Date: Fri, 5 Jul 2013 20:48:01 +1030
From: Robert A. Armstrong <rob.aa@hotmail.com>
Subject: Schoolie - chapter 2

Thank you for your encouraging feedback. I am endeavouring to respond to
all comments, questions and positive suggestions.

I remind you that this is a work of pure fiction - just an expression of a
fantasy. The resemblance of my characters by action, name, location or
description to any real person is purely coincidental - if it seems to be
you, or somebody you know, I apologise.

If relationships between boys and men is not your scene, or if you're under
age, or if it is not legal for you to be reading this, then please leave,
now, before somebody finds out! Otherwise, enjoy!

What you might expect, does not happen quickly - but it does happen. Please
be patient. Enjoy the plot, the setting and the characters as they develop.

Yeh, the first chapter was a little light. I've given you more this time.

Rob


Chapter 2

When Little Willie does not re-emerge from under the 3 metre spill-over
from the weir, my face must convey the worry that I feel because Jake
begins to reassure me that there is an air space between the cascading
water and the weir wall where they often sit on a really hot day, and it's
one of their favourite hiding places when people are looking for them.

I decide to head back to the school to fulfil my original intention of
familiarising myself with it and of seeing what needs to be done before
school resumes on Tuesday. I have this afternoon plus the weekend and
Monday to get everything ready.

I shake everyone's hand and ask them to repeat their names and tell me
their ages. I have already committed four to memory - Jane (who tells me
she is actually 15) & Jake, aka `Tarzan' (14), Eric (5) and Little
Willie. Karl and Kurt look directly into my eyes, give me broad smiles,
shake my hand and enthusiastically tell me they are indeed twins, about to
have their twelfth birthday next week. These guys I definitely won't forget
(and not just for their friendliness and manners). Even though they appear
very similar, Karl has a small but noticeable upturn at the outer end of
his right eyebrow; that will help me distinguish between the two. The
little girls with the braided hair are sisters Rose-Marie (7) and Susanna
(5). David (8) is little Eric's brother, with the same unmistakeable hair
and freckles. There are a couple of others, but my short term memory is not
working well today; maybe it is somewhat distracted by 'Little' Willie who,
Jane tells me, is 16. I wonder why he is still in school when most boys his
age in a remote country area would already be at work.

And I must work out what they have all been staring at! If necessary, I
should go back to the car and use one of its mirrors!

Back at the school gate, I pick up my keys, insert the new key into the
padlock and turn it. An audible click acts like a hypnotist bringing me out
of a light trance. I take a deep breath then push the gate open. I walk up
the short concreted path, take the one step up onto the verandah and
continue down to the door which is about the middle of the long side of the
building that faces the river. The large door key appears to be a bit of an
antique - a long shaft with a decorative bow through which my key ring is
threaded. I insert the bit at the other end into the equally old lock and
turn it first one way and then the other until it goes right around and I
hear and feel the heavy bolt retract. The door swings inwards almost
silently and my senses are engulfed by the cool mustiness of the 6-week
old, confined air as it escapes past me into the heat.

I'm standing in a small ante room surrounded by three more doors. The door
to the right and the one to the left are open. The one directly ahead of me
is closed. I take the one to the left and find myself in an area that
appears to have been used for arts and craft and general storage of sports
equipment and the like. `I'll come back to this,' I tell myself then I turn
around and go the other way, entering the main classroom. Tidy and neatly
laid out. My first task is to raise the pull-down blinds and open the
windows. Even though this will allow the outside heat to enter, the smell
of gum trees will be preferable to the thick staleness of the holiday
period.

I work my way anticlockwise from the door. The windows on this northern
side have the verandah for protection from direct sunlight. The western
wall has windows overlooking the road, protected from afternoon heat by a
continuation of the wide verandah. The windows on the shaded south side
(towards the church) will enable some cross-ventilation. There is a door
through which I can see the other room. As I walk through, I observe to my
left a storage area for books, stationery and other small items. I note the
reverse side of the closed door - permanently sealed by the multiple levels
of shelving that have been constructed across it in a full horseshoe around
the small room. I must check out all of the supplies during the next day or
two to see what exactly is here, and whether anything that I might need is
in short supply. I enter the 'Craft' room, which has windows on the south
side, none on the east wall on which hang multiple display boards,
obviously emptied before the previous school term ended, and then there are
the windows that look out across the northern verandah towards the river. I
end up back at the front door and step out onto the verandah. The children
are dispersing. A noisy old Land Rover has a few of the younger ones in the
back with Jake and Jane in the front, but I can't make out the
driver. David and Eric are walking along the road with Karl and Kurt in the
direction of the crossroads. Perhaps their parents are in the pub cooling
down by a different means while the children were taking a dip. I count ten
children in all. They all wave as they pass the gate, and I wave
back. There is no sign of the mysterious Little Willie. I head back inside.

My teacher's desk is in the corner of the classroom farthest from the door,
set at an angle that will provide not only full supervision of the class,
but also a clear view of the gate and the road leading to the river. I walk
around to it and sit down. The wooden chair is not made for comfort, but a
cushion will soften the teacher/chair interface, I'm sure. The desk itself
is a magnificent piece of far-from-plain wooden craftsmanship. It's almost
2 metres long and the top is inlaid with well-worn, dark green leather,
better preserved towards the corners. The top is supported by an ornate
pedestal on either side allowing space in the middle for my legs. Each
pedestal contains a cupboard at the bottom with a drawer above it, all with
locks. The small handles are of the hanging type and appear to be of
decorative cast iron or similar. There is also a shallow drawer in the
middle above the leg space. I slide it open and find some stationery, a
small key and the Attendance Register which I take out and place on the
desk top. Before I peruse the attendance history, I use the key to unlock
the other drawers and the cupboards. I discover a set of Student Record
Cards which I also set upon the desk. These should tell me a lot about my
students. I am anxious to find out about one in particular.

From the Attendance Register I note that a number of children have the same
surname, "O'Brien". Even though they cannot all be siblings, it's a safe
bet that there are cousins among them. I don't expect to see 'Little
Willie', but there is one William - William O'Brien. The name 'Andersen'
for Karl and Kurt, together with their blond hair and blue eyes, hints at
possible Scandinavian descent, which I think is strange for this area of
the country. There are a few others, and not a 'Hatfield' or 'McCoy' among
them - allaying my appointment-letter-day apprehensions. Names are listed
by grade, with dates of birth and addresses all complete. I will have to
add the new enrolments on Tuesday - perhaps the couple of 5 year olds that
I have met, and maybe some as-yet unknowns. Turning the pages from previous
years, I note that Mr William O'Brien has a 100% attendance record from the
beginning of this particular register, 10 years ago. I am now even more
intrigued.

I spread out the Student Record Cards on the desk, sort them by grade, and
mentally note where I think each student will sit in the classroom. I reach
for Mr William O'Brien's card and I am about to commence reading when my
concentration is disturbed by a loud knocking at the door. I think, 'How
did somebody get so close without me seeing or hearing him?'

I mechanically say, "Come in," while squinting somewhat at the silhouette
in the bright doorway. Expecting that it is one of the parents come to pay
his or her respects to the new schoolie, I rise and walk across the room,
only to be met by a very familiar figure. The hair, the eyes, the body.

I extend my hand and introduce myself, "Hi. I'm Mr Grant". He grasps my
hand firmly and replies in a surprisingly mature baritone voice, "Little
Willie".

He stares at me, and I at him. Neither of us releases our handshake. He
looks me up and down, but fixes his gaze on my face. His eyes narrow
slightly, as if searching for something, perhaps an explanation. I look
from his curly brown hair to his blue eyes, to his chiselled torso and then
continue downwards. He is wearing only a tight pair of fawn-coloured, thin
cotton shorts, the wetness of which makes them almost transparent. When I
saw him at the river, I actually thought he was naked. It's obvious that he
has nothing on underneath and the detail of his ample package, extending
predominantly down the right side, is clearly discernible, as too is the
curliness of the broad dark patch above it.

I dwell on this part of him a moment too long. He follows my gaze then,
raising only his eyes to look directly into mine, I see a broad grin spread
across his face. But he says nothing.

I feel my face redden, release his hand and retreat to my chair. He follows
and sits on the desk directly in front of me.

"William O'Brien?" I ask. He nods.

"Well, I don't think I'll be calling you `William' because it sounds too
formal. And I don't want to call you `Billy', because it sounds like a name
for a little kid. And `Bill' sounds too old," I say as I think of my dad's
brother, Uncle Bill (even though he looks younger than his 45 years).

"Everyone just calls me `Little Willie'", he says slowly, almost with a
slight drawl.

"Yes, well, I don't think that's appropriate either," I say smiling, with
an everso quick glance towards his shorts. He smirks knowingly (I think)
back at me. "Do you mind if I call you `Will'?"

He appears to weigh up my suggestion for a few moments then as a beaming
smile grows across his face he says, "Yes sir. That's good. Thank you sir."
I notice his eyes sparkle with pleasure but after a short period of
perceived contemplation they unexpectedly begin to fill with tears.

He suddenly says, "I've gotta go," and he jumps up from his position on the
desk and heads for the door. Just as he is about to leave he stops, turns
and, with his head, slightly bowed, asks in a slow and subdued voice, "Mr
Grant, how come you and me look like each other?"

Then he is gone.

I need to find a mirror, to confirm what I knew as soon as Will walked
in. I'm a slightly older version of him. Jane and Jake and the others all
saw the striking resemblance immediately. Did Will notice it from the river
while pretending to be an alligator and come to check me out more closely
after everyone had left? How could we look so alike? We could easily pass
for another pair of the town's siblings - almost a second set of
twins. Even the five year age gap seems to make very little difference with
his maturity and my youthfulness. I am confused too. I'm certain that my
parents have never been to this part of the state, and I wouldn't mind
betting that very few people around here would ever have travelled far
beyond the village pub or perhaps the big town Post Office.

I look out of the western windows and see him running past the pub in the
direction of the shack at the end of the street. I glance away pensively to
where he was sitting, recalling first his moments of joy and then his
tears, but when I turn back to the window he is nowhere to be seen.

A host of other questions flash through my mind. Why do none of the other
O'Briens have Will's blue eyes? Why is his hair almost identical in colour
to mine? It's even cut in a similar style. How can his body be as athletic
as mine when I'm sure he hasn't been to a gym, or done the surfing or
wrestling, or played the football or participated in the gymnastics, or
competed in the long distance runs that I have in the city and at
university? Why did he seem so elated at me calling him `Will' instead of
'Little Willie'? Why had he grinned so broadly when he caught me checking
out his package? And why did he start to cry? Does he plan to `out' me to
the rest of the village even before school has started? My dad warned me
that new gossip is a valued commodity in small towns, and that I should
resist any urge to spread it, but, above all, avoid being the subject of
it. `Just ask your Uncle Bill,' dad used to say, the implication of which I
was never told, although I had developed my own hunches about him as I grew
up.

Shit. What have I just done? Is my teaching career about to be over before
it even starts? The words, 'The new schoolie is one of those queer city
pervs,' run through my head.

I try to make myself busy by shuffling the desks and chairs, browsing
through the store room and checking out the equipment in the craft room,
but the questions keep pulsing through my head, and I can no longer
concentrate on doing anything that I came to do. I decide to lock up, head
back down the road and locate my new accommodation, meet the landlord, as
arranged, and see what fate has in store for me there. I suddenly feel
depressed. My initial joy at meeting my first-ever set of cherubs has
turned to an almost uncontrollable misery, all of my own careless making.

As I snap the padlock shut on the gate, I rebuke my own stupidity at
bothering to do so.

My head is throbbing to my highly elevated heart beat as I kick dirt on the
way back to the car. The intense heat makes me feel worse. I start the
engine and wait for the aircon to kick in before closing the door - no
sense in baking my already tormented brain in an oven! I do a U-turn and,
resisting the strong desire to continue towards the shack in search of
Will, I ignore the pub, turn left and retrace the road I had travelled
earlier.

After only about three minutes I spot the previously-noted turn-off marker
to the property ahead and wonder why the trip was so short. I glance at the
speedometer and see the shocking answer. I jump off the accelerator, put my
foot on the brake and mechanically hit the turn indicator. Am I stupid?
Using an indicator? There's probably not another car on this strip of dirt
for the next 150 km! I turn off the dusty road and follow a set of tyre
tracks that meander through trees and scrubby wasteland, circumventing tree
stumps and old car bodies. It travels parallel to the river for another 5
minutes. I can't get up any speed here or the unevenness of the land with
its bumps and depressions could render the car unusable. My seat belt holds
me securely in my seat. I come to a fork. One track veers to the left; the
other continues straight ahead. On a whim, I choose not to turn and soon
arrive at a medium-sized building in the style of shearers' quarters. My
arrival is announced by a couple of fiercely barking dogs that rush from
under the building and strain at the end of their tethers. They, too, are
staring at me and gnashing their teeth, and I picture unrestrained
townsfolk doing the same soon enough.

A guy comes out to investigate. He's a few years older than me - aged about
25 or so. He's wearing only a pair of faded denim jeans raggedly cut-off
above mid-thigh height. In the bright sunshine his tanned, muscular body is
shiny with sweat and he has a small thatch of curly hair in the middle of
his chest. He strides up to the car as I open the door, sticks out his hand
and says, "G'day. You must be Tom Grant." I manage a 'yep' and he adds,
"Martin O'Brien. Call me `Marty'. Fancy a drink to cool off? Hey you look
sort of familiar. Have we met before?" I hardly get out a 'No' which I
think he ignores anyway as he says, "Leave your gear for a while, and I'll
show you through. It's not a holiday resort, but it's private and quiet,
except when the dogs hear visitors coming. I like it that way, but I do
enjoy some intelligent company. Not much of that around here, though! I got
sick of mum's incessant idiotic jabbering so I moved down here nine months
ago from the big house up yonder," indicating with a raised arm towards
where the other fork would have taken me, I guess. "I told the last
schoolie to let it be known that my place would be available for boarders -
a bit more private than the pub and the other empty cottage just next to
Mum's. I've knocked out a couple of walls inside so the rooms are bigger
than they were originally. Welcome." I think that is when he actually takes
a breath.

Well, that explains the Education Department's letter with suggested
accommodation. Marty's place and the pub were the only two listed. I think
I've made the right choice - just far enough out of town to be away from my
students. I need some privacy too, and Marty seems to be friendly enough. I
wish that I could really hide away with a friend right now.

"C'mon," He says. I'm impressed by the obvious muscle tone in his back and
his legs as he leads the way. "Shut up!" he screams at the dogs and they
cower back under the building which is on piers, about a metre off the
ground.

We walk across to the building and take the four steps up to the
doorway. We enter a long corridor and I can see an open door at its other
end. All of the rooms seem to run off to the right, on the river side. Many
of the internal doors are open too. I follow him.

"This one's where I sleep," Marty says, indicating the first room. "A bit
untidy at the moment. At least I don't have mum nagging me to put things
away. This next room I use as a storeroom - gun locker, guitar, car parts
and other stuff. Then this large open space is the kitchen and living
area. This next one's the bathroom. I've installed a flushing toilet and
water heater, so you can have a hot shower when you want it. I usually need
a cold one." He winks and I think I catch the drift of his innuendo. He
steps past the bathroom and a board creaks. It reminds me of my `parent and
little sister alarm' on the stairs to my attic room at home. I don't think
they even realise it, just the same as it doesn't seem to register on Marty
either. "And this is where you'll be - away from my snoring and other
occasional night noises." Another wink. "You're next to the bathroom -
convenient for taking care of any personal needs." He looks at me as if to
see if there is any verbal response. I don't give him any, just a nod and a
polite smile. He smirks.

As we enter 'my' room I see two single beds slightly wider and longer than
normal. `King singles' I think they're called. There is a large wardrobe
behind the door on the wall backing against the corridor. Each bed is
pushed against a wall with a double window in between - an indication that
two originally smaller rooms have now become one larger one. Below the
windows, and between the beds, is a chest of drawers, topped by a
lamp. There is a large cow hide covering a good part of the bare boards
between the beds, and there are photos of horses on the wall, one above
each bed. There are sheets, blankets, pillow cases and a towel on each bed,
together with a couple of pillows.

"Pick whichever bed you like, but I'd suggest the one on the left. It's not
next to the bathroom. Little Willie won't mind either way."

"What?" I say, sounding a little more surprised than I intended.

"Little Willie's my cousin. Great kid. One of your students. Not too
bright, but you'll like him when you meet him. He often comes to stay -
especially when his mum's in a bloody awful mood, or if she's entertaining
a male visitor." Marty makes quotation marks with his fingers when he says
`entertaining'. His meaning is not lost on me. "That won't be a problem
will it?"

`Shit!' I think. Will and Marty are cousins. What if Will outs me as a perv
to him? But, if I'm still around when he comes to stay, I suspect that I
might need some cold showers too.

"No, not at all, I guess, if he doesn't mind sharing," I try to say with
confidence. I don't let on that Will and I have already met. I don't want
to answer any questions about our encounter, or what was said, or done, or
how I made him cry and run away. I'm still not certain why. If Marty hasn't
heard anything yet then the `bush telegraph' is a bit slow today, thank
God. He will probably find out the truth about the new schoolie soon enough
anyway. Too soon! Then he'll kick me out. Hell! Life just got seriously
more complicated, and this is still day one.

"Let me help you with your stuff and we can sit down and have a good chat
over a couple of beers." I have the feeling that I'll be hearing a lot of
small town gossip in the next couple of hours.

I choose the suggested bed, make it up quickly, not worrying about a
blanket, given this heat, nor about smoothing out the wrinkles in the
sheets, and Marty helps me unload the car. We dump everything onto the
other bed and head for the large living area - a combination of kitchen,
dining and lounge rooms all in one. Apart from the glimpse that I saw of
Marty's bedroom, the place seems very tidy and clean for a bachelor
pad. Marty takes two cans from the fridge, opens them, hands me one and
slumps into one of the two arm chairs in the corner of the room that backs
onto the store room and under a window that looks out towards the river. I
take the other. Set between us, in the very corner, is a small table with a
stack of about a dozen magazines which I decide to check out later. You can
tell a lot about a person by what he reads.

Marty taps my can with his, says "Cheers", takes a long swig, swallows and
launches right in to a monologue.

"I'm Martin Charles O'Brien, 24, third child of four. My two older
brothers, Sean 30 and Chad 26 left home about seven years ago to find work
in the big town. At least that's what they told Mum. There were other
reasons. You'll understand soon enough. They sometimes come out here to
visit on a Sunday, when they're not busy. My dad died in a tractor accident
about ten years ago. My little sister, Anna, who is 18, still lives in the
big house with Mum. She has the hots for Little Willie, but he can't stand
her and he hides whenever she's around. Incessant talking must be a woman
thing."

`Or an O'Brien thing!' I smile to myself, but don't say it out loud.

Marty continues, "You'd better look out for Anna! Next to Little Willie,
you're now the next male closest to her age around here, and she'll be all
over you if you give her half a chance." He looks at me and waits for a
response, which I don't give him. Then he cuts straight to the chase: "You
have a girl friend back home?"

"Maybe," I answer hesitantly, hoping he doesn't ask for a name, but I've
got one ready just in case.

"Hmmm. You'd probably keep a couple of `em pretty busy, I'd reckon, looking
at you." He grins and winks; again he gets no self-divulging response from
me beyond a returned wink. Two can play that game. I already like this guy
- Mr Grinny, Winky, Smirky, Raunchy!

He continues, "I work as a general hand for a couple of properties around
here. Not much work going at the moment though. That's why it's great to
have a paying guest. You are a god-send, to tell you the truth. I was
thrilled when your letter said that you were coming. When I'm not working
for someone else, I do stuff around here or at Mum's big house, and I
usually get Little Willie to help. He's a strong little bugger and
appreciates the bit of money that I pay him. He gets very little from his
mother, Lilly. Even though her male visitors give her extra on top of her
various Social Security payments, she drinks and smokes most of it away."

"Oh well, you might as well hear the sordid details from me before you're
subjected to other fanciful versions. Some handsome young city slicker
knocked Lilly up over 17 years ago. She was only 18 and he was in town for
just the one night. She started flirting with him at the pub and they soon
wandered off together, so the story goes. Little Willie was the result, but
there were complications so she can't have any more kids. Lilly at least
remembered the guy's name as William and she loved telling all the other
women about his big willie. We reckon that's how Little Willie got his
name. Father and son - big willie and Little Willie. His birth certificate
says `William', same as his father, but to everyone, he's always been just
`Little Willie'. Lilly can't resist a man and she still makes a real fool
of herself over any new men in town. She's screwed just about every male in
the district. You'd better be on your guard when she's around
too. Although, if you ever need a root, you won't have to search too hard!"

I think, `I've hardly shaken the dust off my boots, and I've already got
two women after my body, and I haven't met either of them yet.'

I am really tempted to ask Marty the obvious - whether he'd also `got it
on' with his now 36 year old (by my calculations) Aunt Lilly, but I
refrain. Far too personal at the moment. When we know each other better,
perhaps.

"Then there's Mum." Marty continues. "Mum is just `Mum'. Mrs Bossy
Boots. Mrs Nosey Parker. Mrs Control Freak. Mrs Loudmouth. You get the
idea, and when you meet her it will be much too soon, believe me! That's
the real reason Sean and Chad left. They couldn't even look at a girl and
Mum practically had everyone in town invited to a wedding. Oh, she'll
probably be as sweet as her pumpkin pie to you while she tries to pump you
for information so she can boast that she knew it before anyone else
did. My advice: eat her food, listen carefully for her tricky questions,
nod a lot, smile even more, but tell her as little as possible."

"And, hey, you might want to know a bit more about Little Willie before you
end up sharing a room him." Is my not saying anything about already meeting
Will the same as telling a lie? I hope that Marty will see the humour of it
when he finds out.

"Personally, I would classify Little Willie as `neglected'. Aunt Lilly
treats him like a trophy to show off to her drunken companions when it
suits her, then ignores him the rest of the time, until she wants him out
of the way for a few hours, or for the night. He cops a fair bit of abuse
from her as well, especially when she's drunk. And I'm not telling tales
out of school - ha ha, that's funny - school, schoolie! Oh well! It's all
common knowledge around town. So, he's just as liable to turn up here any
time of the day or night, but more likely on a weekend when there are lots
of people in town. That's why there's always a bed ready. As I said, he's
not smart, as far as books are concerned, but is talented nevertheless. You
should see all of his drawings. And some of his horse paintings look almost
lifelike - like the two in your room."

Paintings? I thought they were photos, softened a little by some clever
computer software.

"His stuff is all in the store room. Ask him to show you next time he's
here. He only paints and draws at school and when he's here. It's his
passion - or one of them. He doesn't do it at home any more because Lilly
thinks it's 'not a manly thing' to be doing; she destroyed some of his work
when she was in one of her moods. He was absolutely devastated. His whole
attitude to his mother changed that day. He came down here and cried for
almost a full day. Apart from having access to the basics at school, he
buys all his materials out of the money he earns working with me, and
whatever little he can badger out of Lilly. And even though he's turned 16,
he's still at school, because firstly, he gets to draw; secondly, if he
leaves school, Lilly's parenting payment stops, and thirdly, there is no
work around for someone so inexperienced, and also he can be a bit
clumsy. I try to teach him whatever skills I can and give him an
opportunity to use them. He enjoys studying pictures in books and
magazines, but he doesn't read well. The best thing you can do for him,
Tom, is to concentrate on that. He'll be frustrated and frustrating, but
he'll really show his appreciation for any help and encouragement that you
can give him."

Now my heart is truly heavy for causing that poor unfortunate and
semi-literate lad to be upset. He seems to have enough problems without me
adding to them. I feel a lump in my throat and tears forming in my own
eyes. I avoid looking at Marty. Little could I imagine how my life was
about to change because of him.

"The O'Brien's? There's lots of us... You'll meet the kids and get to know
the parents soon enough." And so the almost one-sided 'conversation' goes
on, interspersed with quick personal questions about my life in the city
and with `have another' can of beer - I accept far too many more than my
usual one or two.

Big mistake!


I hear the sound of a couple of roosters, almost unknown in the city, and
strain to open my eyes, but they resist. I try harder and struggle to
comprehend where I am. My throbbing brain painfully reassembles the
snippets of my memory and I realise that it's morning and I'm in my new bed
at Marty's place. Suddenly, as my recollection continues to catch up with
my eyes, I am overcome by two serious urges - to pee and to throw up. My
feet locate the floor. My head isn't fully cooperating. I have difficulty
in standing, let alone walking. However, using the walls for support, my
legs urgently direct me to the toilet in the adjacent bathroom where
throwing up comes first. I flush to get rid of the smell and the evidence
of food that I don't remember eating, then stand up to relieve my aching
bladder. Only then does it register that I am totally naked. I don't
remember stripping off before getting into bed last night. Actually, I
don't even remember going to bed last night! After the longest and most
relieving pee that I can ever remember, I shake off and flush.

Still struggling to maintain equilibrium, I decide that a shower might
help. It's nothing fancy, unlike the one at home. Just an old-fashioned
metal shower head - sort of like the oversized end of a large watering can,
except with a lot more holes - mounted over a bathtub. No shower curtain,
and a drain in the middle of the floor to channel the sprayed excess
away. I step in and mechanically reach for, and turn, the taps on the
wall. Big mistake! Aaargh! A freezing cold stream hits me. Everything
instantly contracts - my pecs, my abs and my family jewels. Maximum
shrinkage! I jump aside. Hello! I'm awake! I wait for the `hot' water to
come through and adjust the temperature balance until the stream reaches at
least body temperature then ease myself back under, continuing to increase
the heat gradually until I am very comfortable. I submerse my head and
enjoy the feel of the hot water running the full length of my body. I run
my fingers back and forth through my tight curly hair. I look for some
shampoo, but finding only a well-worn cake of soap, I decide that this will
do the job just as well. I close my eyes and start with the hair, giving
myself a slow stress-relieving scalp massage and work my way downwards -
soaping, massaging and rinsing as I go.

Having reached the other extremity, I close my eyes again and work my way
back up to my crotch and luxuriate in repeatedly soaping everything both
front and back. Ultra clean! And I can feel that the shrinkage has now well
and truly gone. Feeling good, I allow my eyes to open and then it dawns on
me that in my urgency I didn't close the bathroom door, and I'm facing it,
facing Marty who is leaning on the door frame, watching me with that cheesy
grin of his. He's naked and appears to be half boned up. "Hey, Tom, mind if
I take a pee while you're showering?" He doesn't wait for an answer before
entering. He stands facing me while directing a powerful stream at the
bowl, while appearing to check me out. When he's finished he flushes, gives
his hands a quick wash at the hand basin and, turning to leave he says,
"Breakfast will be ready in five minutes. OK?" Hmmm ... my eyes are
automatically drawn to his powerful glutes as he disappears. I manage a
loud "Nice! Thanks." It's my turn to smirk, then I finish rinsing off and
turn off the water. I step out of the bath and grab a towel to dry myself
off. Then it crosses my mind, 'He could have just peed outside. Isn't that
what country guys do? Why didn't he?'

My nose soon identifies bacon being cooked.

Back in my room I notice that my boots, socks, jeans, Calvin Kleins and
shirt are scattered across the floor at the end of my bed. That's not how I
leave things when I ready myself for dreamland! The realisation comes
quickly that I definitely didn't undress myself last night. So, not only
have I seen Marty's body, he's seen, and possibly felt, all of mine! My
final memory of him last night was thrusting yet another can of beer at me
despite my protests that I had already had too many.

I haven't unpacked my clean stuff yet, so I retrieve the CKs and jeans and
figure that these will suffice for breakfast with Marty. I head out to the
kitchen and living area and am shocked to see the large number of empty
cans on the corner table and floor around the chairs. Intercepting my gaze,
Marty says, "Don't worry. We'll recycle those," as he puts two big plates
of bacon, scrambled eggs, tomatoes and toast on the dining table which is
against the wall nearest the bathroom. I'm hungry, but not sure if my
stomach will keep this lot down. He's wearing only his cut-offs and has
only half zipped up without fastening the top button. So, not only does he
sleep naked at night but he goes commando during the day! I force myself to
focus on the food instead of his all-too-obvious bush and bulge. Phew!
What's his game? My dad's words haunt me, '...avoid being the subject of
gossip...' How long can I hold out before I say or do something I'll
regret? Then I painfully recall my encounter with Will yesterday. Maybe
avoidance is already too late!

"How are you feeling now?" Marty asks me in an upbeat tone and with an
almost playful smirk. Does he mean `now' after throwing up, or `now' after
the sobering shower, or seeing greasy food in front of me, or `now' after
waking up naked? Perhaps `now' after something I don't remember.

Simply nodding, I fill my mouth with food, allowing myself some thinking
time before answering. After chewing for longer than is usual for me to
test my body's potential rejection of the bacon and eggs, I commence with a
non-committal, "I think I drank too much last night."

"Yeh, sorry about that. My fault: I didn't know your limit. I think I've
got your measure now though." Marty smirks again. I could read an awful lot
into that last statement, but I let it pass - for now."

"I hope I didn't say or do anything to embarrass myself," I add, as more of
a question than a statement.

"Nope. You didn't talk much - good practice for when you meet Mum. You were
only semi-conscious though when I helped you back into your room. It was
hilarious watching your uncoordinated attempts to undress, so I kinda
helped out a bit." Wink.

"Yeh. And more than just a bit! Thanks for giving me a hand," I utter with
intended friendly sarcasm. Marty just grins at me. It's becoming difficult
to imagine this guy without a grin or smirk on his face! At least when he's
talking I know what he's thinking! He finishes his food, takes his plate to
the sink and asks if I want a coffee. He makes two then sits back down and
watches me eating.

"Tom, I'd like you to feel at home here. Just act like this place is your
own. Believe me, I won't be offended by anything that you might say or
do. There's only one house rule that I want to mention right up front." I
raise my eyes and look directly at him, completely blank as to what the
rule might be. "As I've told Little Willie, `What happens in the house,
stays in the house!' Whatever we see, or say or do here is no business of
anyone else. This town is full of gossips, especially Mum and Aunt
Lilly. They're like bloodhounds trying to sniff out some juicy
morsel. Then, if they find anything, they'll spread it faster than soft
butter on hot toast. This is my private haven from the world. And Little
Willie's. And yours, hopefully. What do you say? Gentlemen's agreement?"

I feel a huge knot untwist in my gut and I let out an audible sigh of
relief as I stick out my hand to shake on the deal. "Thanks Marty. You have
no idea how much that means to me. I'm 100% on board! What about your
cousin, will he be OK with having his teacher in the same room as him?"

In my own mind I'm not so sure he will be, and especially after he caught
me checking out his body bits yesterday.

"Little Willie? Hell yeh. He'll be totally OK. I can tell. He and I share a
bit of `secret' stuff. You two will be fine!"

I hope so. That smirk again! I'm determined to find out the reason for it,
and I have my suspicions. The 'house rule' offers me some confidence that I
didn't feel yesterday afternoon. The mental fog is lifting. The depression
seems to have faded. A haven! I'm on top of the world. Almost. I'm still
uncertain about Will's state of mind and how he'll react to me at school on
Tuesday.

Marty adds, "Little Willie might seem a bit simple, but he's got a heart of
gold and tight lips. I love him for that. I think, after talking with you
last night that you two will get along great with one another. And, when I
saw you in the shower, that's when it hit me. You two look very much
alike. No wonder I thought you seemed familiar yesterday. That's fucking
hilarious. It won't take others long to twig to the resemblance either. It
will cause some serious tongue wagging around the village - you can bet on
it."

Marty slaps his knee and laughs a sort-of forced belly laugh and I can see
that he is going to enjoy the inevitable show as people fabricate their own
answers to that mystery and then spread them as absolute fact to all eager
ears. I'm actually looking forward to hearing every last one of their
stories. One of them might even reveal the truth of this look-alike
mystery. I could have some real fun with them too. My wicked sense of
humour makes me do the smirking for once!

Hang on. Back up a bit, brain! What does Marty mean, "...when I saw you in
the shower... you two are very much alike"? This is becoming like putting a
jigsaw puzzle together without seeing the picture on the box. I could be
reading everything wrongly, but Marty's indications and smirks and
innuendos are stimulating something deep within me. I can't tell if it's
excitement or concern. Then again, I feel the safety net of the house rule
to take the edge off my anxieties and a few possible indiscretions. I hope
he's true to his word.

"What are you planning on doing this morning, Tom? I usually head in to the
big town on Saturday to get some supplies. Now there's two of us, the food
will disappear faster than usual." A smile with a message.

I retrieve my wallet which is still in the back pocket of my jeans and give
Marty some cash. "Four weeks in advance. That should help."

"Thanks, Tom. I'm so glad to have you staying here, mate! You have no
idea!"

Nobody has called me `mate' for so long that I allow the words to linger in
my head. Not sure if he really meant it or whether country guys call
everybody else `mate', but I smile a very contented smile. I tell him, "I
want to go up to the school and do an inventory of what's in the store room
and the craft room, and start some preparations for Tuesday and the rest of
the week."

"Why don't you unpack all your gear and I'll clear up the breakfast stuff
and the evidence from last night," Marty says nodding towards the
collection of cans. "And I'll catch up with you in a few of hours."

I hear Marty fussing about in the kitchen and then the bathroom. He soon
calls out "Heading off," from the other end of the house and I listen to
the sound of his well-tuned car engine slowly fading away up the track. I
finish stowing my gear in the wardrobe behind the door and utilise some of
the drawers in the chest under the window for smaller and 'personal' items,
leaving the top drawer free for an overnight visitor. I use the toilet
then, heading out, note what a great job Marty has done of cleaning up. All
the beer cans have gone and all the breakfast dishes have been put away.

I catch sight of the magazines again and decide to quickly look at the
titles. Quite an assortment: Shooting, Horse Racing, Farming, Home
Handyman, Cars, Body Building. But the one on the bottom of the pile
catches my attention most. Wow! I flip the pages and see not just the usual
'girlie' pictures, but naked men and women, both separately and together,
in all possible combinations. Most of the fantastic-bodied guys and girls
look to be late teens to early twenties. Their various poses and activities
leave nothing, and I do mean absolutely nothing, to the imagination. I've
never seen a mag like this one before - anyone, whether straight, bi, gay
or lesbian, could use it as a sex manual. My slow Saturday-morning brain
then registers the title, `LUSTY'. Very appropriate! Another piece of the
puzzle?! I put it back, for now, before I get too boned up, and tidy the
stack as I found it. 'Later!' I think. And I must check out whether some
pages are more well-worn than others. Aha, Martin Charles O'Brien! Sherlock
Holmes is on your case!

I head out, and recoil as the dogs suddenly rush out and bark at
me. Massive adrenaline rush! Thank God for the tethers. "Shut up!" I scream
at them. It doesn't produce quite the same cowering effect as Marty's, but
at least they stop and just stare at me, tilting their heads to the side in
expressions of puppy-like curiosity. I experience a sense of
accomplishment. I'm starting to feel at home.

I navigate the bumpy track to the road, turn left and drive leisurely
through the village to the school. The only sign of early Saturday morning
life comes from the territorial laughing of the kookaburras in the gum
trees up and down the river. I deal with the two locks and re-open the
blinds and windows. There is a lingering staleness, but nowhere nearly as
bad as yesterday.

I defer reading the Student Record Cards in favour of checking out all of
the supplies. Once I get the drift of how everything has been sorted and
stored, I see that my predecessor has done a great job in keeping up the
numbers of everything that is needed. I'm sure that at least a few of the
children will know where everything is. That's part of how small schools
function: the older children follow and monitor the well-established
routines, exercise their delegations with responsibility and pride, and
willingly help the little ones with their lessons, and all of the routines
are well established. That reminds me, I must find out the routines from
somebody before Tuesday, if I get the chance.

I take a pen and a note book and start into a full stock take so that I can
understand exactly what is here, and in what quantities.

I'm almost at the end of noting, counting and putting everything back in
its usual place, where the children will know where to find it, when I hear
Marty's voice. "You there Tom?" I can't believe the time has flown so
fast. It's already well past noon.

"Come in Marty. I'm in the store room." He appears at the door and performs
his door-post lean and grin. He's dressed in polished brown riding boots,
tight blue denim jeans topped by a leather belt with a big long-horn
buckle. His blue dark-on-pale small-check shirt, which is neatly tucked in
to his jeans, looks one size too small and the top few buttons are
open. This accentuates both his generous pecs and tight abs. I know the
saying, 'If you've got it, flaunt it' Well, he's got so much to flaunt -
both above and below the waist! His hair is parted and brushed back. I give
him a teasing wolf whistle, without comment. He smirks, of course! I wonder
whether he was meeting somebody in town, and whether he 'got some'. I'm
envious.

"I ran into Aunty Di and Uncle Reg in town earlier," he says. "They have
invited you and me to lunch at their place. They live about 15 km that way
(indicating to the east). I'll drive. You can pick up your car on the way
back. We're due there by 1:00, so are you OK to close up shortly?"

I decide to leave everything else spread out on the desks. Marty helps me
lock the windows and pull down the blinds. He does the craft room and I do
the classroom. We walk out and I lock the door but leave the front gate
unlocked. I give myself a mental smiley stamp `for improvement in
intelligence'! I get into Marty's SUV. It's clean and has a strangely sweet
scent - it must be some air freshener. I should tell him to change it. It
smells somewhere between a man's deodorant and a woman's perfume. Aha
again, Marty! Not what a man's set of wheels should smell like! He heads
back past the church, turns left and heads due east, mostly parallel to the
tree line of the river, which recedes progressively from the road.

The countryside seems dead flat with little obvious vegetation apart from
the diminishing vision of the river gums and the waist-high, silver-grey
saltbush clumps that mostly cover the red landscape. As he drives, and
having already dropped everything at home, Marty rattles off a list of the
things that he has bought to stock the pantry and fridge and says that he
hope it all suits me. I decide to turn the tables on him and reply with a
playful, "Mate, there's not much that my body doesn't enjoy."

He turns his head to see if my expression is hiding, or revealing,
something. I give him back one of his annoying cheesy smirks, and leave him
to struggle with my meaning. Ha ha! He's quiet for a while, then makes a
quick jiggling adjustment to the front of his jeans. I exercise huge
self-control in not making a smart-alec comment about him outgrowing them.

He changes the subject. "Oh, just so you know, Aunty Di's as deaf as a door
post in her left ear, so you'll have to speak up when you're talking to
her. If you face her when you speak, what she doesn't hear, she'll read
from your lips."

I see the line of river gums heading back towards us, then a large clump of
trees surrounding a house. Marty slows and turns in. No indicator. Country
smart! The house is not far from the road. I hear welcoming dogs sounding
off. As Marty kills the ignition and a man and woman appear, about the same
age as my parents, followed by two teenagers, a girl and a boy.

Marty introduces me to Reg, Di, Jane and Jake individually. I exchange
pleasantries with Reg and Di, and thank them for inviting us. I shake hands
with 'Tarzan' and Jane, pretending that it's our first meeting. They look
at each other and then at me as if I have a super-awful memory. I give them
a wink and nod towards Marty, and they understand that I'm playing some
sort of game. "Very pleased to meet you, Mr Grant, Sir" they say, slightly
over-acting, which is more for Marty's benefit than for mine.

We go inside and I can see that a magnificent feast is prepared and already
laid out on the table. Reg insists that I sit at the end of the table with
my back to the kitchen, while he takes the seat at the other end. Di is to
my left with her good ear next to me and Jane to my right, close to the
kitchen I suppose. Marty is next to Di. Jake is next to Jane, opposite
Marty. Reg offers a quick word of thanks for the food and the company then
everybody starts transferring food from the middle of the table to their
own plates. Di and Jane delight in heaping food onto my plate. They must
think that I haven't eaten in a week. Country hospitality!

Reg starts the conversation, in a loud voice which, I expect, is primarily
for Di's benefit, "Didn't you kids tell me you met Mr Grant yesterday?"
Jane and Jake both look at me and I raise an eyebrow and give them a smile,
eliciting one back from each of them.

"Yes, Dad," Jane replies, somewhat sheepishly.

"Then what was all that `pleased to meet you' stuff outside?" he
grumbles. I can see that Reg is a no-nonsense man who doesn't mince his
words. They both turn their faces from their dad to me again, looking a
little more anxious this time, seeing that the role play was my idea.

I chime in to save them. "Reg, yesterday when I turned up at the school
Jane and Jake came to say hello. But we weren't formally introduced, so I
guess we were making amends and being overly polite just now." With his
mouth full, Reg considers my answer and nods his approval. The teenagers
noticeably relax and both have contented glows on their faces. I think some
sort of bond was just forged between them and me.

Marty stops chewing, swallows and stares me squarely in the eye. Gesturing
with his knife from me to them and back to me, says, "You didn't tell me
that you'd already met the kids!"

I emulate one of his cheeky grins, summon up my school-teacherish tone and
hit him with, "What happens at school stays at school."

He coughs, in a choking fashion, for the parody of his house rule and gives
me one of his smirks then a wink of approval. Then I intercept a sudden
knowing look across the table from Jake to Marty, who responds with an
almost imperceptible shake of the head and a silent half frown as if to
say, 'Shut up Jake.' The subtle body language might escape everyone else at
the table, but not me.

I immediately know that Jake, too, has been introduced to Marty's rule of
sworn secrecy. Why? Another piece of puzzle? My imagination runs
wild. Marty? And Will? And me? And Jake? I feel the beginnings of a
stirring deep in my loins as I remember the magazine on the corner table
and allow erotic thoughts to intrude into my head. Shit, Tom, No! No way! I
feel that my professionalism and whole fledgling career is under threat
here. I fork another large piece of beef sausage into my mouth and can't
stop myself from wondering, `Who else?' and `What?'

Di and Jane play the perfect hostesses. Better service than at many city
restaurants! The most marvellous meal is topped off with one huge serving
of Di's `famous' apple pie, complete with home-made duck-egg custard and
freshly whipped cream. `I'm going to have to find something to compensate
for not going to the gym,' my conscience intrudes on my pleasure. Maybe an
early morning jog from the house to the road and back would be a good
start. It's strange that no other boy or man that I've seen around here
looks to be carrying extra weight. And I certainly don't want to become the
first!

Di is a still very attractive lady for her age, and I can tell that she has
`fixed herself up' for the occasion. Her pronunciation is a little
indistinct, as one might expect of a person who suffered a hearing
disability in her formative years. Nothing is said about her medical
condition, and it would be rude of me to ask. I guess that somebody,
possibly `Mum', would let me know sure enough if I drop a hint of
interest. Over lunch there is the expected chit-chat and questions. I
realise that I could be fuelling the gossip fires, however, remembering
Marty's advice, and aware that I have two of my students in front of me, I
keep my answers all pretty simple to the questions about me, my sport, my
family, my little sister who is about Jake's age. "You'd like her." I tease
Jake. He blushes and screws up his nose. Everybody laughs.

Reg is of the O'Brien clan, a younger brother of Marty's deceased father,
older brother to Will's mum and some others whom, I am sure, I will meet
soon enough. I have the opportunity to study Jake and Jane more
closely. The two attractive children have inherited most of their features
from Reg's side of the family, including the dark hair and eyes. Jake has
his father's square and clearly dimpled chin, similar to Marty's; Jane has
only a trace of it, fortunately, I think. They both have their mother's
long, attractive eyelashes. They both speak loudly, as I lamented
yesterday. Only now, I appreciate the reason for it.

The brother and sister at the dinner table are very different from the pair
I met yesterday. Jane is a perfect little lady in deportment and speech - a
far cry from her `little buggers' outburst and running wild at the
weir. Jake is the little gentleman. Is this play acting in front of their
dad? Are they scared of him? I wonder why, and I also ask myself, `Which is
the real person - Jane or is it Calamity Jane? Jake, or is it Tarzan?'

It's an uneventful ride back into town. Marty and I talk about the food and
the hospitality. I ask him why everybody is so slim, given that they eat so
well. As I again survey the landscape, he tells me that Di prepared a meal
especially to impress me and they don't eat like that all of the time. It
was a unique treat for everybody. "Anyway, there are always ways of working
off the extra calories", he adds. I hope he's not grinning or smirking - I
don't even want to look! Before I allow myself to be angry with him I must
find out about Jake's knowledge of the House Rule, and what secrets are
being hidden. Marty drops me at the church and I walk the short distance to
the school.

There's not much of the stocktake to finish; mainly just checking that I
have recorded everything and putting things back in their usual places. I
move to the craft room, and busy myself with a similar exercise. Different
media, paper, a variety of craft materials including a large bag of wool
and collection of knitting needles - Hmmm! I hope that's not something I'm
expected to teach! I come across a large A1-sized folder with tape ties. I
undo the bow and discover a large variety of sketches and paintings in
pencil, crayon, charcoal, water colours and a few media that I don't
recognise. They are superb. Landscapes, portraits and horses. I recognise
the artist immediately, even before I note the `LW' signature in the lower
left corner of each one. I am absolutely astounded by the likenesses of his
portraits to the school children whom I met at the weir. This boy is
something else! I just look from one piece to the next and wonder where his
eye for detail and his amazing talent come from. The quality of his work
makes me a little emotional that he has never had the opportunities, or
exposure, or encouragement of city children in specialist art classes. How
good might he have been? Possibly, not too much better than he is
already. But, on top of deprivation caused by isolation and his mother, I
contemplate that he must now also overcome the burden of a teacher who
ogled and upset him at our very first meeting, without even the opportunity
yet to establish a friendly classroom rapport.

Satisfied that there is nothing left to do, except some lesson preparation
for which I still have two more days, I lock up and head for home. The
sunset behind the river gums is stunning. Suddenly, for a third time in two
days I experience a strong familiarity. This time it's a powerful déjà
vu. Eerie!

"Shut up!" I yell at the dogs. "Hi Marty," I call. "It's only me." I walk
through the door and into the living area.

I stop in my tracks. Will is there, sitting exactly where I was last
night. He looks up. His eyes are red and puffy - he's been crying. My heart
starts to pound with guilt and fear and compassion. I'm dead now, for sure.

"Little Willie, say hello to Mr Grant, the new schoolie. Tom, this is
Little Willie. He'll be staying the night."

"Hello Mr Grant." he says with as much stoicism as he can muster, standing
up.

"Hi there young man," I reply as politely as I can, then step over and
shake his offered hand. "Sorry. Gotta use the bathroom." I hurry and close
the door. Why would Marty introduce me to Will, if his cousin had already
spilled the beans on me? Perhaps he hasn't... yet.

I pace back and forth in the bathroom, wondering what Will has already told
Marty, and what I am going to say when he confronts me. I stay long enough
to have taken a long dump, so I can't put things off any longer. I flush
the toilet, even though I didn't use it, predominantly for the sound
effect.

Heading back into the living area, I notice that Marty is
alone. "Everything OK?" I ask hesitantly. He tells me that Will's mum has
been on one of her drunken rants, and started throwing things, so Will just
ran out, with abuse about his no-good father ringing in his ears. That's
some relief for me, but bad for Will. More pain upon pain, and he is now
visibly distressed.

"He's in the bedroom," Marty indicates with a nod. I'm more upset for him
than for myself now. Shit. All this today on top of what he experienced
from me yesterday. Poor kid. I decide to go and face him.

I knock on the open door as a courtesy to let him know I'm there. I don't
expect a response. I leave the door open, go in and sit on my bed opposite
him. He has his face in his hands. My natural instinct is to give him a
comforting hug, but consider that close physical contact may not be the
best thing to do under the circumstances.

He doesn't say anything, so I open up. "Will, I just want to say that I'm
sorry for causing you to be upset yesterday at the school."

He looks up. "Yesterday? Yeh, I was upset. Really upset. I just lost it. It
was about you, and me." He gets teary again.

`Here it comes,' I think. `Now I'm gonna cop it, first from him and next
from Marty!'

"Will, I'm so sorry for what I did and said. Really! Please forgive
me. Please. I think you're a great kid and I would never intentionally do
anything to hurt you."

He looks up at me and utters, "Huh?" I repeat my confession and apology for
checking him out and then making inappropriate comments about his
not-little willie, and again ask his forgiveness. He looks at me
strangely. Then he stuns me. I hear totally the opposite of what I am
expecting.

"Mr Grant, I wasn't concerned at anything you said or did, and I enjoyed
watching your face while you `checked me out'. But I did get emotional
because of you. When I saw you, you looked just like me, just like my
brother would if I had one. You know, I never had a brother. I always
wanted one, but my mum couldn't have any more kids after me and she's
forever blaming me for that. I considered that you might easily have been
my brother. When I thought about it, we both could have grown up together
and done things and had a heap of fun like Karl and Kurt do. I was so
happy."

"And then you asked if you could call me `Will' instead of `Little Willie',
That's the first time that anyone around here has thought of me as more
that the `Little Willie' who was born because of my father's big
willie. Everyone calls me `Little Willie'. When I was younger it didn't
matter. But now, it just upsets me. I finally got called a real
name... `Will'. And the way you said it sounded just like a brother would
have. I played it over and over in my head... `Will', not `Little Willie'
... `Will'. He called me `Will'."

"Then it hit me right in the gut that, despite my daydream, you were not
really my brother, and that I really don't have one, and that I never can
or will have one. Thank you, Mr Grant, Sir, for being so kind." He starts
to cry, sobbing deeply, and I have great difficulty in preventing myself
from doing the same, even though my eyes are filling with tears.

I can't stand it any longer. I get up and take a step towards him. "Will,
would you like a hug?" He doesn't hesitate and almost throws himself at me,
wrapping his arms around my neck and the sobs are very heavy. I place my
hands on his sides, and absorb the waves of his emotion.

As he clings to me, a thought crosses my mind, and I voice it aloud. "Will,
What if you call me `Sir' only when we're at school. If you're talking
about me to anyone, you can refer to me as `Mr Grant'. But I'd like you to
feel a little more relaxed when we're alone together, here. I'll call you
`Will', and you can call me either `Tom' or `Mr G'. Brothers' secret! House
rule?"

I wrap my arms around his body. In an almost whisper he says, "That's so
great. Thank you!" And he tightens his hug, letting out one huge sigh.

I look up and see Marty in the doorway. "Well, I see it didn't take you two
long to get to know each other," he says with obvious smart-arse sarcasm.

Will pulls back from me a little and snaps at his cousin, "Fuck off Marty!"
Then he looks at me with a face full of guilt and whispers, "Sorry... Mr
Grant!"

"It's not what it looks like, Marty, or whatever you might be thinking," I
say with a touch of both embarrassment and anger. I nod towards the living
area, hinting that Marty should leave us alone and go somewhere else, and I
say, "Give us a few minutes, will you?" I draw Will back into me.

Marty shrugs and walks off. Will holds me tighter, and presses his chest
and stomach and hips as close to me as he can muster. I can now feel a lot
more of his body than his strong heart beat and his heavy breathing,
especially down below! I allow his warm tears to soak through my shirt and
wet my shoulder. I just hold him and delight in the warmth of his body, and
in his trust. He might be physically mature, but emotionally it seems he's
still a fragile little boy.

"It's OK, Will. I was gonna tell him exactly the same thing, but you just
beat me to it!" That brings a weak smile back to his face, then he does
something totally unexpected. He kisses me on the cheek, just like how my
grandma does. He gives me an extra tight hug, holds on for a while,
savouring the moment while I rub his back, then he breaks away.

"Don't' tell. House rule!" he smirks, then heaves a couple of heavy sighs
and dries his eyes on his shirt sleeve. Oh, no, not another smirker!

"Well, it looks like I've got myself the little brother I always wanted," I
say to his now-beaming face. "Let's go see what Marty's up to." Will shakes
my hand but turns it into a `secret handshake' - palm clutch, thumb grasp,
shoulder knock and fist bump as we separate. I repeat it to make sure I've
got it right. He giggles, about an octave higher than his normal, mature
voice, sounding more like my little sister than my brother.

Marty looks at us as we enter the living area. It's obvious that he can see
the dramatic positive change in Will's face and attitude. He pulls an
uncomprehending face, shrugs then gives me a thumbs-up. "So, you two
lovebirds ready to eat?" he asks sarcastically and grinning broadly.

Will and I nod at each other then turn to Marty and say in unison, "Fuck
off Marty!" then laugh at our new-found camaraderie.

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