Date: Fri, 9 Oct 2015 15:53:24 -0700
From: Rich H <rlhsanclemente@gmail.com>
Subject: When the World Changed Chapter 25

Here is the somewhat delayed next chapter of this story.  My thanks as
always to Flip for his editing assistance, and to the folks who've sent
me notes on the story.

This is, of course, fictional, and as it includes depictions of sexual
situations involving minors might not be your cup of tea - or even legal
to read where you live.   In either case, don't read it.

My thanks, also, to Nifty once again for providing this forum.  If you
don't support the site already, you should.


When the World Changed, Chapter 25


	It was cold.  And drizzling.  Brady didn't mind the cold much, but
cold drizzle - the stuff that seeps into every crevice of your clothes,
your hair, and your soul - that was just plain iserable.  That he had spent
the past hour standing on a muddy sideline, still unable to play, while the
freshman team battled grimly against Princeton Day School, didn't help.  He
was shivery, chilled, depressed, and wet.  This, he thought idly as the
teams changed fields for the fourth quarter, is why people kill themselves.
At least we're winning.

	Alan Black had been playing decently well, which only deepened his
funk.  His blocking wasn't very good - he tended to make an initial hit,
then slide off as if his job was done - and he hadn't had a pass thrown to
him, but he was holding his own.  I should be out there, he thought.  Out
with them, in the mud and the wet.  Fighting with my team.  With Doug, and
Evan, and Jack.  God, with Doug.  He sniffled loudly, the last remnant of
the cold from the start of the week.  His ribs twinged at the sudden
contraction.  He swore - Goddam, why won't it heal?

	Alan suddenly ran toward the sideline, his left arm held at an odd
angle.  Even before he pulled off his helmet with his other hand, Brady
could see the pain on his face.  "Coach," he whispered unevenly to
Mr. Glendon, "I don't think I can lift my arm."

	Mr. Glendon was at his side immediately.  Brady stepped forward
with a towel from the bench - it was damp and muddy, but it was all he
could think of to do - but Mr. Glendon waved him away, escorting Alan to
the bench.  He motioned Mr. Duquette to take his clipboard.  "Get Fredricks
in, Tom," he said quietly, before turning his attention back to Alan.  He
sat to Alan's left and started gently moving the arm.  Alan cried out
several times, tears streaming down his cheeks.  "I can't move it!" he kept
repeating, more perplexed than fearful.  "Why won't it move?"

	Brady sank to the bench next to Alan.  "Hey, it's OK, really."

	"It's like dead, Brady."  His eyes were very wide.

	"It'll be OK," Brady said without any conviction, smiling thinly at
Alan.

	Alan leaned suddenly over against Brady, yelping with pain, as
Mr. Glendon moved his shoulder slightly.  Instinctively, Brady put his hand
in Alan's damp hair.  Alan started crying into Brady's shoulder.  "It's
OK," he said again and again.  "It'll be OK."

	Alan sniffed loudly.  "Did it feel dead, when you got hurt?  Did it
hurt and feel dead?"

	Brady looked at Mr. Glendon.  Their eyes met for a second.  "OK,
Alan," Mr. Glendon said gently, "I think you separated your shoulder, son."

	"Does that mean my arm's dead?"

	"Not at all.  Just a temporary thing.  Your body's protecting
itself.  You're going to be fine."

	"OK," Alan whispered.  He looked at Brady, who nodded reassuringly.
He hoped the gesture didn't look as insincere as it felt.

	Alan suddenly curled into a fetal position as Mr. Glendon moved his
arm about.  "Oh God, that hurts so bad."  His left hand moved
spasmodically.  "Look! It worked!!!  Oh, God . . ."  He started crying
harder.

	Brady saw the bench players gathering round, watching fearfully.
He stood.  "All right, gentlemen, let's get back to the game.  Come on!"
He clapped several times and directed their attention back to the field.
Mr. Duquette, now pacing the sideline with clipboard in hand, nodded to him
slightly.  The boys turned back slowly, away from Alan.

	"You'll be fine, son," Mr. Glendon kept saying softly.

	It was good that Wilson was ahead by two touchdowns.  Charlie
Fredricks, the third string tight end, wasn't all that much bigger than
David, and though he was trying mightily, he was getting the shit beat out
of him.  Evan could barely make handoffs, much less go back to attempt a
pass, without getting hit by the linebacker blitzing in over Fredricks'
spot.  Brady tried to think who might go in now at defensive end, or
corner, in Alan's place, depending on how Mr. Duquette juggled things.  The
options weren't good.  They'd had to move their best eemaining defensive
back, Terry Rodgers, to linebacker to replace Ian, so the secondary was
already thinned.  He ran both hands through his damp hair, furious at being
unable to play.  I'm letting them all down, he thought.  I'm fucking
useless here.

	Wilson was forced to punt.  After the play, Mr. Duquette called a
time out and called the entire team over.  Charlie Fredricks walked alone,
his nose bloodied, his eyes brimming.  Brady ran onto the field to meet
him.  "Chas, you got to pull it together, man! I know you're freaked right
now, but you just have to go do the job, OK?"

	"I suck, Brady.  You saw it."

	"I get beat sometimes, too.  Forget it.  Those plays are over.  Go
make the next one, OK?"

	"I wish you were in and not me."

	Brady swallowed.  "I know.  I wish I could play too, but I can't.
So, so I gotta rely on you, OK?"  He clapped Fredricks' shoulder pads.
"You'll be fine.  Just believe you can do it, and don't hesitate.  Just
go."

	Mr. Duquette called Fredricks to the huddle on the sideline.
"Chas, you'll be right end on defense.  Play in walkaway, keep contain.  No
hero stuff, just mind the back side if it looks like a play is going the
other direction.  Got it?"  Fredricks' face was ashen.  He looked over at
Brady, who nodded with as encouraging a smile on his face as he could
muster.

	Doug walked over to Brady as the team moved back onto the field.
"I think he's gonna shit his pants."

	"You gotta buck him up and stuff, Doug.  He's scared.  You know how
it is, first time in."

	"I know.  Evan and I were trying.  He thinks he's gonna lose the
game for us."

	Brady sighed.  "God, I hate this."

	"What, so now you're going to lose the game for us, without even
playing?"

	"Shut up."

	"Asshole."

	"Dickhead."

	Doug grinned, grabbed at his crotch and turned towards the field.
"In your dreams, Conover."

	Brady stood rooted for a second or two.

	PDS ran an option attack, which put pressure on the outside line
players - the ends and linebackers.  Brady shouted at Fredricks not to
leave his assignment.  The first couple of runs were up the middle, with
little positive result.  As their offense broke the huddle for third down,
Brady noticed their best wide receiver line up on the other side of the
field from his normal position, opposite the side Fredricks was on.
"Chas!!  Chas!!!  Stay home, man, watch for a reverse!"

	The play started toward the offensive right, away from Fredricks.
But the receiver, Brady saw from across the field, took only one step
downfield before sprinting back towards the other side of the formation.
"Reverse!!" Brady shouted at the top of his lungs, as the ball was pitched
back to the receiver, who now bore down on Fredricks.  Chas took two
stumbling steps as he saw what was developing, then jabbed inwards to block
off the cut angle upfield.  The receiver hesitated, then started trying to
go around him.  Brady could hear the PDS coach bellow, "No, cut upfield
dammit!"  Fredricks was running parallel to him, stringing him out toward
the sideline, keeping an angle on him to prevent his forward progress.  He
clearly had no idea of how to actually tackle the runner, but just making
him go laterally was almost as good.  It gave time for Evan, Doug, Terry
Rodgers, and the rest of the defense to pursue.  Hemmed in, the receiver
stopped for a moment near the sideline, tried an odd fake that Chas ignored
(or wasn't able to react to), and moved to reverse his field yet again.  In
doing so, he tried to switch the ball to his other hand, only to drop it in
the muddy grass.  His foot then slid from beneath him, and his desperate
attempt to grab the ball back only resulted in its being slapped upfield.

	Fredricks ran to the ball, scooped it, and sprinted for the end
zone.  His best quality as an athlete was that he was decently fast, and
the rest of the PDS team was in no position to even try to catch him.
Doug, Evan, and Jack Spencer convoyed him to the end zone, whooping and
waving their arms.  They leaped on Chas after he scored, driving him
mercilessly into the ground.

	Brady was leaping for joy as well, and at the same time crying.
He'd never felt so left out of something so important.

	Chas ran to the bench after the extra point and hugged Brady
fiercely.  Brady laughed.  "Hey, man, this is my good coat, I can't get it
all muddy.  Taber's my table Master again, he'll kill me."

	"I don't care.  You're the best, man.  I couldn't've - "

	"Of course you could.  You did, right?  No heroics, stay at home,
make the play.  Just like Coach drew it up."  He grinned a false grin and
shoved Fredricks back onto the field for the kickoff.  PDS was already
moving to put scrubs in, effectively conceding the game.

	Brady sat heavily next to Alan, who was hunched over with a huge
bag of ice against his left shoulder, his pads and helmet at his feet.
"You doing any better?"

	Alan nodded.  "I - I got some feeling back, and I can move it, a
little.  It's like my collarbone is sliding all over in front."

	Brady shuddered.  "Geez, that's gross."  Then he realized what he'd
said.  "Sorry."

	Alan laughed - the last thing Brady expected to hear.  "It's OK.  I
mean I asked you all sorts of shit about your ribs when you got hurt,
right?  So now I guess it's my turn."  That thought, though, didn't seem to
cheer him.

	Fredricks was the hero of the bus ride back to campus.  Alan sat in
front with Mr. Glendon occasionally letting out a slight cry of pain when
the bus hit a bump.  As soon as they parked, Mr. Glendon hustled him off.
Say hi to Fishbein for me, Brady thought.  He let the team file off the bus
to get into the showers.  He knew they'd need all the time they could to
clean up in time for dinner.  Doug, who'd sat towards the back with Evan
and Jack, patted his shoulder as he stepped past.  Brady returned his
smile, but lost the expression as soon as Doug turned away.

	He sat in the empty bus as the sky reddened.  The seat smelled of
dirt and grass and sweat.  He felt impossibly depressed.  He'd been useless
at the game.  He was sure he'd blow his math midterm.  And Doug?  Doug
. . . .  He had no hope there.  Being his friend only made it hurt worse.
David was alternating between being a prick and crying on his shoulder.  It
embarrassed him to resent David for that - Christ, what he went through,
and you can't even cut him some slack?  God I hate myself.  I hate being so
fucked up, and I hate being queer for Doug, and letting Fieldstone do stuff
to me, and being stupid and out of place, . . .  The list seemed to go on
and on.

	Mr.  Duquette knocked on the frame of the bus door, leaning in.
"What's up, Conover?  This isn't the nicest place on campus to sit, you
know."

	"Sorry, Sir," Brady whispered, hauling himself out of the narrow
bench seat.  He moved quickly to get out of the bus.

	"Hang on a minute, OK?"  Mr. Duquette's hand was extended like a
traffic cop.  "Take a chair, here,"

	Brady quailed inside.  The last thing he wanted was to talk to
anybody, especially a Master - even a young guy like Mr. Duquette, who was
just out of college and in his first year teaching.  He dropped heavily
into the first seat behind the driver chair.

	Mr. Duquette leaned in, his elbows on either side of the doorframe.
"You're not dealing well with all this, are you?"

	This was tiring.  "With what, Sir?"

	Mr. Duquette cocked his head a bit.  "Don't be dense, Brady.  You
know better than I do everything that's been going on."  He leaned forward
a bit.  "What you probably don't know, or see, is how it's affecting you."

	Brady suppressed a flash of anger.  What the fuck is it with
everybody being so bent out of shape over how I feel and shit?  "Sir, I'm
fine.  I - I just wanna be, you know, left alone."

	Mr. Duquette looked him up and down.  "All right," he said.  "Up to
you.  Anytime you want to talk, or you need an ear, you let me know.  OK?"

	"Thanks.  Sir."  Like I'll ever fucking do that, he thought.

	He wandered into Geiger and found himself standing by the door to
the Fireplace Room, where the TV was blaring.  "American and South
Vietnamese forces in Loc Ninh, in the highlands due north of Saigon, have
engaged a heavy force of Viet Cong guerrillas . . ."  He froze.  He'd
learned enough of the country's geography to know that this was close to
Tay Ninh, where his brother was stationed.  "A helicopter assault by
members of the Ninth Infantry . . . "  Trent's division.  He stared blankly
at the screen for a moment before turning away. "Meanwhile, in Baltimore,
protesters against the war were arrested today for pouring blood on a stack
of draft board records . . . "

	He climbed the stairs, aimlessly, until he found himself facing the
barrier that blocked access to the fifth floor.  He glanced about him,
making sure no one was looking, and ducked around it.  He had no idea why
he wanted to go up there, but he went anyway.

	In the gathering dark, the unlit empty floor was eerie.  Room doors
hung slackly open, darkness pouring through their opened mouths.  He felt
the dust under his shoes on the uneven linoleum floor.  The air was
simultaneously chilled and stuffy, thick with dust and the ghosts of ninety
years of boys who'd passed down this hall.

	The band room, where Fieldstone had taken him, was in the center of
the building.  He moved idly towards it.  He was perhaps two doors away
when he heard voices inside it.  He pulled back quickly into the nearest
doorway and strained his ears.  He couldn't make out who was speaking, but
he felt instinctively that something illicit was going on.  Maybe it was
his own experience in that room, but he imagined two guys making out and
touching each other.  He held his breath and moved slowly towards the door,
with its heavily frosted glass.

	As he drew closer, the sounds became clearer, confirming his
suspicions.  Someone was rhythmically moaning, a high pitched cry unlike
anything he'd ever heard.  He put his eye to the crack between the two
swinging doors.

	The last of the day's light backlit the room from its west facing
windows.  Bill Fieldstone was bent over a chair, his pants dropped to his
ankles, facing diagonally toward the door. Though his face was shadowed,
Brady recognized his voice as he moaned.  Someone was behind him, moving
back and forth.  Brady's heart stopped as he realized that Bill was getting
butt fucked.  He couldn't make out the face of the guy doing it; the
darkness and shadows hid it from his view.  He drew back as he heard the
other guy grunt loudly several times, his body now rigid, while Bill seemed
to be gyrating back against the intrusion.  The two grew still.  Brady
instinctively started backing away.

	"Jesus," he heard Fieldstone say huskily.  "You had that saved up,
didn't you?"

	"Just for old time's sake," came the reply, a voice he couldn't
make out.  He heard a rustling, and realized they were pulling their pants
back up.  He panicked, looking about himself, and stepped back into an
empty room across the hall, behind its door.  He wondered if his footprints
showed on the floor.

	The music room door opened with a squeak.  He heard the tread of
two sets of feet down the hallway.  "Missed you, buddy."  Who was that?

	"Glad you came back," Fieldstone answered.  Their steps reached the
stairwell, and Brady heard them clomp downwards.

	He stood in the darkness, alone, scared.  And, he suddenly
realized, incredibly hard.  He tried to adjust himself by reaching into his
front pants pocket, but the touch only made him shiver.  He stepped out of
the room and across the hall, opening the music room door as carefully as
he could to keep it silent.

	The room smelled of sex.  He knew the odor by now - from his
jerkoffs meetings with Kenny, from his liaisons with Bill, from his own
masturbation sessions.  Sweat, the faint musk of a boy's crotch, and semen.
The chair Bill had been kneeling on stood at an odd angle.  He touched it,
found it still warm.  He saw a series of small splashes on the floor below
it, and realized that Bill had come there.  He breathed deeply in through
his nose and was opening his pants before he even knew it.  He stroked
feverishly, heedless of the noise he might be making, his other hand
gripping the back of the chair to hold himself steady.  He came within
seconds, it seemed, spewing himself about the room, leaving a glob on the
back slats of the chair, more across the floor.  He gasped forward, holding
onto the chair, trying to catch his breath.

	"Well that was a waste."  Bill Fieldstone stood in the door, his
face now lit by the fading sunset.  He had a crooked and knowing smile.

	Brady flushed, frozen in place.  He started desperately wiping his
hand on his shirt tail while simultaneously pulling his pants up.  The
result was predictable: he fell over in a heap.  He swore and scrambled to
get back on his feet, only to slip again.  Fieldstone's laughter rang in
the echo-ey space.

	"Shut up, Bill, we'll get caught."

	"If we get caught, it'll be because you fell like a ton of bricks
and whoever's in the room below this'll wonder what the hell's going on
above him."  A hand took his shoulder.  "Come on, nice and slow."

	Brady clambered to his feet, one hand clutching his pants in front.
He was unprepared for Bill's deep kiss.  Bill's other hand held him by the
back of his head, tightly, as his tongue shot into Brady's mouth.  Brady
whimpered, lost his grip on his pants, and grabbed onto Bill in return.  He
was rock hard again, and felt Fieldstone's erection as well through his
pants. Bill pulled back a moment, licking his right palm while pushing his
left index finger into Brady's mouth.  Brady closed his lips around it and
sucked, licking it, without knowing why.  "Good boy," Bill breathed,
pulling his finger out and kissing him again.

	Bill started stroking him with the hand he'd licked.  His other
hand pushed Brady'sunderwear down in back.  Lost in the feeling of being
masturbated, Brady noticed nothing until the point of Bill's spit slicked
finger slid between his asscheeks.  He popped his eyes open as Bill pushed
it forward and against his hole.  Brady stiffened and let out a yelp.
""What the fuck -?"

	"Shut up," Bill whispered fiercely, kissing him again and stroking
him faster.  Brady felt his legs shake.  Bill's finger was slowly pushing
into his crack, and his hips' motion in response to being stroked was
hastening the process.  He was whimpering into Bill's mouth.  Was he
actually arching himself backwards, impaling his ass on Bill's finger?  The
rest of Bill's hand now spread out over Brady's ass, and the finger began
probing in and out, rubbing downwards as it did so.  Oh God, he thought, I
got a finger up my butt.

	Brady suddenly felt a jolt inside him that was unlike any sensation
he'd ever experienced.  His head flung back, he gasped raggedly for breath.
Bill's lips were on his neck.  The finger - no, now two, the fingers - were
jamming in and out of him, in time to the hand stroking his cock.  He threw
his arms around Bill's neck, helpless, and shuddered.  He seemed to teeter
on a steep cliff for hours, his body no longer his own, rocking back and
forth.  When he at last released Bill moved his fingers even faster,
intensifying the climax to almost painful levels.  He knew in the back of
his mind that he was making entirely too much noise, but he didn't care.

	He was clutching Bill's suit jacket, one knee resting on the chair.
He felt clammy.  Bill was breathing deeply, chuckling every now and then.

	"What - why'd you come back?"

	"Dropped my pen," Bill said evenly.  He stepped away, being careful
to avoid setting foot in any of the various splotches of come that dappled
the floor in front of them, glinting slightly in the twilight.  He must
have come too, Brady thought absently.  That's good, I guess.  Bill reached
down and held up a gold colored pen.  "It's from my dad," he explained.
"Didn't want to lose it."  He looked at it and laughed.  "Looks like it got
a bit wet.  Clean it up."  He held the pen to Brady's mouth, and Brady
licked it.  He tasted metal, and a little semen.  "Now clean this, too," as
he pushed Brady's head downwards.  He took the head of Bill's cock into his
mouth, licking at it.  "Yeah, suck all the rest out, get it nice and
clean."

	After a minute, Brady leaned back, running a hand through his damp
hair.  "Who - who was, um, that guy who -"

	"The other guy?"  Brady nodded.  "I'll introduce you after dinner.
He graduated last year, came back on a break from Penn to visit the old
haunts."

	Brady nodded, trying to process things through his sex addled
brain.  "Did he - does he know . . ."

	"Not a thing.  He went over to see some other guys he hung out
with.  I came back up here on my own, like I said."  He cracked his neck a
couple of times, sighing.  "We need to go, get you cleaned up.  You're
probably pretty dusty from your little swan dive there."  He pulled Brady
to his feet and started brushing his shoulders and back.  Brady pulled his
pants up, still feeling a bit unsteady on his feet.  Bill held his left
hand out to Brady, the index and middle finger extended.  "Clean these,
too."

	Brady looked at him disbelievingly.  "But - but those were -"

	"Yup.  In your ass.  Pretty amazing isn't it?"  He moved his
fingers closer to Brady's mouth.  "Now."

	Brady opened his lips slightly.  Bill slid the fingers gently over
them.  "Won't take long, Conover.  You're nice and clean."

	Brady tasted a slight musk on the pad of the index finger, but
nothing gross.  He licked slowly, warily, as Bill twisted the fingers in
and out a couple of times.  When he removed them the musk odor rose
dizzyingly.  "Good."  He looked at Brady and laughed.  "I think we have a
new frontier to explore here."  He patted Brady's ass lightly, his teeth
glittering as he smiled.

	The hallway was pitch dark.  Bill looked at the glowing dial of his
watch.  "We only have a few minutes till dinner.  Go down the north
staircase, I'll take the other end.  Talk to you after that, OK?"

	"OK," Brady whispered.  He was scared - of getting caught, of what
had just happened, of what seemed inevitably going to happen.  Of what it
meant.  He padded softly to the far end to the black hall, groped for the
bannister, and stepped carefully down towards the light.

	He managed to get down to the first floor without being seen, but
that put him on the far end of the hall from the rest of campus.  He
decided to slip out the side door and circle round.  As he passed the
corner, close to the theatre, he heard Dunc call him.  "Hey Conover,
what're you doin' over here in drama jock land?"

	Brady forced a casual smile.  "Just, y'know, wasting time before
dinner.  You heading there now?"

	"Yeah, we were figuring out lighting designs for the play.  There's
this one part where they want the Fresnels to wash over each other in these
connected areas with gels only a tiny bit different, and merging the pools
so it flows evenly is really gonna be a bitch."

	"OK."  That might as well have been spoken in Sanskrit.  "So, um,
what's the play, anyway?"

	"Oh, 'The Crucible.'  I think every fuckin' high school on God's
earth does 'The Crucible,' it's kind of stupid.  I mean we get it, right?
Witch hunts are bad.  Stop sweatin' it so damn much."

	"Right."  Brady had vaguely heard of "The Crucible," but had no
real idea what it was about.  "So, is it good?"

	"Who knows, it's early, they're still blocking it."

	"Blocking?"

	Dunc laughed.  "Geez, Bray.  Blocking is like figuring out who
moves where and when.  Watch it when it's done, you'll see.  Have you ever
been to a play?"  Brady shook his head, feeling suddenly like a complete
hick.  "You'll like it."

	"Yeah, I'm sure."  He felt inadequate, freakish, in just about
every way possible.  "So," Dunc said in a low voice, "do you believe Doug?
Is he like huge, or what?"

	Brady's eyes widened before he could gain control.  He felt his
cheeks flush.  "Yeah.  He's a monster all right," he said with as much ease
as he could muster.

	Dunc laughed.  "Yeah, he's gonna like wreck some girl someday.
She's gonna take one look and freak out!"

	Brady managed a smile.  "Hey, she might like it that big."

	"Nah, you'd have to be slut to like that."

	"Why?"

	"Nice girls aren't supposed to, y'know, like fucking.  They're just
there for guys to get their rocks off with.  You know, make babies and
stuff.  Slutty ones, they're the ones who like it - just want to fill the
hole, right?"

	Brady frowned.  "That's not true."  He had no idea if it was true
or not, but the idea seemed objectionable.

	"Hey, I got nothin' against slutty girls.  Hendershott, the guy who
runs the lighting stuff?  Well, he's a senior and he knows these townie
girls who come in sometimes when Colquitt isn't in the theatre.  He stuck a
mattress into the crawl space under the stage.  They hang out there and
feel each other up and all.  Sometimes they even smoke pot there."

	"Do - have you -"

	"Nah, it smells really gross.  My dad is all over this stuff about
cigarettes being bad for you, so I got no interest in smokin' much of
anything.  He's kind of a nut about that, actually.  He has friends over,
they gotta go out on the porch to have a butt.  Won't let 'em do it in the
house.  It gets people really pissed off."

	"Right," Brady nodded.  His mother smoked Chesterfields,
unfiltered, daily.  The smell was second nature to him.  That seems kind of
extreme, he thought.  I mean, I don't mind the smoke or anything.

	He and Dunc were almost to the stairs when the doors at the far
south end of the hall burst open, from the gym, and the team walked in as a
group.  Fredricks was beaming, in the center and the object of most of the
attention.  He was bright red.  He looked up at Brady and grinned.  "Hey
Brady!  Where were ya?  We were lookin' for you.  Mr. Duquette's gonna get
us all pizza after study hall tonight!  He let me pick what kind, too!!!
You like pepperoni?"

	Brady smiled.  "Of course.  Whatever the football hero wants."
Fredricks' smile wavered a moment before Brady clapped him on the shoulder.
"Come on, I can't wait till after study hall, I gotta eat, even if it's the
usual shit up here."  Fredricks grinned bravely and continued up the
stairs.

	Doug fell in next to him.  "Any word on Alan?"

	Brady shook his head.  "Glendon was taking him to the doctor - same
guy I went to, I imagine.  They'll like x-ray him and stuff."

	Doug shook his head.  "It's too bad, I feel sorry about it."

	Brady shrugged, belying his feelings.  "It happens, y'know?"

	Doug nodded.  "I guess.  Kinda fucks us, though."  He glanced down
the corridor into the bridge linking Geiger to the dining hall, to see how
far ahead of them Fredricks was.  "I mean Chas is a nice guy, but he can't
do the job for a whole game."  He leaned in a bit closer.  Brady could
smell the residual perspiration still coming off him from his exertions.
"How, um, how close are you to coming back?"

	Brady sighed.  "No idea."  He glanced at the trophy case as they
passed by.  God, am I letting them all down, he thought.

	Alan's injury was of course the talk of dinner.  Brady was, in a
way, relieved - it was a new subject, one that had nothing to do with
himself, David, or the McShanes.  The school had moved on to newer
subjects.  Several boys made a point of going to Fredricks and speaking to
him, encouraging him.  He looked green.

	Mr. Colquitt, the speech and drama teacher, was table Master for
Brady.  "So, Mr. Conover," he boomed in his oddly high voice.  "How's it
going?

	"Fine, Sir."

	"Getting better?"

	"I think so, Sir.  I'll go back Monday to find out more, I guess."

	"So when do you take Speech, Mr. Conover?"

	Brady swallowed.  "I think winter semester, Sir."  All freshmen and
juniors took a one semester course in public speaking, apparently intended
to prepare them for their lives as male leaders.

	"Good, I'm looking forward to it.  Have you ever done any drama -
play in school or anything like that?"

	"No, no Sir."  The very idea made him nervous.

	"OK, OK."  That was Mr. Colquitt's trademark - every statement was
punctuated with "OK" at every possible point.  An odd quirk for a guy
teaching public speaking, Brady thought.

	"OK," Mr. Colquitt continued, "well, Speech I, which you'll be
taking, OK?, is all reading from things other people have written - pieces
of plays, poems, essays, things like that.  OK?  It's more, you know,
recitation than composition, OK?  Now when you get to be a junior, and you
take Speech II, OK?  That's where you actually write speeches on different
topics.  That sound good?"

	"Sure, Sir, that - that'll be great."  Just thinking about it made
him want to puke.

	Merrill Staunton, a junior, started telling a story about a boy who
had given a sales talk speech in Mr. Colquitt's class two years earlier,
extolling the virtues of a tear gas pen, and had inadvertently (or maybe on
purpose) tear gassed the class in doing so.  Mr. Colquitt's thin frame
convulsed with laughter as Staunton, with frequent interjections from
Mr. Colquitt, described walking by the classroom as boys exploded out of
it, and the windows, gasping and coughing. The story was of course a hit
with the rest of the table, but Brady only managed a thin chuckle.  He had
no desire to do anything like public speaking, anytime, anywhere.

	He left the dining hall quickly, conscious of avoiding Fieldstone,
for reasons he couldn't quite articulate.

	David was again gone from the room after dinner.  Brady dreaded his
mood when he got back from the latest visit to whoever had the ugly chore
of trying to be his therapist now.  He felt chilly from the weather - and
what he and Bill had done - so he slipped out of his suit quickly and took
a hot shower.  It felt good to be alone in the shower room, letting the
steam flow over him.  He was sweating as much as he has wet from the water.
He turned on a couple of extra nozzles, piping hot, to augment the effect.
Wish I could sit down like this, he thought, stretching and testing his
range of motion.  He felt no twinges as he turned his trunk back and forth,
using his flexed arms as levers.  God, I have to be back if I can do this.

	Then he reached for the hot water handle the wrong way, and the
pain grabbed him - not strongly, but enough to remind him it was there.  He
groaned with disappointment and leaned against the wall.

	"Conover?"  Bill Fieldstone's voice echoed through the steam.

	Brady lurched upright, fumbling with the handles and grabbing for
his towel at once.  "Hey!" he spluttered, trying to cover himself.  "What's
up?"

	Thought I'd introduce you to Larry, that's all."  Brady couldn't
see well through the fog he'd created, but he could make out a taller guy
standing behind Bill in the open bathroom door.

	"Uh, sure.  Just, um - lemme dry off, be out in a second."

	"Fine.  OK if we wait in your room?  Tanner's not there I see."
	"No problem, be right there."  The bathroom door swung shut.
	Brady was really sweating now.  Did Bill intend to do something
with him, and maybe this Larry guy, right there in his room?  Christ, what
was he getting himself into?  He dried himself as best he could, taking a
bit of extra time to arrange his hair.  This is silly, he thought.  I'm
making myself up like I'm a girl.

	Bill and Larry were standing, looking a bit uncomfortable, in the
center of the room.  Larry was almost Brady's height, broad shouldered,
with thick brown hair, sideburns that reached just below his earlobes, and
a wide dazzling grin that turned his hazel eyes bright.  "Hi, glad to meet
you, I'm Larry Devran," he said, extending a hand.  Brady shook it, keeping
his other hand tightly clenched on his towel.  Bill was smiling, glancing
up and down his bare torso.  "Bill's been telling me about you, being a
Bevansman and all that."

	"Well, not all," Bill said, laughing, and he exchanged a knowing
glance with Larry that set him to laughing as well.  Brady was unsure of
the joke, so he just smiled to acknowledge the humor and turned to find
some clothes.

	Larry moved toward the door.  "We should step out while you get
dressed."

	Brady felt relief wash over him.  That was considerate; he thought.
I might even like this guy.  God knows he's really good looking.  "Thanks,"
he managed to murmur.  "I'll just be a minute."  Fieldstone winked at him
as the two stepped back into the hall.

	While Brady was dressing, the Hall Prefects, Luce and Cureton,
along with the Prefects for the third floor, saw Larry and started talking
excitedly with him outside the door.  They obviously knew him from his time
at Wilson, and had a lot of catching up to do.  Brady took advantage to
dress slowly, letting his overheated body cool down a bit.

	By the time he opened his door back up, a small crowd had gathered
to talk to Larry.  It seems he'd been captain of the wrestling team, and
was now on the team at Lehigh - a good wrestling school.  Brady's
classmates were star struck by an alumnus, a college athlete, being in
their midst.  Evan Creed was asking questions about weight training and
practices as fast as he could.  Bill Fieldstone stood back a bit, hands in
his pockets, and watched the scene, bemused.  He smiled slightly at Brady
and cocked his head towards Larry.  The look on his face made Brady chuckle
in spite of himself.

	Mr. Billips came out of his apartment at the end of the hall, in
sock feet.  "What's the noise here, people?"  He saw Larry and frowned.
"Devran, what brings you here?  You know that alumni aren't supposed to
just wander into the dorms unannounced."

	"Just following Bill around on a little visit, Sir.  Just relax,
OK?" Larry answered, addressing Billips respectfully - but with an
undercurrent.  His tone implied: I'll be polite, but you don't have power
over me.  Not anymore.  The display was subtle, but struck like thunder.
The boys all stepped back slightly, realizing they were in the presence of
a grown man, someone past their status.  Larry, for his part, clearly
enjoyed being able to blow off Billips' admonition.  "Bill and I are just
checking the place out.  After all, I roomed on this hall freshman year."
This broke the spell, and elicited more excitement from the boys gathered
round him.

	Billips also seemed to sense the difference in his relationship
with Larry now.  "Ok, fine, I just - you know I have to look after my hall,
right?"

	Larry nodded, smiling.  "Of course.  Don't worry, I haven't come
back to sell grass or anything."  They shared a chuckle.

	So that's what it looks like, Brady thought.  That power.  Wow.

	Doug appeared at the far end of the hall from the stairwell,
gangly, with a loopy smile on his face.  Brady moved away from the cluster
of boys around Larry.  "What's the occasion?"  Doug asked.

	"Some guy who graduated last year came back.  I guess he roomed
here as a freshman."

	Doug glanced at the group of boys.  "The tall guy who looks like
he's 25 or something?"

	"Yeah.  You really think he looks that old?"

	Doug shrugged.  "I dunno, I guess.  He sure doesn't go here
anymore, you can see that."

	"Yeah," Brady said quietly.  "Storeman'd never let anybody grow
sideburns like that, for one thing."  He stepped back into his room, and
was secretly thrilled when Doug followed him.

	They flopped down on his bed and leaned back against the wall.
Doug grinned at him again.  "Fredricks is on Cloud 36 or something.  Like
four times Cloud Nine, right?  I don't think the kid's ever done anything
in sports like today in his life."  He stretched languorously.  Brady
watched his dress shirt pull slightly out of his pants along his flank,
then glanced away, hoping he hadn't been noticed.  "His roommate, Levin?
The kid who's after Leeds to get a computer for the school?  He thinks
Fredricks is like a god now."

	"What the fuck's this school gonna do with a computer?"

	"God knows.  We got any missile silos under Geiger or anything?"
Brady became reflective as they laughed.

	"When I was a kid, I remember the Cuba thing.  Back in '62?  It was
like the first, I dunno, event, that I really remember stuff about.  The
Army and everything really mobilized after Kennedy announced the blockade,
and I remember standing in the back yard at home and watching this like
constant stream of planes that were flying south to land at Maguire Air
Force Base, down by Fort Dix.  They were noisy.  These big prop planes,
supply stuff I guess.  I remember thinking we're gonna have like an atomic
war, and we're all gonna get blown up.  The missiles, you know, opening up
the silos and firing off."

	Doug nodded.  "I remember that, too.  My folks were so panicked,
they had this fallout shelter built behind a horse barn.  My mom put like
300 miles or something on the car in a day trying to stock it with food and
crap."  He took a deep breath.  "As if that would've helped."  He sighed.
"She was crying about how the poor horses were going to suffer and all, and
I kept thinking Christ, we're gonna be in a Goddam atomic war and you're
worried about horses?  I was worried about my own ass, y'know?"  They both
laughed uneasily.

	"Yeah," Brady said quietly.  "Kennedy really pulled that out,
didn't he?"

	"I'll say.  He was amazing."  Doug paused.  "Until he got his
brains blown out."

	They sat silent for several seconds.  "We had a half day of school
that day, because of the Thanksgiving break," Brady said quietly.  "It was
Friday, right?"  Doug nodded.  "I was home, on my bed, after lunch.  I was,
like, drawing something.  And my mom just let out this wail and called for
my brothers, and I ran downstairs, and as I got to the living room the guy
on the TV said that he was dead.  I sat on the floor - no, I fell, really."

	Doug nodded. "I think I stayed up all that weekend watching TV.  It
was like I couldn't take my eyes off it."

	Brady looked at the far wall absently.  "The last day, when they
buried him?  I couldn't take it anymore.  I went outside and raked leaves
all day.  I didn't want to hear, like, the drumming, anymore.  I don't ever
want to hear it again."  He suppressed a flashing thought about his
brother.  Jesus, don't be sick like that.

	Doug nodded again.  They stared at each other.

	David pushed open the door to the room.  "Hey guys," he said
quietly.  "Am I interrupting anything here?"

	Doug shot to his feet.  "No, no nothing like - I was - we were - "

	"We were talking about when Kennedy got shot," Brady said.  He was
amused by Doug's reaction, and unsettled as well.  What made him react so
violently?  "So, um, how you keepin'?  Good day, typically miserable day,
what?"

	As he hung up his coat, David smiled at him from over his shoulder.
"Nice one, farm boy."

	Doug joined in.  "Hey. Watch the 'farm boy' crap, Tanner."

	David laughed.  "What, you too?  First I got hick boy here from the
cow town down the road, and now the cow doctor's kid?  Hey Bray, let's
sexually stimulate Garrettson!"  Before Brady could react, David began
mooing loudly, waving his hands like he was hypnotizing Doug as he did so.
He managed to keep it going for several seconds while Brady and Doug both
collapsed giggling onto Brady's bed.

	Doug rolled on his back and threw his legs wide.  "Take me!  Take
me now, Elsie!!!"  He leaped forward and tackled David onto his bed.  "More
mooing, please God!"  That finally broke David up, and he squealed with
laughter.

	Brady leaped on them both.  "Get off my roommate, you sick cow
loving pervert!"  The three rolled and wrestled with each other, David
occasionally managing to squeak out some more mooing, until they were spent
and laughed out.  They lay in a tangle, panting, David beneath the other
boys, and Brady with an arm around Doug's chest from behind.  He looked
down and saw the faint smile playing on David's lips, and felt himself
start hardening.  He didn't care.  This felt too good to move and spoil.

	Doug shifted a bit.  "You call me sick?"  he asked.  "You're the
one living with a cow, man."  The clinical tome of the statement set them
to laughing again, and as they again began wrestling, Brady slipped off the
bed, landing with a thud on his right hip.  He braced himself for the pain
from his ribs, but felt instead only a dull ache.  Doug's hand was
immediately on his shoulder.  "Bray, shit, did I hurt you there?"

	"I'm fine."  He realized what he'd just said.  "I - I'm OK.  It
didn't hurt."  He looked at Doug, his own spreading grin matching Doug's.
"It didn't hurt!!!"  Holy shit, this is great!"

	The door opened.  Bill Fieldstone and Larry were looking in, with
Vic, Evan, and several other hallmates behind them.  Fieldstone shook his
head.  "Freshmen.  They never change."  The group laughed.  Only Brady
noticed, as Bill pulled the door shut again, the momentary savage look Bill
shot towards them.

	Now what the hell was that about, Brady thought.  He heard Bill and
Larry continuing their conversation with the boys outside the door, but
somehow didn't feel comfortable going back out to join in.

	David shot Brady a look.  "What's Devran doing back here, anyway?"

	Brady shrugged.  "I dunno, he - I guess he's just back to hang out.
From college.  I- I think he came to say hi to Fieldstone."

	"Yeah, I bet.  Hi."  His eyebrow arched like Spock's.

	After a couple of awkward seconds, Doug started talking about his
math class - he was evidently having almost as much trouble as Brady.
David, shaking his head, started explaining the intricacies of the
quadratic equation to them.  The boys outside the door were dispersing -
clearly, Larry Devran had left the building.  Evan wandered in and sat
listening to David's math lesson, occasionally throwing in some insights of
his own - which usually turned out to be wrong, as David would acidly note.

	Alan Black showed up about ten minutes later, his left arm in a
sling that was strapped to his chest.  He had a look of utter defeat that
Brady immediately recognized.  "Hey guys," he said, barely whispering.

	No one quite knew what to say.  Alan walked slowly in and sat on
Brady's desk chair, his eyes to the floor.  "You OK, man?" Brady finally
managed to stutter.

	Alan shook his head.  "The shoulder is separated, and the
collarbone cracked.  I am completely and totally fucked."  He took a long
ragged breath.  "Glendon bought me dinner, at this diner out on the
highway.  So I guess that was nice.  Didn't have to eat cold dining hall
slop."

	"It's OK, really," Brady finally found his voice.  Evan Creed was
looking almost fearfully at Alan, as if the injury might somehow be
catching.  "I mean, it's like me, you know?  I, I got hurt, and it gets
better."

	Alan shook his head, keeping his eyes on the floor.  "It's gonna be
like two, three months or something."  He took a long shaky breath.  "I
wanted to try out for basketball."

	Evan grimaced and turned away for a second before he visibly caught
himself.  "Hey, Alan, you'll be fine, man.  You got lacrosse in the spring,
right? I saw you out front tossing with Turco last weekend, you're like a
star!  You might even make varsity."

	Alan sighed.  "If I can even play."  He yanked himself to his feet.
"I - I'm just gonna go sleep, OK?  Or try to anyway."  He waved his hand
absently.  "They numbed me up, a lot.  I'm kinda weird."

	"You need help getting to your room?  Where's Archer?"  Dwight
Archer was Alan's roommate, on the third floor.

	"He's probably out trying to get somebody to go to the liquor store
for him," Alan said with audible disgust.

	Doug and Brady exchanged glances.  They knew Archer was a total
loser, a spoiled kid who already had a major problem with cheap whiskey.
His dad ran some finance company in Philadelphia, and their home out on the
Main Line was apparently immense.  He had once muttered to Brady that his
house was a great place because it was big enough for him to hide from his
father.

	Brady and Doug walked with Alan up the stairs to his room.  Archer
was nowhere to be found.  Alan sat slowly on his bed.  "It - it's OK, guys.
Really."  His voice didn't sound it.  "I'm just - you know, tired, OK?
Lemme just sleep, and - and tomorrow it'll be better.  Right?"

	"Sure," Doug said softly.  He patted Alan on his good shoulder,
lightly, the hand trailing off down his arm.  Brady gulped at how erotic
the gesture looked.  Alan smiled thinly and laid slowly back onto the bed.

	They walked to Doug's room, silent.  Dunc had headphones on,
swaying slightly as he sat at his desk, turned away from the door.  "Mother
. . . " he intoned in a falsely deep voice, " . . . I . . . want . . . to
. . ." and erupted into indecipherable screaming, his head now thrashing
back and forth.  He noticed the two boys watching him, stopped, and pulled
off the headphones, grinning sheepishly.  A tinny, barely audible version
of the Doors issued from the headphones.  "Hey, it's dramatic, right?  You
got to get into it, man."

	Doug shook his head in mock disgust.  "See what I gotta live with?
He's obsessed with fucking his mother."

	Dunc shrugged.  "Well, I need new territory now that I'm done with
yours." Brady hooted as Doug pretended to hit Dunc with a baseball bat.
"Such violence, man.  I love your mother," Dunc teased, stretching out the
word "love" like a lounge singer.

	Doug's smile tightened a bit.  "OK, let's lay off that bit now,
OK?"  Brady shot him a glance.  He'd never seen Doug get uptight about
anything like this.

	Dunc noticed it, too.  His cheeks flushed a bit.  "Sorry, man, just
bustin' ya, you know."  He turned away as if embarrassed - an emotion Brady
had never before considered to be part of Dunc's makeup.

	Brady looked back and forth between them.  Clearly, there was
something he didn't know about going on.  "Hey, I should go, see what
Davey's up to."

	Doug was still a bit stiff, watching Dunc.  "Right.  I bet he had
some therapy thing again.  Or something."  He broke his stare at Dunc and
relaxed visibly, looking at Brady with one of his sunrise smiles.  All
questions and curiosity drained from Brady.  Doug gestured towards Dunc.
"He listens to the most extreme crap he can find.  It never ends."

	"Hey, you like it too," Dunc protested, though the tone now
indicated he was just playing along.

	Brady shrugged.  "Dunc and Davey got Scott Muni beat."

	Dunc laughed.  ""The rock 'n' roll geniuses know who Scot Muni
is!!!  Rejoice in the streets, oh my people!"

	"Get over the Bible class already," Doug teased.

	"Hey you gotta take it next semester.  All the friggin' Kings of
Israel, in order."  They all shook their heads at the ugly prospect of
learning that.  Dunc leaned over his turntable and dropped another album.
"This is cool, you'll like this."  He moved the needle to "Horse
Latitudes," and they listened intently.  At the scream, "True sailing is
dead!!!" they all broke up laughing.  Dunc rolled about his chair giggling.
"Can you believe what pompous shit this is?  I mean, 'The End' was pretty
far out, bit this is just utter crap."

	Evan appeared in the doorway.  "True sailing is dead!"  he
screamed, falling forward into the room extravagantly.  The phrase would
become their slogan of the year, useful in all circumstances and for any
purpose.

	Brady's side was aching from laughter, aside from any residual pain
from his injury. They shouted random song lyrics, shoved each other,
laughed and laughed.  Doug's behavior was forgotten.  Their enjoyment was
complete, as only teenage boys can feel.  Camaraderie, tribal affection,
and a welter of other unrecognized (or at least unacknowledged) emotions
crackled among them.  Brady couldn't keep his eyes off Doug - he knew all
too well what his emotions were, on that subject at least.  Being with him,
like this, as best friends, was as close to perfect as he'd ever felt.
Forget the rest, he thought.  I can deal with that.  As long as we're
friends.  I can live with that much.  I have to.  After all, I'm lucky,
right?

	They didn't see Alan Black down the hall, on his bed in his
darkened room, listening through his open door.  He was slumped, hugging
his damaged arm with his other, tears running silently down his cheeks.