Date: Fri, 19 Jul 2013 11:40:47 -0700
From: Rich H <rlhsanclemente@gmail.com>
Subject: When the World Changed Part 16

Here is the latest chapter of this story.  My thanks as always to Flip
for his proofreading assistance (you should check out his work here), and
to those who've been kind enough to write and share their thoughts on the
story so far with me.   My thanks, also, of course, to Nifty itself for
hosting this service in a little corner of the online world.   You (and
that includes me) should all consider a donation to support the site.
Without sounding too much like a public radio pledge drive, but we
obviously use Nifty - we should help it out.

I'll add my usual plug for Seal Rocks, my other Nifty story, also in the
HS section here, with the final chapter posted way back in April 2011
(time flies!).  I hope you enjoy this chapter, and look forward to
hearing feedback, critiques, plaudits, gratuitous insults, or complete
non sequiturs from you all.  Enjoy!


When the World Changed, Part 16


	The ride back to Summerton was glum and silent.  Brady's mother was
visibly upset that he was going back, and the boys had little desire to
return either - their weekend of freedom had been too enjoyable.  A
rainstorm was blowing up, making the prospect of that afternoon's practice
a grim one as well.  They hurried their bags up into their rooms upon
arrival, hoping to finish before the downpour, and Brady said an awkward
goodbye to his mother behind Linsley.  The hallways were oddly quiet - the
boys not on fall sports teams didn't need to be back until after dinner, so
most of the rooms were still empty.  David, of course, wasn't there yet.

	As Brady and Doug trudged toward Geiger for lunch, the skies
opened.  Doug had shown the foresight to bring along an umbrella just in
case, so the two of them huddled together, clutching the tube and running
clumsily for cover.

	Seating was optional, and limited given the small number of boys
back.  Brady and Doug sat with some soccer guys they didn't really know.
The conversation was nice enough, but stilted.  It wasn't helped when
Mr. Taber sat at the head of the table, gracious as always, but with that
cold appraising look he always seemed to have on his face.  "I trust the
open weekend was a good one for you all?"  The boys murmured their assent.
" Mr. Poliakoff, did you visit your parents in South Island?"  Poliakoff, a
short wiry junior who played goalie for the varsity, nodded.  Mr. Taber
returned the nod courteously.  "And I take it your father is well?"
Another nod.  Mr. Taber's smile became slightly fixed.  "Mr, Poiakoff, it
is customary in most circles to respond audibly to polite questions.  May I
at least have that courtesy?"  His tone was politely acid.

	Poliakoff looked up from his plate of what was alleged to be meat
loaf.  "I'm sorry, sir, I - I was - I was thinking, I suppose, not really
paying attention . . . "

	"I'm sure you have a great deal on your mind, Mr. Poliakoff, but
that's no excuse for discourtesy."  He scanned the rest of the table, the
boys all resolutely looking down and appearing to concentrate on their
food.  "Mr. Conover?"  Brady stiffened.  "I presume you had a pleasant
weekend in Cullingstown?"

	Brady looked up and did his best to fix a steady and confident gaze
on Mr. Taber.  "Yes, sir, Doug and I had a good time.  It's, um, it's good
to get back, though."  He could feel Doug, seated next to him, chuckle
slightly at that last line.

	Mr. Taber smiled slightly.  His smile always somehow seemed just a
bit condescending.  "I'm sure you did.  Mr. Taggart, did you enjoy
Cullingstown?"

	Doug swallowed hard before answering.  "Um, yes, sir, it was nice.
We, um, we did a lot of, sort of wandering around."

	Mr. Taber regarded Doug for a long moment.  "Good to hear.  Now,
Mr. Vegosan, what was your weekend like?"  Mr. Taber moved smoothly on to
other boys at the table, and Brady and Doug both let out soft sighs of
relief.

	"Why does that guy give me the creeps?"  Doug muttered as they
walked out of the dining hall.  "That voice, and the welded hair.  It -
it's like he's royalty or something, and we're just shit that he's
tolerating on his shoes ."

	"I know," Brady smiled, remembering his own encounters with Taber.
"He is willing to give it to the McShanes, though, I'll give him that."

	Doug nodded.  "Speaking of them, I didn't see Ian at lunch, did
you?"

	Brady shook his heads.  "I didn't see a lot of people.  I think
practice is gonna be kinda sparse today."

	Doug snorted.  "Practice is gonna be kinda wet, that's what it's
gonna be."

	It was, miserably so.  More boys were there than Brady had expected
from the dining hall - apparently many families had elected to feed their
sons real food for one more meal before consigning hem back to the mercies
of Wilson dining hall fare.  Ian was the only notable absence.
Mr. Glendon, who was as comfortable as anyone could be in that weather,
wearing a thick hooded poncho, pushed them through a fairly awful
conditioning workout, including a long bout pushing the varsity's seven man
sled up the hill behind the gym again and again.  Their footing quickly
vanished into mud, and it took frantic effort to keep the sled from sliding
down the hill and into the lake.  They were soon filthy and exhausted.
Mr., Glendon gave them a break, and most, including Brady, simply dropped
where they were, pulling off their helmets and letting the rain wash the
mud off their reddened faces.

	They moved on to working on plays after that, thankfully.  Evan and
Brady worked more on the quick slant-in pattern .  "That's how we attack
linebacker blitzes," Mr. Glendon explained.  "You both have to recognize it
coming to the line, and agree on a word signal between you to call it right
then and there.  The blitz is what clears the space just behind the line
for the pass, if you're quick enough.  If there's no blitz, Conover gets
his rib cage caved in by the linebacker standing right there, OK?  Conover,
one step and in diagonal to the middle, After you get it, angle as fast as
you can directly downfield. Usually the defensive backs split out wide on
blitzes to cover the receivers one on one, so if you're fast you can split
the whole defense and run forever."  He swept his arm oward the goal line
to emphasize the point.  " Creed, just rise up from under center and throw.
You'll have the backers coming at you fast, so you better throw it quick
and get ready to get knocked on your can."

	Practicing passcatching in such wet conditions was frustrating -
the ball was wet, slippery, and often coated with a thin sheen of mud.
Brady felt like he was trying to grab an eel.  "Concentrate!"  Mr. Glendon
shouted at them both (Evan's control over his passes was as shaky as
Brady's ability to catch them).

	After about half an hour, the two of them began to connect more
consistently.  Brady suddenly felt like he could catch anything, run
anywhere.  The hard rain had soaked him through, but he felt fresh as he
seldom did so far into a practice.  They moved to delayed out patterns,
with Evan running a bootleg.  Alan Black played cornerback against Brady,
but he wasn't tall enough to prevent the passes from connecting time and
time again.  All he could do was hit Brady as hard as he could as soon as
the ball arrived, in the hope of knocking it free.

	At probably 3:30 or so, a cheerful voice called out from behind
them.  "Hello, sir, sorry I'm late."  Brady, having never heard Ian McShane
say much of anything in a cheerful voice, took a moment to realize who it
was.  Ian was grinning obsequiously.  "My father had an important meeting,
so we were delayed coming back.  He asked me to tell you to call him to
verify that."

	Mr. Glendon looked at McShane evenly.  "I'll do that, Ian, thank
you. Now, take ten laps."

	McShane's grin faded.  "Sir?"

	"I don't care what your excuse, or reason, or anything else, was,
you're late.  Your teammates have been working hard for an hour and a half
now.  Time for you to work, too.  Ten laps."

	"Sir, if you -"

	"I don't care, Ian.  Now."

	Mc Shane stared at Mr. Glendon for a long moment, his face bright
red beneath his face mask.  Brady saw him scan the line of his teammates
angrily.  He snapped his chinstrap on and tuned to start running.  "Come
back muddy, McShane!"  Mr. Glendon shouted after him.  "Real, real muddy."

	The rest of the team seemed buoyed by the punishment meted out to
Ian, and the practice suddenly picked up pace.  The plays were crisp now,
the hitting hard and clean.  Doug and Leonard DeNault ,a stocky Italian kid
who played on the defensive line, were working each other over mercilessly,
but laughing after each play.

	McShane returned some time later, muddy as ordered and looking very
winded.  Mr. Glendon nodded to acknowledge his presence, and halted the
drill after the following play.  It was another quick slant, and Brady
noticed that Ian watched the pattern with intense interest and a slight
smile on his face.  "All right, good job.  Five forties and get into the
showers.  Get warm, dry off, and have Jimmy wash all your uniforms for
tomorrow."  The team trudged toward the line to start their wind sprints.
McShane lagged behind.  "You too, McShane."

	"Sir, I just finished -"

	"You just finished about half of what everyone else had to do this
afternoon.  Your team is lining up for wind sprints.  Get in line."

	McShane did, but muttered inaudibly under his breath the whole
time.  Brady noted that he dogged the wind sprints, which pissed him off a
little, but he was in no mood to let it get to him.

	They had lots of time before dinner, so most of the boys lingered
in the hot shower room, soaking in the steam and warmth.  It felt so good
after being out in the driving rain for so long.  The freshman soccer
players joined them soon after, a group notably smaller and more wiry.  The
shower room grew crowded.  Brady was surprised to see Prescott Hills among
the soccer group.  "Hey Pres, I didn't; realize you played soccer."

	"Played?  He's a fucking machine," Mike Niels, a friend of Dunc and
Doug's from the third floor, said.  "He's scoring like a goal a game easy."

	Pres was blushing - he was very pale, and the blush seemed to cover
nearly his entire body.  Brady thought it was cute.  "I'm OK," he said, his
head down.

	"Fuckin' pussy sport," muttered Ian in a stage whisper from the
corner where he was standing beneath a stream of teaming water.  "All you
soccer pansies, you oughta try playing a man's sport sometime."

	"Fuck you too, Ian," Niels retorted.  "I didn't know anybody gave a
shit what you thought."  He was visibly yearning to break Ian's face.

	McShane was up for the challenge as well.  "What'd you say to me,
faggot?  You and your fucking cunt doctor father, you're so up to you neck
in pussy you turned into one when you were like 3.  Try something, ya
fuckin' fairy."

	Brady stepped between them before thinking anything through.  "Come
on, guys, cool it.  This is bullshit here."

	Ian shoved Brady by the shoulder, sending him off balance slightly.
"Get away from me, Jethro.  I may have to come back here but I don't have
to listen to your shit.  He wants me, let him go."

	"Nobody wants anybody, Ian.  Just try to not be such an asshole for
once, willya?"

	Ian raised his right fist for a moment.  Brady tensed.  He could
feel Doug step next to him.  Niels was on his other side, spoiling for a
fight.  Ian looked at them and smiled contemptuously.  "God, what a bunch
of losers," he sneered, stepping back into the water.

	When he turned slightly, Brady saw a cluster of purplish welts on
his right side and back.  Ian caught him looking, turned to put his back
toward the wall, and eyed him angrily.  "Yer lucky I wasn't at practice,
Conover," he said.  "I'd've kicked your ass good."

	Brady shook his head.  "Sure Ian."  He grabbed his towel and walked
away.

	Brady and Doug walked back to Linsley with Niels (each this time
under their own umbrella).  "Is he always like that?"

	Doug laughed.  "That was kind of extreme, even for him.  Sorry,
Mike.  You know the other guys on the team don't think about soccer like
that."

	"I know that," Niels answered.  "I maybe should've just ignored
him."

	Brady snorted.  "Ian isn't easy to ignore.  He'll stay on it until
you react.  I think he enjoys just, like, goading people."

	"I dunno." Niels said, stepping gingerly around a large puddle.
"Somebody's gonna really fuck him up someday."

	Brady took a long breath.  "I think maybe somebody already did."

	Doug glanced at him, puzzled.  "Huh?'"

	Brady stepped closer to them, though no one else was nearby.
"Didn't you see his back?  It was all bruised and stuff, like he got hit
with, I dunno, a belt or something."  He glanced away.  "He - he saw that I
noticed.  That really pissed him off, I think."

	"Jesus," Doug breathed.  "D'you think it was Stud Douggie?  Like
what you told me about them going into the bathroom in Geiger after dinner
the night of our first game, when Ian got kicked out and stuff?"

	"Maybe," Brady said.  He regretted saying anything now, because it
cut too closely to the things David had told him about what else Stud
Douggie did to his brother.  God, those pictures . . .  "Maybe he just, you
know, had some kind of accident."

	"Yeah, right."  Doug clearly didn't buy that theory.

	Brady looked at him.  His dark hair was still damp from the shower,
plastered close to his skull.  His cheeks were ruddy from the practice and
the hot water.  Brady started to smile.  God, he thought.  He's fucking
gorgeous.  "Well, it was just an idea," he protested.  He felt suddenly
giddy.

	Doug started laughing too.  "Yeah, a really dumb idea."  They
started to lose it, doubling over, laughing for no real reason.

	Niels stood watching.  "You guys are weird, you know that?"

	David still wasn't back, so Brady flopped on his bed after putting
"Fresh Cream" on David's turntable.  He sang along to the start of "I Feel
Free" and let his mind wander.  I need to towel my hair off more, he
thought. And stuff the shoes again with newspaper.  I wonder if I can get
away with wearing sneakers to dinner tonight so I can let 'em dry.  Not if
Taber's there. . .  H drifted off for a bit.

	Hey Brady?"  Vic Stenkowski was peeking around the door, looking
nervously.

	"Hey Vic," Brady said, sitting up a bit bleary.  "What's goin' on?"

	Vic's entire face was red.  "I. um, I - I wanted to, like, thank
you.  For helping out, when Ian hit me and stuff.  David too.  Is he here?"
Brady shook his head.  "OK, well, um, maybe I should come back later -"

	   "You don't have to leave, Vic.  Grab a chair, hang out, man.  We
live next to each other and this is the first time you been over here."

	Vic flushed even deeper red, if that was possible, and sat.  He had
a paper bag in his left hand, Brady noticed.  "Thanks, I, uh - well,
anyway, I was up in the city this weekend with my parents, and, um, I got
you guys something"

	Brady grinned.  "Vic, that's so cool, thanks.  You didn't have to
-"

	"No, I did.  I mean, I'm always the goofy kid that guys like Ian
pick on, and - and you guys stood up for me.  That was really cool, to me,
y'know?  Nobody ever did that for me, before . . ."  He reached into the
bag.  "So I got you guys each a set."

	He pulled out three paperback books bound together with twine.  "I,
um, I didn't have any like paper, sorry."  He shrugged with a sheepish
grin, and they both giggled a bit.  "You'll love it, believe me."

	 He handed the package to Brady.  "The Fellowship of the Ring" was
on top, with the odd blue cover and a tree that seemed to be growing some
kind of big eggplant or something.

	Brady held the books reverently.  "Vic, this - I dunno what to say,
man.  Thanks."  He felt himself blushing now.

	Vic noticed it, and the sight seemed to relax him.  ":Cool, so I
got a copy of all three for David, too. It's not like anything major.  I
mean Christ, they're paperbacks, right?"  he grinned sheepishly.  "D'you
think David'll like it?"

	Brady laughed.  "Course he will.  Hang onto it, give 'em to him
yourself."

	Vic beamed.  "I will thanks.  So, Cream, huh?  You like 'em?"

	Brady was the one smiling sheepishly now.  "I don't know a lot
about 'em.  Davey kind of turned me on to them.  He listens to this really
wild stuff a lot."

	"Yeah, I heard the Electric Prunes coming from there last week,
cool stuff.  Y'know, I heard Cream's got another record coming out next
month. It's called 'Disraeli Gears'."

	"Cool, how'd you find that out?"

	"WOR FM.  Don't you listen to it?"

	Brady ducked his head a little.  "Um, my clock radio, it only gets
AM."

	Vic grinned again.  "I got a spare one, you want it?  You gotta
listen to WOR, it's like a world better than WABC and stuff.  It's been
getting a littlemore like AM lately, but it's still got so much good stuff.
And it looks like a lot of the guys from WOR - Scott Muni and all - are
moving to WNEW, so that'll probably be really good, too."  Brady nodded
along with Vic as he talked, pretending to know what these stations and who
these people were.  Of course, he didn't have a clue.

	"WOR is dead," said a voice in the doorway.  David was leaning
there, overcoat dripping, hair plastered down, but smiling.  "It's all
gonna be WNEW now for the good stuff, and WABC for the Top 40 crap."

	David!!!"  Brady had expected to be happy to see him, but the surge
of real emotion he felt was somehow deeper.  He sprang from his bed togive
David a hug.

	David smiled, but held out a warning hand.  "Cool it, my Dad's on
his way up in a sec.  He's in his 'I love Wilson' mood like he always gets,
so be prepared."

	"OK," Brady said, stepping back a respectable distance and allowing
David to slip out of his trenchcoat and hang it up.  "Did your mom come
too?"

	David paused a long second, staring into his closet.  "No.  Not -
not this time."

	Brady thought that a bit odd, but the next moment David's father
swept into the room like a hurricane.  "Hey, Brady, how ya doin'?  Davey,
is this one of your school friends?  Glad to meet you, I'm Dave Tanner -
well, the older Dave Tanner.  Actually, the middle one, still, right Davey,
long as Grandpa holds out!"  He thought that was pretty funny, and turned
from David to Brady and Vic in turn for verification.  David looked pained
in an Oh-my-God-my father-is-a-goon sort of way, while Vic, never the most
gregarious kid even under the best of circumstances, was utterly at a loss.

	Brady felt the sudden gap in the conversation, and realized he
needed to fill it somehow.  He opted for a polite chuckle.  "Great to see
you again sir.  This is Vic Stenkowski, he ;lives next door."

	    Mr. Tanner grinned widely and pumped Vic's hand so hard it
appeared for a second that Vic might lose the arm completely.  "Great to
meet ya, there, Vic!  Great to meet any friend of Davey's!"

	"Yeah, any friend at all," David muttered, turning back to his
closet.

	His father didn't hear that line, or if he did he chose to ignore
it.  Instead, he started intensely questioning Brady and Vic on their year
to date at Wilson - their classes, their activities, the food, the other
boys in the dorm.  Brady found he had to do most of the- talking.  Vic was
overwhelmed.

	Mercifully, it was approaching dinnertime.  David noted this
pointedly, reminding his father that he and Brady had to dress for dinner.
His father nodded and clapped David on the back.  "So you all set, there,
sport?  Don't you, ah, worry about anything.  Not a thing, now, hear me?  I
- we - we'll be back here to see you again real soon.  Brady, you look
after your roommate - I know he's looking after you.  I owe you a couple of
those dinners out, Brady, just like I told you at the start of the
semester.  You count on it, now, OK?  Great to meet you, there, Rick."
Brady and David stifled a giggle; Vic was still too dazed to respond.  He
swept out of the room, booming a hearty hello to Mr. Billips, who had
apparently appeared at the other end of the hall.

	"God, now he'll talk to Billips for like an hour or something,"
David moaned.

	Vic rose slowly to return to his room before remembering his
original errand.  "Um, David?  I, um, I wanted to give you these."  He
handed the Lords of the Rings books to David, who was openly surprised.  "I
just - I was, y'know, glad, that you an' Brady helped me out.  With
McShane, and all.  Grateful, I mean.  I mean - well, anyway, I, um, I got a
set for you and for Brady, too.  Hope you like 'em."  He lifted his arms
for a moment as if to make a gesture, but either decided against it or
realized he didn't have a clue what sort of gesture to make.  He dropped
his arms limply, and, head down, slipped out of the room before David could
reply.

	  Brady grinned at the rare sight of David taken unawares.  "Pretty
cool, huh?  You're a hero and stuff to him."

	David was turning the books over in his hands.  "Yeah, right," he
said softly, with an affected air of casual contempt for the contempt, but
smiling just a little.  "So now we're gonna get sucked into this shit,
huh?"

	"What shit?"

	"This Tolkien stuff, it's like a sick cult, Bray," David laughed.
"It hit campus last year, and all the upperclassmen were reading it like
mad and arguing over it.  The writer's this prof at Oxford or something,
and he does this stuff in his spare time, if you can imagine what a sick
fuck he must be to do shit like that in his spare time!  I heard he used to
be in this like group of other writers - good ones, too, like C.S. Lewis
and stuff? - and he'd read this stuff with magic and elves and dwarves and
shit to them every week, until one week he started reading his newest one,
and somebody said, 'Oh God, another fucking Elf.'"  This line amused David
no end, and he laughed openly for the first time since his arrival.
"Doncha love that?"

	Brady joined in his laughter, even though he still didn't really
understand what the hell David was talking about.  He decided to change the
subject.  "So how was the weekend?  Sorry your Mom couldn't come down."

	David's laughter faded.  "Yeah.  Funny about that, huh?"  He bent
over to heave a suitcase onto his bed.  "You better change, we only got
like fifteen minutes and it's raining like shit out there."

	They changed, and sloshed their way over to Geiger for dinner.
Seating was still optional, but a lot more boys were back, and they sat
with Doug, Dunc, and Evan and swapped weekend stories.  All except David,
who was falling into one of his morose moods Brady recognized it, and tried
to pull him into the conversation to draw him out, but David would have
none of it.

	Bill Fieldstone wandered by.  His face was puffy and discolored,
especially around his left eye.  "Jesus, Bill," Brady exclaimed.  "What the
hell happened?"

	Fieldstone was uncharacteristically terse.  "Got mugged in the city
on Saturday night," he said, shrugging.  "No big deal, OK?"

	David looked at him sharply.  "Where in the city?"

	"Um, lower Manhattan.  It was my fault, out late in a bad area and
all."

	David persisted.  "Where?"

	Bill was flustered.  "O - over by the East River and 14th" Brady
had never seen him even remotely disconcerted before.

	David and he locked eyes for a second or two.  "OK," David said
evenly, looking back down at his plate.  "Just curious.  Tough area around
there, huh?"

	Bill blushed.  "Yeah."  He blinked, which appeared to hurt a
little.  "So Conover, have a good weekend?"

	Brady answered evenly, wondering what the hell had just happened.
He could see Ian and Stud Douggie looking at them from across the room
behind Fieldstone, pointing and smirking.  It took him a moment to tear his
eyes from that and concentrate on answering Bill.

	Mr. Taber paused on his way to a table to examine Fieldstone's
face.  "How did this happen, Mr. Fieldstone?"  He also seemed interested in
the specific part of the city where he'd been mugged, and when Fieldstone
told him, Mr. Taber's eyes flared for a moment.  "Not an area to frequent
alone. Unfortunately, you learned that the hard way.  I'm glad you're
otherwise unhurt, correct?"

	"Yes, sir, thank you, I'm fine," Bill replied evenly.  Bill moved
on, and for a moment Mr. Taber's eyes seemed to meet David's, and some
understanding passed between them.

	Brady waited until they were back in the room, wadding newspaper
into their dress shoes, to ask.  "OK, what was the deal with Fieldstone?"

	David snorted.  "He was in the meat packing district, man, don't
you know that?  Are you that dumb?"

	Brady was at once embarrassed (he really was that dumb, of course -
he had no idea what the meat packing district was) and angry.  "What the
hell do I know about New York City, Davey, I've been there like twice to go
to the World's Fair with my brothers."

	David shook his head and sat on his bed.  "OK.  The meat packing
district is this industrial area on the East Side, just north of Greenwich
Village. Guys - queers - they go up there and meet up with other
queers. They go into these empty truck trailers and, you know, fuck and
all.  And other guys go looking for them to beat the shit outta them for
being queer."

	Brady swallowed.  "You think that's what Fieldstone was doing?"

	David curled his lip a bit.  "He sure knew why I was asking, didn't
he?  Taber got it, too!  You notice?"

	Brady nodded.  David picked up a glass from his desk.  Brady
realized with a start that he hadn't washed it.  It had residue of the
Southern Comfort and Coke that Fieldstone had brought by.  "Shit!"  he
exclaimed, a bit too agitatedly, as he leapt up and grabbed the glass from
David.

	David was surprised.  "The hell, what's that about?"

	Brady felt the color rise in his cheeks.  "I, uh - last week, after
you left, I - I had a , um, a Coke, and - and I used that glass.  I forgot
to like wash it.  That's all."  He tried to avoid David's searching gaze.
"Sorry to be such a spazz about it."

	"No problem,' David answered, still eying Brady curiously.  "I can
wash it."

	"No!  It - I mean, like, I got it dirty.  I -I'll wash it.  Hang
on, OK?"

	Brady could feel David's appraising eyes on him as he scuttled to
the bathroom.


	Study hall that night, again, was fairly low key.  There were few
assignments due from over the long weekend, so the boys just hung out in
their rooms.  David closed their door and put some Miles Davis on at a low
volume.  "I see you were playing the Cream record," he said to Brady.  "Did
you clean it before you started?  I wanna keep these things as free from
pops and shit as I can."

	"I did just like you showed me, relax," Brady said with a grin.

	"Good.  After that glass, I had to wonder."

	Brady had no snappy comeback to that dig, so he just turned back to
his desk and buried his face in his Penguin edition of "Julius Caesar."

	Doug and Dunc pushed into the room just as study hall was formally
ending (though the boys had been quietly ignoring it for some time).  Dunc
had a T shirt on with odd blotchy patterns of several gaudy intermixed
colors.  "It's tie-dyed," he explained.  "It's big with all the hippie
types out in San Francisco and stuff."

	"Looks like somebody puked paint," David responded.  He laughed at
Dunc's crestfallen look.  "C'mon, I'm just shittin' you. "

	Dunc smiled and cocked his head.  "Is that Davis?  Which album?"

	David nodded.  "The first quintet one.  You gotta recognize
Coltrane there."

	"Yeah, I thought so," Dunc replied.  He and David started into a
long discussion about Davis, Coltrane, Herbie Hancock, and various other
people Brady had never heard of.  He glanced, feeling a bit uncomfortable,
at Doug, who had a rueful smile.  He shrugged, and they both started
giggling.

	"Relax," Doug whispered as he flopped down on Brady's bed to sit
next to him, "I don't know who the fuck they're talking about either."

	Brady felt himself blushing a bit.  "So how was study hall?"  he
asked, glancing away to hide the color in his cheeks.

	"Totally stupid," Doug answered.  "I got nothing for tomorrow, so
Dunc and I just sat around and bullshitted."  He leaned in.  "Dunc told me
he smoked grass this weekend with his older brother."

	"He did?  Wow!!!"  Brady was surprised and a bit scandalized by
this.  He glanced over at Dunc, who remained in an animated conversation
with David about Miles Davis' various session players, with a worried look.
"Is - is he OK?"

	Doug started giggling again, leaning back against the wall. "Course
he is.  You don't like lose your mind because you smoke a little dope,
man."

	"B- but is he, like addicted now?  Or in danger of that?  I just -"

	"You don't get addicted to grass.  That's like heroin and shit.
Dope isn't like that."

	Brady grinned.  ""Big expert, huh?"

	Doug laughed.  "Yeah, I smoke it all the time, right?  I just read,
that's all.  The like science is pretty easy to find, and all the bullshit
they put on the news about it is just - well, it's bullshit, you know?"

	Brady nodded.  "Like all the stuff about having sex," he said
without thinking.  The color rose again in his cheeks.  "I - I mean, how,
you know, knocking up a girl, it's so bad, and that it'll like happen if
you do anything - grab a tit or whatever."  The boys had been subjected to
a particularly execrable "health" movie the week before open weekend,
called "Phoebe," in which the perils of heavy petting and sex with girls
were stressed in frankly laughable fashion.

	Doug started laughing loudly.  "'Oh, Phoebe, fuck my eyes out!!!'"
he squealed in a loud falsetto.  He lunged at Brady and started tickling
him.  Brady fell back, trying to protect himself with little apparent
success, and David and Dunc joined in, adding their own pleading obscene
requests for Phoebe to the din.

	Cureton and Luce came in to upbraid them for the noise.  "If
Billips can hear it in his apartment bad enough for him to tell us to come
down on you guys, it's too damn loud," Bart said calmly.  Cureton looked
like he wanted to say more, but contented himself with standing
disapprovingly in the doorway, arms folded in a manner that reminded Brady
of Billips - or, for that matter, McShane.  The boys apologized profusely,
not wanting to get stung first night back, and tried to compose themselves.
No sooner had the Prefects left, however, than the giggles resumed, this
time muffled (albeit poorly).

	After lights out, Brady felt ready to slip into peaceful dreams,
until David's calm voice broke the silence.  "So who brought you what to
drink last Thursday night?"

	"Huh?"  Brady's stomach lurched.  "Wh - whaddya mean, I -"

	"Can it, Conover, you're a shitty liar.  Just tell me what the
hell's going on, OK?"

	Brady swallowed audibly in the darkness.  David persisted.  "Did
you and Taggart -"

	"No!!!  God, no!  It - it was Fieldstone, OK?  He just came by and
- "

	"And he brought what, - a fifth of Southern Comfort, right?  Jesus
. . . "

	 "How did you know that?"

	David snorted.  "How the hell do you think?"  he sighed.  "So what
else happened?"

	"Nothing!  Really!  I mean, well I was really drunk, and I passed
out and all - "

	"Yeah?"

	Brady paused a long moment, feeling the shame e wash over him.
"Nothing happened, OK?  He - he like got a little, you know, friendly, and
- and I stopped him.  That's all."

	"How did he 'get friendly'?"

	Brady was starting to get angry.  "Come on, Davey, that's enough,
man.  It wasn't any big deal, OK?"

	"If it's Fieldstone it's a big deal.  I keep telling you, he's a
big shot around here.  Christ, you oughtta know that by now."  His voice
lowered, "And - and I told you about him, and what he tried with me."  He
paused a second or two, then snarled angrily, "Show some common fuckin'
sense!"

	"All right, I get it, gimme a break!"  Brady yelled, not much
caring if Cureton heard him and stung him for it.  He was embarrassed and
felt put upon at the same time.  I handled it, dammit, leave me alone, he
thought.  It's over.

	David sighed.  "Christ, I leave you alone for one fucking night and
you're getting molested."

	"I didn't get fucking molested, OK?"  Brady shouted.  "Just - just
leave it alone.  Please."

	Several seconds passed.  "OK," David said quietly.  "Let me know
when you want to talk about it."

	"Nothing to talk about.  I'm not gonna want to."

	. "Yes you are.  You will.  You don't see it, but it's eating at
you, and that's only gonna get worse, OK?  Sooner or later, you're gonna
want to talk about it.  You - you'll need to.  And that's fine.  Just let
me know."

	Brady had to giggle.  "Such a fucking shrink.  I'm lying down and
everything, too."

	They both began to laugh.  Brady heard David roll over.  "What am I
gonna do with you, Conover?  Yer gonna get eaten alive at some point."


	Brady sighed, starting to feel sleepy.  "It's OK, Davey, it really
is.  He didn't like fuck me or anything, and he's not gonna."  A pause.
"Besides, I never wanna drink that shit again, it was awful."

	David laughed.  "Isn't it the worst?  I don't know how he can
stomach it.  And Janis Joplin like guzzles it."

	"Yeah, well look at her, she looks like shit."

	More laughter.  "No wonder she sings so like ragged."

	David sighed again, and Brady heard him roll over and tuck in.
"OK, talk more later.  Gotta crash now."

	Brady suddenly remembered he hadn't asked David about his weekend.
"Hey, did you have a good weekend with your mom and dad?"

	Brady heard more shuffling.  "With my dad.  My mom . . . "  David
sighed deeply.  "My mom is out in LA.  She's, um, rediscovering herself, or
something.."

	Brady swallowed hard, sorry he'd broached the subject "Oh.  OK.
Um, sorry, I -"

	Forget it," David said curtly.  "She does this sort of crap at
least once a year.  She decides she's 'being smothered in her domestic
life' - her words - and she goes off to some place to 'allow herself to
blossom' for a few weeks."  Brady faintly saw him sit up in the dark.
"It's such bullshit.  She just doesn't want to be a mother.  I heard her
last year, when I was packing to come here for eighth grade, talking to my
dad, and she was going on and on about how liberating shoving me off to
boarding school was gonna be."  He snorted.  "Some maternal instinct, huh?"

	Brady had no idea what to say.  "I - but, but your dad, what about
him?"

	Another snort.  "My dad's great.  He's understanding," he added,
his tone a bit disgusted.  "He understands her, he understands me, he
understands everybody.  He just accepts it all and lets it happen.  He like
supports her, just like he did with me, no matter what's going on or what
selfish crap she pulls.  I know it's part of this whole shrink thing he
does, to be sympathetic and withhold judgment on people and all that kind
of stuff, he tells me that all the time.  But sometimes - sometimes I just
wish he'd care enough, about something, to put his Goddam foot down."  He
paused.  "That's why I was so freaked when he swore, when he was talking
about the doctors who think being queer is like sick and all.  It was as,
like, passionate, as I'd ever seen him, about anything."  Brady heard him
sniffle a bit.  "He just accepts it all - the stuff with my mom.  And - and
he acts like it's all for the best and crap.  It's not for the best, it's
fucked up, y'know?  I mean she's my mother, fer Chrissake.  And - and she
won't hang around long enough to see me for a three day weekend after not
seeing me for a month?  She'd rather like go to LA and see some fucking
guru who looks like a bum and blabs about finding your chi or something.
I'd like to shove his chi up his fuckin' froggy ass."

	Brady felt the need to say something comforting.  "Davey, I - I'm
sure - I mean I know your mom must, like, love you and all.  She's just,
y'know, confused, and like uncertain -"

	"I'm her fucking son!  Is she uncertain about that?"  Brady heard
him roll angrily up in his covers.  The wind whistled loudly through the
gaps in the windowpane Brady hadn't been able to seal.  "Fucking cold,"
David muttered.

	Brady lay staring, unable to think of anything to say.  "So," David
resumed after a couple of uncomfortable minutes, "How was your weekend with
Taggart?"

	'It - it was fine, really.  Quiet, mostly.  Nothing, you know,
major.  Or anything."  He had no intention of recounting any more than he
had to.

	David seemed to ponder this for a few seconds.  "OK, so nothing
happened with Doug.  But something did.  I can tell.  You gonna tell me or
do I just wait for the confessional some night?"

	"It's nothing, really!  It was just, you know, awkward.  We, um, we
met Kenny.  Couple of times."

	David rolled over again, Brady knew he was facing him now.  "Did he
say anything?"

	"No, nothing, nothing like that.  Um, he's kind of bugging me to
come back home."

	"To be with him?"

	Brady swallowed.  "Yeah, I guess."

	David paused a bit.  "I thought he was with those like greaser guys
we saw him with when we biked over there."

	"He, uh, he is, mostly, I guess.  B -but I don't think he really,
like, wants to be.  It's just sort of who he's fallen in with, you know?"

	David chuckled.  "So what'd he do, blow you in a janitor's closet
or something?"  Brady stiffened, he caught his breath instinctively "Bray?
Br - holy shit, really???"  He could hear David straighten up, giggling a
bit.  "Come on, man you gotta tell me this shit!"

	Brady wanted to do anything but tell him what had happened, but he
knew he was stuck.  H described the entire weekend - the confrontation with
Mr. Jocko,. the football game, slipping into the cleaning closet with
Kenny, his guilt afterwards, and Kenny's visit that morning.  He omitted
his dreams, feeling they were too personal entirely to share even with
David.

	David let him talk.  Brady saw his silhouette in the dark, seated
on the edge of his bed, covers wrapped around him against the cold.  When
Brady at last fell silent, David sighed.  "So I guess Doug doesn't know
about any of this?"

	"Jesus, no, Davey!!!  I could never tell him stuff like that!  He'd
- he'd think I was some kind of pervert or something.  I can't."

	You can't tell him the truth?"

	Brady shifted uncomfortably.  "That's not what I meant," he
protested.  "It's just, I dunno, this - this is personal and all, and -"

	"And it's not personal between you and him already?"

	Brady sighed.  "Not that personal.  I mean it's not like he's
confiding deep dark secrets and shit to me, either."

	"Think he wants to?  Or would be willing to, if you asked?"

	Brady was at a loss.  "I dunno, geez.  How can I tell that?  It -
we're like friends, Davey, we're not doing the shrink thing with each
other."  "Like you do," he was tempted to add, but that seemed gratuitously
cruel.

	"Sorry," David said after a moment.  "I get into the habit when I'm
with my dad, he does this shit to me all the time.  And he basically
predicted you'd have some Goddam dumb thing like this happen to you - well,
happen twice as it turns out.  Fieldstone, then Kenny."

	Brady nodded, acknowledging how stupid he'd been on both occasions,
before the implications of what David had said sank in.  "Wait a minute-
did you like tell your dad?  What I told you and all?  He knows???"

	"Conover, he's a shrink.  You ever have somebody like that ask you
stuff?  I couldn't hide that from him if I tried."

	"Oh Jesus."  Brady felt like throwing up.  Now everyone would know,
they'd all know, he'd be pointed at and branded and driven out.  His fear
throttled the anger he felt over the betrayal.

	"Bray," David's voice was soft and soothing now, "he's OK.  My
dad's cool with it all.  It's his job to be, right?  And to never tell
anybody what he hears.  Not even the cops or anything, OK?  You gotta relax
a little."

	"I just – I mean Christ, that wasn't for you to tell, Davey.  I
trusted you and all.  I don't want people knowing how fucked up I am -"

	"You're not fucked up, OK?  You got to get that shit out of your
head.  You think you're fucked up?  Yeah, you are, but it's because you
think that.  Not because of what you feel, OK? "

	"I'm sorry," Brady muttered.  He disliked it when David became
parental with him, and even more so when the point he was making seemed so
right.

	"There goes the 'sorry' shit again,' David said with an easy laugh.
"God you're predictable, you say that so much."

	Brady started to smile as well.  "And you end every other sentence
with 'OK.'  OK?"

	"OK," David answered, and they started giggling.  Brady saw David
lie back down and wrap himself back up in his bedclothes.  A few minutes
passed.  "So, David piped up unexpectedly, "did you like it?"

	"Huh?  Like what?"  Brady was far along enough toward sleeping that
he was having trouble processing the question.

	David chuckled.  "Getting' your dick sucked.  The blow job.  Did
you like it?"

	"Oh.  Oh, that."  Brady felt his cheeks reddening.  "Um, yeah, I
mean sure, how – how could you, y'know, not like that?"  He couldn't
help giggling a bit, guiltily.  "It was - I mean, how could you not, you
know, like it?  It was like - I, um, I kind of lost it really fast."

	David laughed again.  "Yeah ,that happens.  Hope you weren't as
loud as you are when you jerk off, you'd've gotten caught for sure."

	"I'm not loud, Jesus," Brady protested.  The memory of what Kenny
had done had him thickening quickly.

	"Like hell you're not."  They fell back into silence, and Brady's
hand strayed toward his crotch.  "My dad thinks McShane's gonna pull
something soon," David added.  "He's been on Leeds about them both, and
Leeds would love to get rid of them except he doesn't want to upset the
gravy train.  Their dad's money.  He needs a reason, and they're so pissed
off about anybody holding them to account and all that they're likely to
something just out of spite.  That, and to make their dad happy - show him
how tough they are and all that shit.  ."  He took a deep breath "So you
gotta like be careful, OK?"

	"OK," Brady said, ignoring the use of the term he'd just teased
David about.  A vague rush of fear and adrenaline ran through him.  What
could they do to him, anyway?  He fell silent, mulling the question over,
and fell suddenly into an uneasy sleep, his hand still idly pushed part way
into his underwear.