."

Phone call. OK. I have a phone call. He shook his head, rubbing his face and realizing that his hair was impossibly messy - and that he had a stuck together patch in the middle. God, it's dried come, he thought, and frantically tried to break it apart. "Wh - who is it?"

"Just come answer it," his mother said tolerantly. "Then after you're done, I have some dinner saved for you."

He sat at the phone table and picked up the heavy Bakelite receiver. It was cold against his era. "Hello?"

"Bray!! How are ya doin', man?" It was Doug. Brady sat bolt upright, a huge grin split his face. He hadn't heard anything so wonderful in days. He tried to speak, but the words didn't seem adequate. Nothing could be enough to answer that voice, the lips it came from, the face. Doug was on the phone. He wanted to shout, to cry, to confess his love, to beg forgiveness. "Bray? You there???"

"Um, yeah, yeah, sorry," Brady finally managed to squeak out. "I - I was asleep, and, y'know -"

"Yeah, your mom said you'd passed out when you got home. You working over break?"

"No, no, I - I was with a friend. This girl, Debbie, you met her when we were here for open weekend."

"Oh! Oh yeah, her." Doug's voice seemed flat. "Well, hope you had a good time, huh?"

Brady panicked. "No, no, it wasn't like that! Really!!!" He hated his lies. "I - we just talked, like, and - and watched like game shows and stuff for a bit. With some other kids," he added, closing his eyes in shame as he said it.

"Oh, OK, cool," Doug replied. "You're having a better time than I am, then. I've been pretty much by myself all weekend. The kids I knew from school, most of them are gone off for the weekend."

"Yeah, same here," Brady blurted out before realizing his error. "I mean most of them. Not, not all, of course."

"Right," Doug answered, again seeming a bit put off.

"So - so how was Thanksgiving and all?" Brady asked quickly. "I gotta tell you, I really want to get back to the dorm and see everyone." He swallowed. "See you, right?"

"Definitely!" Doug answered, his voice bright and thrilled. "It's like we have our own world there, and it sure beats the shit out of this one, doesn't it?"

"No doubt," Brady answered, meaning every word. "I mean, my life isn't complete unless I get to hear David bitch about something for ten minutes or so."

Doug's laughter was crystalline; Brady wanted to melt into the phone to get closer to it. They talked about school, and plans for the coming weeks, and finals, and other kids at school, and how the Rams had kicked the Lions' asses on Thanksgiving, and anything else that ran into their minds. They laughed, they teased each other, they referenced inside jokes, they completed each other's sentences. Brady's mother finally caught his attention with a loud clearing of her throat. "What is it, Mom?" he asked, a bit irritated, his hand over the mouthpiece.

"Brady, you've been talking for almost 45 minutes, and he's calling Long Distance," she admonished. "It's going to cost them a fortune. Now, you'll see him and your other friends soon enough. Be gracious, all right?"

"OK," he sighed. "Hey Doug, my mom says I need to hang up now. I - I don't want to, but she thinks the call is getting expensive and - "

"It's OK, Bray. My mom's been bugging me for a while now," he confessed with a guilty giggle. Look, I'll be back around noon Monday - they have informal lunch, and campus is open. Let's get there early and hang out, OK?"

"Yes!!!" Brady fairly shouted. "I think they open the dorms in the morning, I can get there before my mom goes to work. That'll be great!" He felt the disappointment radiating from his mother in the kitchen as she overheard, but he felt only slight guilt. He was going to see Doug! "OK, well I guess I better go then." He didn't want to. "So, I'll see you Monday?"

"Count on it."

"OK, then. Um, bye." There were several seconds of silence before the line clicked dead. Brady sat, listening to the silence, hoping that maybe some last bit of Doug's voice would come to him from the ether, but after a short silence the dial tone rang out. He hung up, not moving from the chair. All his guilt smothered him anew, and he shut his eyes against it.

"Do you want some dinner, Brady?"

Brady blinked, coming out of his reverie. "Yeah, sure. Thanks, Mom." He loved him, and he'd cheated. Over and over.

"I'm so glad you've made such a good friend in Doug, baby doll."

"I don't deserve him."

"What?"

"I don't deserve him. He's too - too good, I'm nowhere near as good as he is. I - I -" He couldn't go on without revealing more than he dared.

"Brady!!!" His mother's voice was shocked as she rushed to him and hugged him. "Darling, you are the best boy on earth! You're smart, and strong, and you've made so much of yourself already in your life - "

"I'm sorry Mom," he whispered, trying to regain control. "I just, sometimes I feel like it's all so - so crazy."

She pulled back and looked at him. Her eyes were glistening, which shamed him that he'd caused it. "I know, doll baby, it can be like that. But you're so lucky. You got yourself into a wonderful school, that's going to open so many doors for you. I can see how different you are, even after just a couple of months. You're so grown up, you think differently now, you dress differently. You've made wonderful friends, like Doug, and - and your roommate . . . "

"David."

"Yes, David, I'm sorry. And so many others. You can't imagine all the wonderful things I heard the boys saying about you when I was at your last game. Even boys who don't know you, older ones." She sniffed a bit. "Baby doll, you deserve so much more than - than what I've been able to give you, since Daddy died. I've tried, so hard, but - "

"Don't Mom, please. You're the best. I love you." They embraced, and Brady felt her shoulders shudder. He stared as hard as he could at the wall, determined to compose himself. Never let her see you sweat. Always in control. Look what I did here by letting her see. I can never do this to her again.

Another box, sealed and stored away.

"Well," he said quietly to her after several seconds, "now that we've established the Mutual Admiration Society, can I get some dinner please?" He pulled back and grinned at her.

She took his expression in for a moment, then laughed and playfully slapped at his chest. "Oh, you." She moved quickly back to the kitchen, wiping her eyes once her back was to him. "Maybe I'll spit in it this time, teach you a lesson."

"That'd be one hell of a lesson." They both started to laugh. There, he thought. That's better.

His mother insisted on watching Lawrence Welk that night, which pained him no end. He wound up reading a volume of the World Book encyclopedia she'd gotten him when he was in second grade. He enjoyed just leafing through the pages of a random volume, scanning articles that caught his eye. He found himself reading about General Smuts for some reason, and realized he knew next to nothing about the history of southern Africa - aside from junk on old Tarzan movies. And that's probably all bullshit anyway, he thought. That took him to the South Africa article, and soon, to the establishment of apartheid, and its history from the Boer War. So he read about that, too. The subject kept sending off tangents that fascinated him. Churchill as a newspaper correspondent, and an escaped prisoner of war! That led him to the "C" volume. Soon, as Welk danced unctuously with some elderly matron from his audience and bubbles crossed the screen, he had a pile of volumes open around him on the floor.

"Put away the books before you go to bed, Brady," his mother instructed as she rose from the couch.

"I will, Mom." She knew his habits, though. He would pull a blanket off the couch, read on and on into the night, and fall asleep with his face on an opened page.

He read on for a bit after she went upstairs, but his interest began to flag. He thought about Doug, and David, and all that had gone on the past two months. Only that long. Jesus. Then, on a whim, he grabbed another volume and flipped towards the back, searching: Homosexuality.

There wasn't a thing. He looked under Sex. Again nothing. Thinking hard, he came up with Sodomy, to no avail - there was a brief synopsis of the Bible story but nothing about the practice.

It was like part of him didn't exist, as far as the world was concerned. He was a ghost, an exile, a pariah that couldn't even be mentioned in polite conversation.

He needed to do something, to walk, to scream. He threw on his jacket and slipped out the back door. The stars gleamed down at him, brilliantly clear and indifferent. He set off down the hill towards the woods along the lake. Soon he was tramping on familiar dirt paths between the bare trees. He came to the barrier of brush, pushed it aside, and struggled his way further back. He came to the clearing and stood, staring. The shriveled grass was covered with leaves. Ice glistened on the rocks where the creek bubbled over them. A tree limb he had torn off the last time he'd been there lay where it had landed. He began shaking. It's a tomb, he thought. My tomb. Where I lost myself forever. He blinked several times, sucked in huge breaths.

Then he ran.

He didn't know where he was running to, or for how long he sprinted clumsily. He found himself on the football field at the high school, doubled over, gasping for breath, steam rising from his overheated body. He sank to his knees, pressed his forehead against the frost crusted turf. I could die here, he thought. This would be a good place. He relaxed, to let death come, but even it wouldn't give him any peace.

He was stuck.

He rose at last, shaking now from the cold that had overtaken him, and started home, head down, hands thrust as deeply into his jacket pockets as possible. As he crossed the dam on Main Street a car flashed by with some kids in it. He heard his name called out, but ignored it.

He slept late the next morning, not wanting to open his eyes. His mother finally rousted him. "This is a special weekend, we're going to church." Brady groaned, rolled out of bed, and cleaned himself up as best he could. He had his Wilson blazer with him, and a good button down shirt already ironed. He put on a pair of white chinos and penny loafers, and a rep tie that had been part of David's birthday gift to him. He examined himself briefly and felt a flash of pride that momentarily subdued his depression. I look pretty damn good, actually, he thought.

The town Presbyterian church stood atop a hill on the opposite side of the lake from their home. It was surrounded by a huge cemetery, with gravestones dating back to the Revolution. Brady had played in it often when he was small. He found himself attracting inordinate attention as he walked with his mother into the sanctuary, mostly from the elderly members. He was polite but a bit embarrassed; he wished he'd dressed down a bit. The service was exactly as it had always been, a rote exercise whose order he could recite in his sleep: invocation, opening hymn, Old Testament reading, Doxology, prayer of forgiveness, next hymn, choir song, New Testament reading, offering, Gloria Patri.

And then the sermon. Mr. Shultz, the pastor, adjusted his wire rimmed glasses. "We usually speak of the Lord, and Christ, from this podium. But this week, the week of our Thanksgiving for the bounties God has bestowed on this great land, we need to speak of the responsibility that comes with that for which we give thanks. Because God's bounty, like our blessed freedom, comes with a responsibility. A responsibility to serve and protect that bounty, and those freedoms, when we are called upon to defend them.

"Too often today, people - especially too many of our misguided young people - take God's bounty, and our freedom for granted. They see it not as a precious thing to be defended, but as a casual right to be enjoyed sybaritically, indulgently. They object to being asked to shoulder their share of the responsibility of honoring God and their Country.

"Make no mistake, this is doubly sinful. It sins against God, and against the nation that nurtured them and made them free. It sins against their parents and grandparents, who gave their full measure of devotion to saving this land from the horrors of war and totalitarianism, and who have fought since to protect it from the Godless scourge of Communism."

Brady shifted uncomfortably in his pew; he felt accusing eyes on him. His mother's lips were thin, her jaw clenched. She liked this even less than he did.

"It manifests itself in the anarchic machinations of protesters - the so-called hippies, the Yippies, organizations like the SDS and the Black Power movement. Just last month, they assaulted the Pentagon - the center of the defense of this blessed land . . ."

Brady tuned out at this point. Yeah, they "assaulted" it, by putting flowers in the gun barrels of the soldiers aiming at them with fixed bayonets. Some fucking assault. He was good at tuning out dumb sermons; he did it all too often in chapel at Wilson, so he sat erect, apparently attentive, and utterly unaware of anything that was being said. He thought of Doug, and his time with Debbie, the previous day, and soon felt himself growing hard. This amused him no end. If his mother hadn't been next to him, he would have shoved a hand into his pants pocket and fondled himself a little. As it is, he managed to shirt himself slightly every few seconds, sliding his cock against his underwear and giving himself a slight shuddering thrill. That's what I think of your fucking sermon, pal.

". . . the fall of our youth into sexual immorality only worsens this wickedness." Brady suppressed a laugh and thrust himself forward, sparks from the feeling bursting before his eyes.

"But," Mr. Schultz said loudly, "yet we have reason for hope, and to rejoice. For not all of our young people have yet fallen away from Godliness. I'm happy to see in out midst today, for example, part of the Conover family. Young Brady, who now attends Wilson School in Summerton on a full scholarship, and whose brother Trent even now defends his country in Viet Nam." The congregation erupted in applause. Brady shriveled, in every way possible. God, don't point me out, he thought. Don't make me and Hal poster boys for your bullshit. But it was too late; some of the old folks were standing to applaud now, and Mr. Schultz was beaming down at his mother and him. She sat unyielding, head slightly bowed, but eyes fixed challengingly on the pastor. Brady saw her discomfort, her anger, her adamantine strength, and pride surged through him. He made sure he was sitting as straight as he could, and he refused to acknowledge anything.

Once the applause died out, the sermon continued, into predictable jeremiads against youthful promiscuity - intercourse, casual nudity, and, finally, predictably, sodomy. "No vile act is beneath the fallen. Infamous crimes against nature and God are considered now by some to be an acceptable 'lifestyle choice.' Let the word go forth from this place, they are not, and so long as the Almighty reigned they shall not be!"

The congregation murmured approval (these were Presbyterians, after all - The last thing they'd do is shout out approval, or anything else, in church. They were all far too polite). I get it, I get it, Brady thought. I'm disgusting. Tell me something I don't already know, huh? He tuned out again as Mr. Schultz ran on for a few more minutes. Then a final hymn - "Onward Christian Soldiers," no less - then the benediction as Mr. Schultz exited through the congregation to meet everyone as they left.

The organ swelled to a joyous cantata, the lights came back to full, and everyone rose to leave. Brady and his mother had numerous people congratulate and thank them. "You must be so proud of your brother," one old man wheezed at Brady. "Soon you'll be able to join him in battle."

"God, I hope not!" Brady exclaimed before his filters kicked in. He blinked realizing that things around him had suddenly gone silent. "I mean," he stuttered, as his mother glanced at him with barely suppressed laughter, "I - I hope we've won before then!" That seemed to be an acceptable explanation to the [people around him.

Mr. Schultz smiled widely at them as they approached. His hand took Brady's firmly. "You look so grown up, Brady. I'm so proud to know you." He turned to Brady's mother. "I hope you don't mind my mentioning your family, Mrs. Conover. It was very much of the moment. I saw you two there, and you were the perfect example. We're all so proud of all of you."

"Thank you," his mother replied politely. Brady could hear the ice in her response, but Mr. Schultz was oblivious. He grinned again, thanked her, and turned to his next group of parishoners.

As she started the car in the gravel parking lot across the street, near the high school, she finally let loose. "What a load of - of crap!!!"

Brady laughed. "It's OK, Mom, you can say 'shit.' I've heard it before."

She laughed, then answered in a low, conspiratorial voice. "Heaping pile of cowshit." Brady howled. The idea of his mother swearing always sent him, and his brothers, into fits of laughter.

"You know what your father used to call things like that? A glicket. You know what a glicket is?"

He did, of course, he'd heard this so many times before. But he also knew his part in the ritual. "No, Mom, what is it?"

She pulled onto the street as she proudly announced, "Ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag!!!" And now they both roared with laughter, all the way down the hill and back over the dam to home.

As he caught his breath, Brady felt his spirits lighten. Maybe we're all freaks, our whole family. We've never been like those people. The idea was appealing. And tomorrow I?ll see Doug again. Back in our world. The prospect was joyous.