Date: Tue, 14 Jan 2014 15:35:20 -0800
From: Rich H <rlhsanclemente@gmail.com>
Subject: When the World Changed Part 20

When the World Changed, Part 20

	That afternoon, after classes ended, was the longest and dreariest
of Brady's life.  The clouds lowered on the campus, not raining, but
emitting a constant chilly mist that seemed to seep into everything, inside
or out.  Mr.  Glendon, though happy to see him appear at practice, firmly
sent him away.  "You don't need to aggravate anything, Conover.  Go take it
easy for a few days."  The walk back to the campus, alone and in street
clothes, across the wide fields, hearing the muffled noises of the various
tram practices around him, was like a death march.

	He threw himself onto his bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to
sort out his thoughts.  The movement hurt, but he didn't care.  He turned
Doug's "Love you, man" over and over in his head.  It couldn't mean he
loved him, not like Brady knew he loved Doug.  Could it?  It was just
another general expression of their friendship (wasn't it?)  - a friendship
that, though precious to Brady beyond words, was also agonizingly
incomplete.  He didn't want to be Doug's friend.  Not just his friend,
anyway.  He wanted to be his lover, his other half, his companion, his
completion, his life, his dog, his everything.  The gap between what Doug
felt and what Brady felt was yawning wider every day, and Brady's sense of
loss and hopelessness grew with it.

	His fears of the DC hearing bubbled amid these thoughts.
Mr. McShane was going to be there?  What ugly crap would he pull?  Threaten
to sue the school, or withdraw some big gift that might make the whole
place go under?  As much as he understood that David had been forced, and
probably not easily or without really suffering serious pain, to give Stud
Douggie the pictures, he wished that David had held out.  I mean I would
have, he thought - I think, anyway.  He wondered how awful it would have
been if Douggie had gone through with it and put it in him - the pain, the
shame, the horrible bleeding he'd seen that David had suffered.  A dark
corner of his soul wondered if he would have liked it, in some way, and
that notion shamed him even more.  After all, I am a faggot, that's for
sure.  That's my fate, to be violated and humiliated like that by some
nasty ugly guy in some filthy place like the meat trucks where Bill had
been assaulted.

	That turned him to consider Fieldstone.  Why was he coming on to
him?  Did he really want to fool around with him?  Did he want Bill to do
it?  Could he afford to reject him - for his own sake, for David's?  And
how could he have his feelings for Doug if he was humping Fieldstone's leg
in an empty classroom?  God, I'm so fucking sick . . .

	David was stronger.  He had recognized this subconsciously for a
while, but now he saw it clearly.  He could handle it all - assholes like
the McShanes, being a faggot, the day to day crap at school, his parents
being messed up (in what way Brady couldn't quite understand, but the fact
was clear enough).  Not to mention what had just happened to him.  He could
never be as strong as David, he knew.  He was weak, and scared of the
world, not to mention of himself.  A total loser.  He pressed the hells of
his hands into his eyes and drifted miserably off.

	He woke to hear David sniffling.  He was on his side, facing the
wall and away from the rest of the room.  David was crying, that was for
sure, but there was something else in the room that kept him from turning
to face his roommate.  He listened, keeping very still.

	After several seconds, he heard, "It's all right, David, you didn't
do anything wrong.  You're a victim in all this.  None of this is your
fault."  David's father's voice

	A loud sniffle.  "You think that helps?  I got, I got hurt, Dad - "

	"David, you were raped.  There's no other word for it.  I'm sorry,
but we both need to face that squarely."

	"Why the fuck do I always have to face this shit squarely?"  David
wailed, and he cried again for a couple of minutes.  "I don't wanna be like
this, Daddy, I don't.  I want to be, like, happy, and have fun, and friends
-"

	"Sounds to me like you have some good friends now."  Brady heard
Mr.  Tanner's jacket crinkle softly as he gestured with one arm.

	David sighed.  "Brady.  He's so sweet, and he cares a lot.  He's so
dumb about it all, though, and he's got his own crap to deal with."

	"We all have our own crap to deal with," his father answered.  "You
think you're unique in that?  Or Brady, for that matter?"

	"Ssshh, don't wake him up," David scolded.  "I don't wanna run from
this, Dad, I really don't.  But staying here - I dunno if I can face it
all, day after day."

	"Your friends covered pretty well for you, it sounds like."

	"Yeah, and how long do you think a bullshit story like that'll hold
up?  I mean c'mon, Dad, it's nuts.  Me beating up Stud Douggie?  I'm lucky
I still have any teeth."

	"You better, we spent a lot on those braces."

	David snorted.  "Will you stop trying to make this all seem like
it's OK and not serious?"

	"I'm not doing anything like that.  It's not OK, and it is serious.
But it's something in life that happens.  Bad things happen.  And they're
seldom our own fault, or at least entirely our own fault.  So what do we do
when they do happen - crawl off and hide, or deal with it and move on?
David, the whole world's not big enough for you to hide from this.  You
don't like it, and I know it's awful, and I'd do anything to help you past
what's happened.  I'd give - I'd give anything.  But you have to confront
it, address it, and then move on.  If you hide from it, you'll just wind up
confronting it again - maybe in a month, or a year, or twenty years - and
by then it'll be so big and awful a monster there inside your head that
you'll never be able to deal with it.  I don't want you to accept it as
normal or OK, but to face it squarely.  Don't let it eat you up, or control
you.  And if you don't face it now, it'll do all that, and more."

	"I've spoken to Leeds, and Storeman, and Mr. Billips -" David
snorted again, "Come on, now, you have no idea how upset he is over what
happened.  It's probably going to get him fired, for one thing, and beyond
that he's horrified that something like this could happen at all, much less
in his hall.  He's tremendously guilty, David.  He cried his fair share
talking to me earlier this afternoon."

	"Billips???"

	"Surprised?"

	"Well, I mean . . .  It's just - I never thought -"

	"You think you were the only person traumatized last night?  That
prefect, Billips, Mr. Frazier - and of course Brady.  I have a feeling from
what I've heard that Ian McShane is, too."


	"Yeah right."
	"You'd be surprised, David."

	"Ian's just scared that I'll say something about the pictures, and
what I saw."  He sighed.  "Like I can do that.  I don't have the Goddam
pictures any more.  If I say anything about 'em they'll all think I'm nuts
or out to just like smear them or something."

	David's father sighed.  "Just tell the truth, David.  Just confront
it all, and confront them.  You'll do fine, OK?"  The sound of them
embracing, and of David crying softly again, filled the room.

	"They'll say I made it all up, Dad," David was sniffling, his voice
muffled.  "Without them I can't show any reason why they'd do this to me."

	"It'll be all right, David, if that comes up.  Just tell the
truth."

	David sighed.  "The truth is so much bullshit right now, Dad."

	There was a loud knock, which startled Brady.  He jerked upright,
causing a sudden flash of pain.  He let out a loud grunt and fell back onto
his bed, which only caused another stab.  He saw David move to answer the
door from the corner of his eye, as David's father stepped over to his bed.

	"You OK there Brady?"

	"Yes, sir," he said through gritted teeth.

	"Sorry that woke you."

	"Oh, um, it - it's OK, I shouldn't sleep now anyway."

	David's father glanced up, with Brady's eyes following.
Mr. Billips stood in the doorway, looking extremely uncomfortable.  He
clasped his hands behind his back, formally.  "I, um, I needed to tell
David, and Brady, that the DC hearing will take place tonight at 7:30 in
Dr. Leeds' office.  Mr. Tanner, you of course are also invited."  He turned
quickly and left at a half trot.

	David turned from the door to face Brady.  "So, you heard?"

	"Yeah."  He felt a bit guilty at having eavesdropped, and found it
embarrassing to make eye contact with David.  "Uh, well Taber, he said it'd
be tonight."

	"Right.  So did Storeman, to me."

	Brady tried to roll out of bed without causing himself any more
pain.  It was a slow and careful process.  "Well, I - I guess it's better
to get it over with, you know?"

	"Right," David said.  "Can't wait."

	Brady glanced nervously at David, then his father.  "I, uh, I
suppose I should head out here, give you guys some time and all."

	"I'd like you to stay, for a little bit at least, Brady," David's
father said with a warm smile.  Brady felt comforted by that smile, but
also a bit nervous, given what David's father apparently knew about him.
"I'd like to hear how you're doing," David's father added, and Brady's
trepidation rose.

	"Dad, he doesn't need you to play shrink with him.  Not now, OK?"

	David's father chuckled.  "If David had his way, I'd never 'play
shrink' with anybody.  It embarrasses him a bit, I think."  "
	"Dad, please - "

	"But I just want to tell you, Brady, that I'm very grateful to you
for being such a good friend to David.  I know you have your own rough
patches.  That's actually not so unusual at a place like this.  It's not
easy leaving home at your age and being thrown into all this craziness.
And," he paused, a tolerant smile playing about his lips, "I understand
you've been trying to sort some things out for yourself."

	Brady's cheeks reddened.  "I, uh, I - I really wish David hadn't -"

	"Don't blame him.  Blame me.  I can be, well, persistent, when I
want to be -" David snorted at this comment, "And I have some experience in
helping young people address these sorts of things."

	"Jesus, Dad, , . . . " David groaned.

	David's father smiled at his son, then turned back to Brady.  "Is
this making you too uncomfortable?"

	"I - well, yeah, sort of.  I mean, it - it's private, and all.  I
don't - I'm really not -"

	"No, you're not.  I know."  Did he?  Did he really?  "And as for
being uncomfortable, is that because you're worried I might tell someone?"

	Brady couldn't keep eye contact.  "Yes," he whispered.  "It's - I,
I'm ashamed."

	"Don't be.  And as for my telling anyone else, ever, well, do you
know that what you tell a psychiatrist is just as sacred as what you tell a
priest or a lawyer?  If you tell me something when I'm acting as your
psychiatrist, I can't tell anybody.  Ever.  Not even if they put me in
jail.  No one else knows the things people tell me.  So the solution for
you is pretty easy.  Just tell me that I'm acting as your psychiatrist, and
my lips are sealed."  He smiled again.

	It all seemed so easy and reasonable, yet Brady held back.  The
idea of telling anyone everything - what he felt, how he thought - was the
scariest thing he could imagine.  No one knew any of that.  If he told,
David's father would realize how sick and fucked up he was.  He'd have to
tell somebody about it all - Leeds, or his mom -and then Brady knew they'd
put him in a nut house or something.  He felt like he belonged in one
enough already.  He didn't need to make it come true.

	"You already almost lost it once, son," David's father said
quietly.  His face now was grave with concern.  "I know about the roof."
Brady looked up wildly, embarrassed, angry, ashamed, frightened.  "You
can't bottle it all up.  Next time David will sleep sounder, and you'll
jump, or fall.  Doesn't really make any difference which it turns out to
be, does it?"  Brady shook his head microscopically.  "Please let me help
prevent that, OK?"

	Brady wanted to bury his face in his hands, to melt into the wall
and vanish.  He was laid bare, as if before the whole world.  "Bray," David
said, "you do need it, man.  It'll be good for you."

	Brady looked at David, blinking rapidly to keep his eyes clear.
"But you keep saying how much you hate it."  He regretted saying it as soon
as he did so - he wondered if David's father would be mad.

	Instead, David's father laughed, and David himself grinned.  "Yeah,
I do, cuz it's my Dad.  Fer Chrrissake, I don't wanna tell all this stuff
to my dad!  Imagine you telling your mom, or your brothers."  Brady nodded
; that made sense.  "Dad's not a personal relation to you, so it'll
actually be better for you.  Better than it is for me anyway."

	"Is it so bad that I'm concerned with you?  About you?"  David's
father was amused, but clearly a bit put off as well as he looked at his
son.

	"You're my dad," David answered with a raised voice.  "I don't
wanna get quizzed by you on what I fantasize about when I jerk off, OK?"

	"Do you want me to have one of my friends take the therapist role?"

	"No!!!"  David shouted.  "I don't want it to have anything to do
with you, OK?  I just wanna be left alone, and if I need to talk to
somebody let me do it myself.  I do know how to judge if a shrink's good,
you know.  I got trained at that."

	David's father started to answer, but checked himself.  "All right
we can have this discussion another time."  He turned back to Brady.  "For
now, anyway, Brady: do you want me to listen, to whatever you feel
comfortable telling me?"

	Putting it that way made it better.  He could control what he told
and held back.  Besides, it'd get the guy to stop bugging him.  "OK," Brady
said quietly.

	David's father leaned back, beaming.  "There, see?  Not so hard at
all.  Now I can't tell anybody.  Problem solved!"

	Another knock at the door startled Brady.  He stood quickly, and
was met by pain both from his ribs and from his butt here he'd been hit.
He wondered idly if he was bleeding again.  He opened the door as
Mr. Billips started knocking again, resulting in Mr. Billips nearly
tumbling into the room.

	"Conover," Mr. Billips said, stepping into the room and closing the
door behind him, "your mother is in my apartment.  She wants to see you."
He was clearly nervous about this development.  Brady felt a rush of fear.
"Dean Storeman told her that you'd been hurt at practice, and that there'd
been a slight, well, altercation, with another boy.  He didn't go into
anything more specific, or about any of the, the other things, that have
happened."  He nodded, cheeks flushed, toward David.  "I, I think it's safe
to say that the entire School would appreciate some discretion on your part
when you talk to her."

	"So don't tell about David?"  Brady asked, suddenly angry.  The
bastards, they're going to cover it up.

	Mr. Billips seemed to wither under Brady's angry stare.  "I - I
think it's reasonable to say that David was beaten up, and that you went to
defend him.  And, and that the faculty intervened before anything
happened."

	"So about half the truth?"  Brady snapped.

	"Bray, I don't want to broadcast this, you know?"  David
interjected.  "I mean it's not any different from what kids are saying
around here, right?"

	Brady dropped his eyes to the floor, deflated.  "I guess," he
whispered.  "Just one more lie to talk about with my shrink, I guess,
right?"

	David's father smiled ruefully.  "Think of it as a defense
mechanism, Brady, We all use it."

	Brady's mother was pale, standing with her back to the door,
staring out the window.  She turned when Brady stepped into the room.
There was an uncomfortable few seconds of silence.

	"Uh, hi, Mom."

	He face twisted slightly, and she was embracing him an instant
later, her hand stroking his hair.  "Oh doll baby, are you all right?  What
happened to you?"

	She was hugging him so tightly around his chest that it was
hurting, but he didn't want to show it.  He pulled back, smiling as best he
could, and shrugged.  "I'm fine.  I just got, you know, hit.  And it
cracked a couple pf ribes.  It's not a big deal, I'm gonna be fine."  Her
face showed no relief.  "Do they have to operate, or put you in a cast or
anything like that?"

	"No, of course not, Mom.  It's not even really broken.  I -" he
tried to remember what Dr. Fishbein had told him "- it's like, the ribs,
they move, when you breathe and all, so even a little crack or anything
like that can hurt.  So I just have these Ace bandage things I wrap myself
up in.  No big deal."  He decided to try a little humor.  "David says he's
wrapping me up like King Tut when he helps me out."

	His mother allowed herself a small smile at that, while reaching
gingerly to touch his right side.  She felt the bandages.  "You didn't get
cut?"

	"No, Mom, I just got hit.  The guy's helmet came in under my arm
while I was reaching up.  And - and I got mad at him, for doing that.
That's all, OK?"  He omitted any fuller description of the cheap shot.  "It
can happen.  Trent'll tell you that."

	She frowned.  "This is the part of you three playing football I
hate," she sighed.  "The getting hurt."

	"It's really not a big deal, Mom."

	"Your brothers used to tell me the same thing," she said with
another sigh.  She stepped back and sat on a desk chair.  She made a small
show of searching her purse for a Kleenez.  "Well, your hall teacher here -
Mr. Billips - says you'll be fine, and so did Mr. Leeds."

	"Dr. Leeds," Brady corrected her without thinking. Wait, he thought
- she spoke to Leeds?

	"Doctor.  Sorry.  He's not a doctor doctor, so it seems a bit
silly, doesn't it?"

	Brady had never thought about it that way.  "I - uh, well, it, it's
just, I guess, a term of respect and all.  You know.  I mean he's
Headmaster, right?"

	His mother was quietly wiping her nose.  "I suppose," she said.
"How is David?  And how is Doug?  It was so nice to have him last weekend."

	Jesus, Brady thought, last weekend.  An eon ago.  "They - they're
both fine. David -" he realized he shouldn't be mentioning that David's
father was down the hall; it might raise a lot of ugly issues.  "David, um,
he's OK.  Doug is out at practice.  In the rain.  I bet he's soaked by
now."  He hoped he could steer things that way.  "Was the drive over bad?"

	They spoke for several more minutes, each carefully edging around
their respective fears.  It was the oddest conversation Brady had ever had
with her.  He was used to being so easy and open when he talked to her, but
now secrets upon secrets lurked just behind every comment or casual
reference.  It felt exhausting.  His side began to throb, and his buttocks
as well.  He was wincing as he spoke, without realizing it.

	"Oh, doll baby, I hate to see you hurting like this," she whispered
uin a shaky voice.  "You must be so tired."

	She pegged, he realized.  He was drained.  "I'm OK, Mom," he
mumbled, trying to keep his composure.  "I - I'll sleep good tonight -
better anyway - and, and it'll be fine.  I'll be fine, OK?"

	She stood, her eyes shiny but her expression firm.  "Boys.  I
always have to deal with boys."  She hugged him gently, her hand straying
through his hair, then stepped back.  "I have a whole bag of Tastykakes in
the car.  Do you want to help me bring them in?"  Her smile was warm, but
Brady knew it was just a fa‡ade.

	"Sure," he answered.  The fa‡ade was just what he wanted right
then.  Keep it superficial.  "You're making me the most popular guy
around!"

	David and his father were gone when he got back to his room with
the bag of Tastykakes.  He set it on his desk, pulled out a package of
cream filled cupcakes and sat stiffly , savoring the drools of icing that
ran down the sides before biting into the cakes themselves.  Only way to
eat Tastykakes, he thought.  My most hallowed tradition.

	It was darkening as he walked alone to dinner.  The other guys on
the team, he knew, would come straight from the gym after showering.  He
flopped down onto a huge couch of dark red leather in the foyer,, trying to
find a comfortable position, and closed his eyes.  The TV in the Fireplace
Room toward the back, where Edgar Bevins' plaque hung on a side wall along
with the names of all the team captains carved into the wood paneling, was
droning on with a newscast.  "In the central highlands of South Viet Nam,
today, US forces carried out a series of lightning air and ground strikes
aimed at disrupting traffic along the Ho Chi Minh Trail," Walter Cronkite
was intoning.  "Casualties were said to be light, and official reports
estimated that over a thousand Viet Cong had been killed or taken prisoner.
General William Westmoreland issued a statement claiming that such
operations held the promise of breaking resistance to the South Vietnamese
government 'within weeks or months', so long as sufficient pressure could
be consistently applied."

	Central highlands, Brady thought.  Not Hal.  He'd down around Tay
Ninh, closer to Saigon and the Delta.  He mapped the little country in his
head, estimating distances.  No, no, he's safe from that one.  But how
safe?

	"In the meantime, official Washington is bracing for what it feared
to be a violent protest this weekend, as thousands of demonstrators plan to
surround the Pentagon to protest against the war.  Radical Yippie leader
Abbie Hoffman boasts that they will make the building levitate by the power
of their energy,' Cronkite noted with a barely suppressed sneer.  "White
House sources indicate that the military will be out in full force to
suppress any violence of threat to America's military headquarters."

	Bill Fieldstone strode from the TV room, muttering angrily under
his breath.  He saw Brady, immediately brightened, and dropped onto the
other end of the couch.  His cheeks were red and his hair visibly damp;
he'd obviously just come from the gym after cross country practice himself.
He had a round button pinned to his lapel, light blue, with a white circle
with a vertical line through it, and diagonal lines out from the line in
the middle of the circle to the lower edges.  Brady tried to make some
sense of it.  "Is that some, like, semaphore thing?"  He tried to avoid eye
contact.

	Bill glanced down at his lapel and laughed.  "No, it's the peace
sign.  Haven't you seen it before?"  Brady shook his head.  "It's what the
peace movement uses as its symbol, sort of.  It actually is from semaphore,
though - good catch.  Some English guy designed it for a disarmament group
over there a few years ago.  It's sort of taking hold here now."

	Brady nodded.  "So you're like against the war and all?"

	"Aren't you?"  Bill answered in a suddenly challenging tone.  "It's
a fucking obscenity, Brady.  We're killing all these people - not just our
own guys, but thousands of people - and for what?"

	"Well, I mean, aren't they Commies and stuff?"  He really didn't
want to have this sort of conversation.

	"They're fucking villagers walking behind mule plows, what do they
know from Communism?"  Bill snorted.  "It's their country, Brady, if they
want Ho or whoever to lead it, that's not our place to horn in, you know?"

	"They wouldn't send the troops over there for no reason," Brady
protested, though what that reason might be eluded him.  "I mean, my
brother's over there now.  He's not there for no reason.  There - there has
to be a reason."

	Bill's face softened.  "I forgot.  Sorry."  The idea of Bill
Fieldstone apologizing was so extraordinary to Brady that he stared openly
at Bill for a moment.  His eyes were suddenly soft, deep, and very
attractive.  The high color of his flushed cheeks, the tilt of his smooth
jaw, the otterlike sheen of his wet hair, were entrancing.  His red lips
opened softly.  "I know your brother must be an amazing guy, Brady."

	Brady swallowed.  "He - he was like fifteen when my dad died.  He
kept us together.  He worked after school till like midnight all the time,
and three jobs in the summer."  He'd never told anyone at School any of
this, not even David.  "He'd get mad at things, sometimes, for like no
reason - really like breaking things mad.  He'd laugh it off a minute later
- we all would - but, I was almost scared of him, sometimes.  Of him
getting mad.  I - I hope they don't get him mad, over there.  It'd be
really scary. "

	Bill's hand was soft on the back of his neck.  "He's too good a guy
to have Johnson and all those assholes use him like this, Brady," he said
in a voice so uncharacteristically soft it felt like a caress.  "They're
using him, and all the other troops, and they're getting good people
killed.  It's obscene.  Your brother can't stop it.  He has to obey, do
what he's told, all that military shit.  But we don't.  We can fight for
them.  For him.  We can fight to make it stop.  You can fight for your
brother."  He yanked the pin off his lapel and set it in Brady's hand.
"Think about it.  Wear it.  Fight for your brother, for an end to the war.
Fight for peace."

	Brady looked at the pin.  "Fight for peace?  Isn't that kind of,
you know, contradictory?"

	Bill laughed and stood up, his hand sliding up the back of Brady's
head as he did so, the fingers tousling his hair.  "You know what I mean.
Fight like Dr. King fights.  Make them face their own lies.  Shame them."

	"I'm not ashamed of Hal.  I'm proud of him."

	"You should be.  But you're scared for him, too, right?"  Brady had
no answer.  "So multiply that by how many hundred thousand families that
have guys over there too.  They're not ashamed either.  They just want the
troops home, and safe."  He leaned down.  "We can change the whole world,
Brady.  All of us, together.  If we all speak out together, nobody can stop
us.  That's what Dr. King says.  And the good guys, like Fullbright and
Gene McCarthy.  You watch, McCarthy's going to go after Johnson, and then
we can all speak out."  He pointed to the button.  "But we have to speak,
for real, Conover.  Silence is consent."  He raised his eyebrows, looked
hard a Brady for a moment, then walked off toward the stairs.

	Brady sat, holding the button in his hand, for several minutes,
until he heard Evan, Alan Black, and Doug's voices coming down the
corridor.  He stood up (with some struggle - the couch was deep and
yielding, and his ability to push upward without hurting was limited).  He
stuck the button into his jacket pocket as his teammates rounded the
corner, damp from the weather and their showers, glowing from the workout
they'd just had.  They were all beautiful, and none more than Doug.  His
smile, as he caught sight of Brady, made Brady want to leap for joy, all
worries about Hal and the war and stopping it washed away in an instant.

	"Young stallions!"  Brady said in a loud and formal tone, his eye
twinkling.  "You have arrived!"

	Alan, who was the quickest to take up any joke, immediately threw
his arms open.  "Wounded comrade!!!"  he cried.  "You live!"

	Brady made a show of trying to twist to one side.  "You call this
shit living?"

	"You want shit, we're gonna eat it in a minute," Evan noted.  "I
saw the menu - they got Congo bars for dessert tonight."  A general groan
ensued - Congo bars was the boy's name for a bricklike substance with
supposed chocolate cake swirls in it that the dining hall staff
periodically prepared - "mined," it was popularly said - and served for
dessert.  The one funny thing Cureton had ever done as a monitor was the
time he had taken a Congo bar back to Linsley and used it to drive a small
nail into the wall.

	Doug fell in beside Brady as they mounted the stairs.  "You OK?"

	"Yeah.  This afternoon - it was weird, with no practice and all.  I
wish Glendon had let me stay."

	Doug shook his head.  "You didn't miss much.  The weather sucked,
we did nothing but conditioning shit.  I'd have stayed inside in a second
rather than do it."
	But I missed you, Brady thought briefly.  He managed a smile.
"Well, I'll be back soon enough, I guess."

	"I hope so.  Alan's playing tight end now with you out, and he's
really not good at it.  He's better at corner."

	The idea of someone else playing Brady's position did little to
improve his mood.  He dropped his head and sunk wordlessly to his table.

	Mr. Collquit, who taught public speaking and debate, and also
directed the school plays, was the Table master.  He was young looking,
cartoonishly thin, and prone to fashion errors like the screaming plaid
sports jacket he had on this evening.  "Mr. Conover," his voice rolled
across the table, "glad you could join us tonight.  You feeling all right?"

	"Yes, sir, thanks you."

	"Good.  I'm sure you'll be glad to get everything over with
tonight."

	Brady winced.  That was the last subject he wanted to discuss.  "Is
DC going tonight?"  someone at the table asked, and in seconds Brady was
being bombarded with questions, advice, tales real and imagined of past
disciplinary hearings and the horrors that had occurred.  He kept trying to
change the subject to no avail.  For his part, Mr. Collquit watched Brady
with a sorrowful apologetic look.  He realized what he'd done.

	The questions, and questioners, pursued Brady out of the dining
hall after dinner.  Brady noticed that David was nowhere to be seen, and
worried a bit.  Evan, Dunc, Alan, Doug, and Vic Stenkowski formed the now
usual ring around Brady to fend off unwanted attention, and they strode
back to the dorm in formation.
 \
	Brady paced his room, worrying.  David was still missing.  Doug sat
silently on Brady's bed, propped back on his elbows, ands watched Brady.
"It's at 7:30.  You don't think he like ran away, do you?"

	Doug shook his head.  "He'll be here.  Probably got dinner with his
dad.  He got a decent meal, at least."

	A few minutes later, David and his father appeared.  David's father
now had a thin briefcase in hand.  After he was introduced to Doug, he sat
at David's desk and smile reassuringly.  "You boys all set?"

	Brady didn't want to answer directly ,and this acknowledge the
situation.  "So, um, where were you guys anyway?  David's gonna get stung
for missing dinner."

	"No worries," David's father said calmly.  "I checked him out this
afternoon with Dean Storeman.  We went over to Princeton, to, um, clear up
a few details."  He glanced at his son, whose cheeks shone brightly.  David
clearly didn't want this line of conversation to continue.  "And we had a
nice dinner there, at a great little pizza place I know.  Amazing it's
still there, too - it opened my sophomore year.  That was pretty exotic
stuff for us WASP Princeton boys back then, you know - pizza.  Living the
wild life."  He began a long story about his college days, which soon moved
seamlessly into another story, and another.  The boys listened politely but
absently, their own minds elsewhere.

	It seemed that no time at all had passed when a brisk rap on the
room door startled them all.  Mr. Taber smiled thinly .  "Time to go,
gentlemen."  He nodded at David's father.  "David,"

	"Hello Francis.  Good to see you again."

	Boys all down the hall peered around half closed doors as they
walked in a group to the stairs.  David's father put a reassuring hand on
Brady's shoulder, but Brady politely shrugged it off.  He'd always faced
things alone, he wasn't going to start leaning on anyone now.  Not for
anything.  He would handle it himself, and not burden anyone with his
private fears.  He was angry at having opened himself up to Fieldstone,
even in so small a way.  He would handle it himself.  I just wish, he
thought as they strode along the sidewalk toward Leeds' office, that this
didn't feel so much like the last mile.