When the World Changed

When The World Changed Part 32

The weeks between resumption of classes and final exams flew by. Brady lost track of the days, swept up by the review sessions, end of term projects, and the stark terror that the prospect of sitting for examinations presented. He ignored the periodic pressures to join either the freshman basketball or the indoor track teams (the latter meaning rebuffing repeated entreaties from both Bill Fieldstone, and, more painfully, Doug - though Bill's always seemed to be about more than just sports), fell blithely ignorant to David's deepening depression, and studied as if his life depended on it. His entire future - at Wilson, in life - was at stake. He had to live up to the expectations put upon him. To meet the minimum GPA called for in his scholarship. Nothing else existed, nothing else mattered.

It snowed for the first time that season a few days after the return from Thanksgiving - a sparse, sleety form of snow that did little but soak everyone through to the skin and chill them to their bones. Brady found that his juryrigged repairs to the window sealings in his room were of little help to the frigid damp that now seeped through every possible gap. He and David took to packing dirty socks around their windowsills in an effort to seal out the winds that whipped through the bare elm branches every night. As a result, their room began to reek faintly of sweaty feet.

Vic Stenkowski alone among his acquaintances seemed immune to the pressure. He seemed bizarrely preoccupied with achieving a mastery of Elvish by the holidays. "It's so cool, Brady," he enthused as they sloshed to dinner one night. "It's all there - a world, and it's all like unto itself, y'know? And it's so beautiful. Not like this shit we're trapped in." But then. Vic had a head for math that made David's abilities seem pale by comparison. Brady spent a lot of hours during evening study hall with Vic, trying to understand the advanced algebra that Wadleigh was throwing at him. Wadleigh himself, though not as nasty to Brady as before their incident and willing to offer him aid during the help period at the end of the day, just wasn't able to communicate the ideas as well as Vic. Luckily, Vic's roommate - a mousy black haired kid named Donnie who seldom spoke or even looked up from his desk, when he wasn't ensconced someplace deep in the library - didn't mind Brady intruding, and the Prefects turned a blind eye so long as they were actually studying.

David, who previously had provided the math help to Brady, was detached.

Doug seemed almost as frazzled as Brady. They would sometimes sit together in the canteen between classes, mostly silent, either staring blankly at their Cokes or reading notes frantically. However good it felt to be near Doug, Brady felt increasingly guilty that he wasn't being a friend. Finally, the last morning of classes, with Bing Crosby crooning from the jukebox because some faculty member had played it, He looked at Doug's knotted forehead. "Hey, are you all right?"

"Huh?" Doug seemed to snap out of a deep reverie. "Yeah, yeah Bray, I'm OK. I just - this is really freaking me out, y'know?"

"I know. Me too."

"I mean how do we manage this, with a two or three hour exam every day for a Goddam week? It's insane!" Brady nodded silently in agreement. "How did Davey handle it last year, or like how's he handling it now? He must know something about how to deal with it."

Brady realized he didn't know. "David- he's been like quiet all week. Last week too, actually. He - I think he's stewing about his mom and all."

"Is he OK?"

"I think so," Brady answered, though now that he was confronted with the question he wasn't at all certain the answer was right - or honest. "I mean his dad's a shrink. Right? So he knows stuff about - about dealing with stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Yeah, stuff. Like being freaked about exams, or stressed or - you know, whatever."

Doug pondered this a second, frowning. "I dunno, man. He's got a lot to think about, aside from exams. Things from last year and all, and now his family's messed up too. I mean he plays it all tough and cynical, but I think he feels a lot more then he lets on. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Brady said, remembering their night together after the McShanes' attack, when they cried into each other's t shirts for hours, holding desperately tight to each other. He brushed his hair back from his forehead. His roommate was in trouble; he realized that now. He looked up, and saw Doug smiling quietly. "What?"

"When you push your hair back like that."

"What about it?"

Doug blushed a bit and moved to stand up. "Just - you know, you do it a lot. When you're thinking about something really hard." He grinned. "I gotta go, see if Dunc can help me out with this science crap. Later, OK?"

"Sure, later." He stood himself, determined to find David and figure out what was the matter.

But David wasn't in their room. Brady ran through what he knew of David's class schedule in his mind. Was this a free period for him? He looked on David's desk to see if there was a schedule. He saw instead two letters - one postmarked from Big Sur, California, and one flimsy air mail paper envelope with strange stamps and markings on it. He started to take them in hand, but stopped himself. That'd be wrong, to read them behind his back, he thought. Where the hell is Big Sur? He glanced in his geography textbook at the several maps of the United States, but it appeared in none of them. Maybe the library has a map that'll show it, he decided, and bolted for the door.

David came in as he reached for the knob, shivering. "Hey," he said dully. "Thought you'd be with Garretson at the canteen like usual. They run out of Coke?" He turned to his closet to hang up his overcoat. It looked wet.

"No, I was - we were there, but I - I thought I should, like come back. I wanted . . . Davey, are you OK? You seemed pretty checked out the past few days, and I - "

"Forget it, Brady. I'm fine." There was a finality to the statement that made it hard for Brady to continue.

But he felt compelled. "I - I saw you got, um, a couple of letters."

David looked at him sharply. "Did you read them?"

"No, no, I - I didn't touch them, honest! I just - I mean they're sitting there on your desk and all - "

David snorted a bitter laugh. "Nah, you wouldn't read them, would you??? He sighed heavily. "It's OK. Read both of 'em if you want. No skin off my nose." He threw himself on his bed.

Brady swallowed. "I - I don't think I should. If it's like private, or whatever, y'know?"

"There's nothing private. Not between us. Go ahead. You'll get a real laugh out of them."

Brady slowly stepped back to David's desk. He picked up the letter from Big Sur, noticing for the first time the return address embossed on the upper corner: ESALEN. He frowned; it looked like a business envelope almost. The paper inside was thick and glossy, but the note was handwritten.

"Dear David: I'm so sorry to hear from your father that you're hurt by my missing Thanksgiving and so much of your semester. I've been here at Esalen trying to realize my inner self through Gestalt analysis and wonderful psychedelic bodywork. I know I'll emerge from this wonderful cocoon so much more self actualized and interpersonally intelligent, and I'll be able to guide you on your own spiritual journey. Peace, Mother"

Brady folded the letter back up. He knew David was watching him. "Did you notice what was missing in that letter?"

"Um, no. I - I really didn't understand much of it. All the terms, like, that I never heard of before."

"Right. What was missing was 'I love you.' Nothing about caring about me. Her fucking son. She's self actualizing the shit out of her life but she can't tell her only kid that she loves him. Oh, and don't forget the orgies and LSD."

"What?"

David shook his head. "What the fuck do you think 'bodywork' means? And 'psychedelic,' even you know what that's talking about."

"Well, I mean, it might not mean that specifically -"

"Yeah, right." He sighed. "So that's that one. Now go for the real fun," he added, gesturing toward the air mail letter.

Brady picked up the other letter. He'd gotten enough air mail letters from Trent to know how flimsy the paper was, so he was very careful opening and unfolding the letter. It was handwritten as well, in a delicate hand. The top bore the name, "Chamonix."

"David - I hope this finds you well, and I'm so sorry I haven't been able to write before. The school in Lyon is very strict, and I was only able to write my parents while there. They've come to take me skiing this weekend, and I'm able to slip away for a bit and write.

"I miss you so terribly. My father has been awful since summer. He told me I was a disgrace to his family. They put me in a hospital in Geneva until school started. They shocked me and doused me with freezing water and all sorts of awful things. I had to tell them I hated you, that you had forced me to do things. I had to lie. Please forgive me. I pray every night that someday we can be together again, away from all the ugly people who want to keep us apart. Until then, know that I love you.

"Edward"

Brady gulped. "Jesus," he whispered.

"Yeah. Jesus." David sighed deeply. "So that's what I got Edward into. They're fucking torturing him, because of me. Because I couldn't keep my dick in my pants around him. Because of fucking McShane."

Brady sat on the bed by David. "This isn't your fault, man. His folks are - they're like sick, Christ. Shock treatments??? Have you told your dad -"

"You think I'm gonna tell my dad??? I barely want to talk about myself with him as it is! And if I told him he'd go off on one of his noble crusades to set things right and that'd just drag us all in even deeper." He rolled onto his stomach. "He thinks he can reason with people, and they'll understand. Just talk it all out, he says. It's bullshit. People don't talk things out, they blow up because of shit they believe being challenged, and then they hate. They all hate. Everybody hates. Shit, I hate! I hate so much I wanna scream. I ought to just get a gun -"

"Davey, don't talk crap like that!"

David snorted again. "I meant get a gun to use on me. Blow my brains out and not have to deal with any of this shit any more."

Brady shuddered. "OK, now you're really scaring me, David. That is utter bullshit, you hear me? You and, and Edward - you're gonna be together. It's going to be a while, but - but you'll figure it out. You're smart, and clever, and - and shit, you're not gonna be a kid forever. Once you two are adults and they can't force you to do stuff, you can tell them all to fuck off and be back with each other. Right?" He stared hard at the back of David's head; the face was buried in his pillow.

With a loud muffled sigh, David looked up. "You're not supposed to be the smart guy here, remember?" He rolled onto his back and ran a hand up Brady's arm. It gave Brady goosebumps. "I'm just spouting off. Relax. It feels good to just say crap, whether you mean it or not. I don't mean any of it." He rolled back onto his stomach, his voice muffled by his pillow. "Not completely, anyway."

Brady rolled him forcefully onto his back again. "That's not good enough, David. You gotta promise me, OK? No stupid shit like that. No - no, like, guns or anything. OK?"

David looked away toward the wall by his bed. "Yeah sure, OK. No guns." He sighed again, and smiled slightly. "Are rifles OK then?"

Brady gasped as David turned to look up at him, a devious smile on his face. "Asshole!" Brady finally blurted out, and dove onto David, tickling him and wrestling. David did nothing to resist, but laughed and laughed, until his arms slid around Brady's shoulders and the gasping laughter turned to sobs. Brady felt him shudder, and held him for a long time. I'll be late for English, he thought. Who cares.

David finally pushed him away, his breath still coming in deep heaving gasps. "Good, I didn't get snot on your lapel. Get going, you have class."

Brady stood hesitantly. "You going to be OK here?"

"Yeah. After all, I'm unarmed."

"That's a relief."

David smiled. "For now, anyway."

"Don't, man."

"Relax, I'm just busting you. Go."

Brady picked up his copy of Joseph Conrad's "Victory" and stepped out of the room. Once he hit center campus, he sprinted as the late bell tolled atop Geiger. Luckily, Mr. Edwin didn't usually care much if you were occasionally a couple minutes late.

That afternoon, the students carried desks from the classroom buildings to the gym. Carpet had been laid over the basketball court, and the desks were set in long rows stretching its length, filling it from one side to the other. A copy of the examination schedule was posted on the double doors leading inside. Most only glanced at it as they went back and forth; they'd memorized it all already. Brady heard one senior complaining to a friend, "I got two fucking exams Tuesday. Back to back. How the hell am I supposed to do that?"

"Yeah, but you don't have anything Wednesday - you're done after that."

"Oh, I'll be done, that's fer fuckin' sure."

Dinner that night was quiet, tense. No one seemed very hungry. The halls were quiet in Linsley even before study hall officially started. Vic Stenkowski poked his head into Brady's room, where David lay on his bed, pretending to read notes. "Hey Brady, want to do some last work on the math?"

Brady looked up from his desk. "Uh, sure, Vic, let me get my stuff together here."

David glanced at Vic. "You helping Conover with algebra now?"

"Yeah, he - he asked me. I mean that's OK, right? I know you were -"

"It's fine, do it. I was falling down on the job anyway." He looked at Brady and smiled. "So shoot me."

Brady's eyes widened as David started giggling. "Asshole," he muttered under his breath as he strode out following Vic.

It snowed about seven inches overnight. The boys had to slog through the snow to breakfast, since the maintenance crew hadn't gotten to the sidewalks yet. The TV in the foyer of Geiger was blaring about cleanup operations in Binh Dinh province. Brady paused to look at the map on the screen. No, well north of where Trent was. At least that's good, he thought.

The meal was even quieter than the previous night's. Brady felt his hand shaking a little as he drank a cup of slightly sour milk. Mr. Aherne, who was the table Master, tried to be cheerful. "Take it easy, boys. It's not as bad as you're all making it out to be. You've all had tests and quizzes and midterms all semester. It's not like the final will be the end all of your grade. And if it's way out of line with the work you did all semester, I know most faculty will discount it."

Nate Dexter, who Brady realized he hadn't seen all semester except when they had math together, asked, "Will Wadleigh?"

Mr. Aherne deflated a bit. "Well I - I don't know about all the math teachers. But I'm sure he'll be fair."

"Right," Nate replied. "Fair."

Brady and Doug found themselves together walking towards the gym a little before eight. Doug looked like he hadn't slept in days; his eyes were sunken, his face sallow. Brady found himself forgetting his own fear and worrying about him. "Hey, man, you all right?"

Doug nodded, mute for a long moment. "I'm so scared, Bray, and I don't even know why. I mean I've taken tests before - shit, we all have. But it's like this - "

Bill Fieldstone stepped up alongside. "Like this test is different? It's not. Calm down. It's just an exam. I felt the same way freshman year at the end of fall term. It's unknown, and that's what's really scary. In three hours you'll realize it's not that bad."

Brady couldn't help laughing. "Not that bad??? There's a ringing endorsement."

They all started laughing then. "Could be worse," Doug piped up, "they could boil us in oil.?

?I dunno,? answered Bill. ?What kind of oil??

Doug was in another math class, so he and Brady separated, as did Fieldstone, who went to the front of the gym to take a calculus exam from Mr. Taber. God, Brady thought, what a nightmare that must be. Taber himself sat behind a desk in the front of the room, like a heartless imperial lord.

Brady sat behind Nate, whose shoulders shook as if he were dying of frostbite. It?s just another test, Brady kept repeating to himself. Just like Bill said. Just a test.

His fear lasted until he was fifteen minutes into the exam. It was just a test, after all - rigorous, and with some things he didn't understand, but he saw the correct procedure for solving the problems, even if the final result at times stymied him. He eased through many, saved the knotty ones for later, showed every step of his reasoning, and felt more and more confident as the three hours passed. At 10:45, he found himself staring, blinking, at a completed examination. He couldn't think of anything to add. He looked around. Nate was hunched over his desk, head in hands. A few rows to his left, Doug and Evan were both scribbling away furiously. He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath, exhaling weeks of tension and terror. Mr. Wadleigh walked down the aisle to him, his bony hand extended. Brady noticed the liver spots on its back, its deep cut veins, and how it trembled. "Looks like you might be all done there, Mr. Conover?"

Brady found himself smiling. "I think so, Sir. But let me go through it one more time?"

"Of course. You've still got fifteen minutes. Take the whole time if you need."

That was the nicest that old bastard has ever been to me, Brady thought, as Wadleigh walked back to his proctor's seat. Brady had never noticed before how bent, old, and worn out the man looked. He felt a sudden an unexpected pang of pity. Almost forty years here, and that's all he has left. He found himself hoping he'd done well for Wadleigh's sake, as much as for his own.

The mass exhalation when time was called sounded as if a blimp had exploded. Boys' voices rose in a cacophony of relief, regret, questioning of neighbors, and overall jubilation. The papers were collected quickly, and the exodus from the gym was like a prison break. Brady found himself watching the contrast of emotions: Nate Dexter shuffling, head down, utterly defeated. Bill Fieldstone, now with several of his classmates, cool and laconic as if they did this stuff every day. David, stoic and focused on who knew what, walking alone at the edge of the group. Evan, shaking his head and complaining loudly to himself about all the things he'd fucked up.

And Doug, walking slowly, with eyes almost closed, as if he needed a long rest. Brady pushed through the crowd and came to him, a hand on his shoulder. "You do OK?"

Doug stopped, looked at Brady for a long minute, and smiled - a soft version of the daybreak smile, one born of exhaustion and released tension and deep gratitude. Brady had seen him smile before, and had been besotted by it, but this was something else altogether. He wasn't human, he was a god. Brady wrapped an arm around him, ostensibly to hold him up lest he fall, but in reality because he couldn't not touch anything so sacred.

"Yeah," Doug whispered, leaning his face into Brady's jacket. "It was OK, not as bad as I thought it'd be. I'm just - I'm really tired, Bray."

Brady found his eyes watering. Not here, he thought. Not now. He focused on his memory of Wadleigh's gnarled hands. "I know," he whispered into Doug's ear through his longish brown hair (which smelled wonderful). "It's done. Now we know what it's like. Gonna be OK now."

Doug nodded, silent, and let Brady keep walking him back to Linsley. They had almost an hour before lunch; they could both rest. Brady resisted the urge to pull Doug into his room and bed, or to walk Doug up to his own bed. They parted, with soft smiles, on the second floor landing. "So, English tomorrow?" Brady asked quietly.

"Yeah," Doug breathed. "Shouldn't be too bad. Lots of bullshitting about how Caesar's like Phineas and Brutus is like Gene, and how Axel Heyst is different but just as stupid. Bullshit."

They both laughed. Brady was reluctant to let go of Doug's shoulder. "So, maybe throw a football or something for a little this afternoon?"

"Maybe," Doug sighed. "After a nap."

"Yeah," Brady smiled. "That's a solid idea."

Doug's hand slid across Brady's cheek. "Later, man." He shook his head and bounded up the stairs, leaving Brady speechless below.

"Sure, Doug. Later."

Brady felt lightheaded as he stepped into his room, falling onto his bed and sleeping almost immediately. He didn't notice that David wasn't there.

Only a moment later, it seemed, he was awakened by pounding on his door. "Bray!! Gonna be late for lunch!" Doug and Evan were shouting through the wooden frame. He bounded up, unsteadily, and opened the door, glancing back at David's empty bed.

Doug was grinning. "Man, you must've really been out. That took like half a minute."

"Sorry," Brady answered, running his hands through his hair in a vain attempt to look less disheveled. They took the stairs down to or three at a time.

Brady was starting to think things through. "You guys seen David?"

Evan shook his head. "Not since the end of the exam," Doug added.

Dunc suddenly lunged into the center of the group. "Guys, I just heard a single off the new Young Rascals album. It's called 'It's Wonderful,' and it's fucking incredible."

Evan looked at home skeptically. "The Young Rascals? They're like a bar band, man."

Dunc stared at him like he was an alien. "Are you serious???" he stormed away without another word.

Doug laughed at Evan's expression of shock. "Don't fuck," he said, "with Dunc's taste in music."

The snow had turned to mushy discolored slush all across campus, and ran onto the sidewalks everywhere. Their feet were wet and freezing by the time they reached Geiger. David was slumped in front of the TV, alone, watching "Hollywood Squares.? ?Hey, Davey!? Evan shouted from across the room, "you headed up to lunch? Don't want to be late, right?"

Brady felt David's mood, and hung back. Doug glanced at him and did the same.

"Fuck lunch," David muttered, his eyes never leaving the screen. "Fuck getting stung, or thrown out, or anything. Just go, OK?"

Evan was taken aback, and retreated with color rising in his cheeks. The group slowly left. Brady remained, leaning on the doorway. He gestured Doug to go on ahead, and Doug, after a moment, nodded with a slight smile and complied.

After about thirty seconds, as the bustle of boys headed to the stairs began to subside, David sighed deeply, still staring at the screen. "You too, Conover. Go on and eat."

Brady smiled in spite of himself. "Maybe I'm not hungry, either."

"Bullshit. You're always hungry, you eat like a fucking horse."

"Hey, young stallion, right?" He took a breath. "Come on, Davey. You of all people know better than to do this sort of shit to yourself."

David turned his head to look at Brady; his eyes were reddish. "Yeah, I know all about it." He took a long breath. "That's what makes it so hard, y'know? I understand exactly what's happening to me, like, emotionally - and it still happens. I can't stop it." He turned back to the screen. "God, I'm useless."

"No you're not - asshole." David smiled a bit at the deliberate fake insult. Brady stood next to David's chair. "You - you're the best Goddam roommate I could have asked for. You've helped me more ways than I can say." He leaned down to David's ear, "And I am not gonna let you wallow in your own self pity after you spent three months bugging me to not wallow in mine." He took David's arm, gently. "So get the fuck up and come eat lunch."

David looked at the hand on his arm. "Christ, another jock manhandling me. What is the deal with you guys? All right, farm boy,? he sighed, rising, ?let?s go.? He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. ?How was your exam??

Brady smiled. "OK, I guess. I had this roommate who tutored me all semester."

David looked down as they started up the stairs. "Nah, Stenkowski probably showed you everything."

"No, you did. And I do mean everything." They snickered over that one all the way into the dining hall. They were barely on time.

The group left together afterward, with David tagging along quietly. They discussed their respective exams, their relief at getting the experience over with, and their remaining schedules. Most of them were on essentially identical schedules, since freshman took a fairly standardized curriculum. Even Brady, with his second year Spanish class, was on the same schedule - it seemed first and second year language exams were given together. That was the other test Brady worried over. Even with Dr. Cortes' extra help. He felt woefully inadequate in that class, with its sprinkling of seemingly native Spanish speakers (including guys like Herman Rivera, the son of a Venezuelan oil tycoon who spoke so rapidly in his native tongue that Brady often wasn't even able to pick out individual words - and even Alan Black, whose days living in Venezuela made him sound like a native speaker). The other two - English, on Saturday, and Geography with Coach Drake, on Monday - promised to be comparative walkovers.

They all had the afternoon to relax, while the upperclassmen took finals in various subjects. The obvious thing to do was study, but no one seemed to be in the mood. Stereos were cranked up, hall hockey games broke out, and general mayhem ruled. Billips made a few halfhearted attempts to quell the merriment, but it was only half hearted, and the boys would have none of it. Evan played the latest Buffalo Springfield album, and they raucously sang along to "Mr. Soul."

Brady paused. "Wait a minute," he said. "Isn't that the same riff as 'Satisfaction'?"

Luce laughed. "We have a winner!!!" He bounced the tennis ball in his hand. "Nothing really is original - well, not much. I think Billips played some old blues thing by a Negro guy that used that opening, and God know lots of the sound stuff in that song is used in other stuff. It doesn't matter if bits of a song are lifted, it's the whole song that counts, you know? I mean, Otis Redding covered 'Satisfaction,' so it goes both ways, right?"

Brady nodded, though the idea hadn't really occurred to him before. "Yeah. I guess."

"Look," Luce continued, "the Stones, are just playing off Howlin' Wolf and Muddy Waters most of the time. The Beatles, too. And have you heard John Mayall? Pure Chicago blues. They're white guys - English guys, no less - playing back all this American music we never bothered to hear because it was done by Negroes. It's kinda sick, in a way."

"Yeah, sure," Brady muttered, again feeling completely out of his depth.

Once the prefects joined in the hall hockey game, all hope of maintaining control was lost. Luce proved to be a formidable goalie, keeping the tennis ball that substituted for a puck from going into Evan's room door (his had been lucky enough to be chosen as the goal, since it was about in the center of the hall) on several occasions with spectacular sprawling saves. "I played hockey in a league at home," he explained to Brady. "Until we get the club going after Christmas and can get over to the rink in Princeton, this is the best I can do. You ever play?"

Brady laughed. "Not really. We'd play on the lake when it froze, but it was sort of whatever you felt like doing."

"Yeah,' Luce nodded. "We play out on the lake here when it freezes, but Storeman doesn't much like it. I'm not sure if he's more scared of somebody falling in or of us getting into a fight with the townies."

At this point Evan wound up and sent a nasty sinking shot to Luce's left. His hand flicked out and grabbed the ball without any apparent effort. Everyone groaned. "Dammit Luce!" Evan shouted. "At least make it look hard!!!" Dunc had lent Evan the new Hollies album, and Graham Nash's voice now floated high over the proceedings. Brady kept hearing the chorus to "King Midas in Reverse": "He's King Midas in a curse / He's King Midas in reverse / All he touches turns to dust."

He didn't like the lyric much at all.

After that first day, the rest of the exam period passed in a whirl. Brady keyed himself up for the last exam, in Spanish, feverishly. He spent the entire afternoon and evening before the test with Alan Black, getting himself drilled on vocabulary and the conjugations of irregular verbs (of which Spanish seemed to have no shortage). David remained withdrawn, morose, despite Brady's attempts to cheer him up.

Sunday was their only day off. It dawned bright and freezing, with another more substantial layer of snow covering the center campus. Ice coated the elm branches. Brady was dazzled as he walked toward breakfast. David was for once walking behind him, slowly, head down. Doug was at his side, chattering happily about nothing in particular. His breath clouded out in front of them both as they strode along.

"So is Billips still freaked out about Otis Redding?" Doug asked.

"I guess," Brady answered. He felt tired, and he was suddenly remembering that the end of exams on Wednesday, and the formal Christmas dinner to follow, meant the start of break - and Doug going home until after the new year. Fully two weeks or more. The pain he felt coming up to Thanksgiving was returning with a vengeance. "He was talking about all these crashes that have killed singers - Buddy Holly, Patsy Cline, Richie Valens, guys I never heard of before." The depressing subject matched his oncoming mood.

David snorted. "You never heard of Buddy Holly? Jesus." He started a quiet off key version of "That'll Be The Day."

"Oh, is that him?" Doug asked. Brady shrugged. The song was dimly familiar from block dances in Cullingstown when he was little, when they'd close off a street, string lights over it, and play music over a loudspeaker so kids could dance until nearly midnight. His brothers went, of course, and his mother helped set up and sell refreshments. He'd fall asleep in the back seat of the Pontiac with the songs echoing through the open windows.

Dunc leaned in from behind. "Don't forget 'Peggy Sue'!" He glanced musical tastes.

"Oh," Brady sighed. "I always thought that was Elvis, the voice sounded like him."

David shook his head. "Christ."

Bill Fieldstone stood at the entrance to Geiger, looking over the boys tramping in as if he were a general reviewing the troops. He hailed Brady and his group, much to Brady's embarrassment. "Hey, how are you guys holding up? Conover? Garretson?"

"Yeah, we're fine, Bill, thanks," Brady muttered, waving him off with probably more disdain than he meant. Fieldstone's cheeks reddened a bit more than the cold air justified, and fell silent.

Evan spoke up. "What's with the button, Bill?" They all looked at the small white button on Fieldstone's lapel. It had a blue ribbon graphic descending down its center, with the single word, "McCarthy" below it along its lower edge.

"Gene McCarthy, of course. You know he's running against Johnson, right?"

Doug glanced a bit nervously at Brady. "Yeah, but he hasn't got a chance, has he?"

Fieldstone shrugged. "Not if people don't speak up and get involved. People are cowards. Bobby Kennedy's a goddam coward - he should be doing it, but he hasn't got the guts."

Dunc smiled. "That'd be cool if Kennedy ran."

"Not a chance. Too gutless, too tied into the Establishment." He pointed at Brady. "You should get involved, Conover. Keep more guys like your brother from going over there and getting shot at."

Brady didn't like anyone invoking Trent to make an argument. "My brother's done at the end of next month." That ended the discussion as far as he was concerned.

But Fieldstone was persistent. "A month is a long time."

By now Brady's discomfort with talking to Bill in front of his friends, and feeling Fieldstone's level gaze on him, and recalling what they'd done, had him at a breaking point. "Fuck you, Bill. Leave my brother out of this, OK?" He strode on down the hallway.

David eyed Brady warily. "What's the deal there?"

"What?"

"With Fieldstone. What's going on?" He spoke in a low murmur, so the others couldn't hear.

"N - nothing. He just - he, like keeps taking an interest, and like bringing up the war. Stuff - stuff like that. It gets old, y'know?"

David walked, head down along the corridor for fully ten seconds, idly opening his coat now that they were inside. "Right."

Brady knew this wasn't the end of that subject.

Shortly after 11 on Wednesday morning, he walked slowly out of the gym, drained from his Spanish final. He had no idea if he'd aced it or flunked. He felt numb. His only thought was his bed. I'm done, he kept repeating to himself. I can rest.

Then Doug clapped him on the back. "Shit, the French I exam was a piece of cake, Bray! How'd yours go?"

And he remembered that this was it. The semester was over. It was Christmas. Doug would be leaving that night. He'd drive back to Cullingstown with his mother. He wouldn't see Doug for almost three weeks now.

He stopped, turned to Doug, and stared. For a long moment neither moved. "Bray? Are, um, are you OK?"

Brady blinked. "I - I don't - I didn't get you anything. For Christmas, and all." He dropped his gaze to his feet. "I didn't - it was all about like finals and - I should have . . . Doug, I fucked up, I'm sorry -"

Doug pulled him into a casual embrace. "What the hell are you talking about, Bray? That's no big deal. Shit, I haven't gotten you anything either. Or Dunc, or Davey, or anybody. I mean, we have all break to worry about that, right?"

Brady considered this a moment. "You mean I can give you something when we get back?"

"Sure! That'd be cool. But look," he added, his expression suddenly serious. "You don't have to do anything. We're friends, and that's all that counts, OK?" He smiled broadly at Brady, whose heart again broke at the sight. "We're all done, Bray. Merry Christmas!"

Brady smiled back - how could be not? "Yeah," he answered as enthusiastically as he could. "We did it. M - merry Christmas."

Of course, he didn't believe a word of it.