Date: Tue, 31 Jan 2012 15:39:09 -0800
From: Rich H <rlhsanclemente@gmail.com>
Subject: Whwn the World Changed, Part 6

Here's the next chapter of this story.  Thanks to those who've sent notes
commenting on it so far - I appreciate them all, and hope I can encourage
more people to let me know what they think.  Compliments are of course
most welcome, but I'll take anything.  It's not as though I'm such an
expert that I can't use some constructive criticism!    If you like this
story, check out "Seal Rocks," my other story on Nifty, also here in the
HS section, which ended last April (wow, a long time ago already).

As always, this is entirely a work of fiction, and if you think you
recognize anybody in any of this, well, you're wrong.  It contains
material of a sexual nature involving teenaged boys, so if that's
ofensive or illegal in the jurisdiction where you're reading this, stop
now and leave this story alone.  I hope the story strikes at least some
people as decent.

When the World Changed Part 6

	Brady could barely breathe.  He'd never felt so nervous in his life.
He sat in jacket and tie, wearing his beanie cap and the different colored
socks, a school handbook tied to a string from a belt loop, in a third floor
classroom in Mueller Hall, the main classroom building.  It stood diagonally
east of the chapel, across from the dorms south of Linsley, and was a worn
turn of the century Georgian structure with concave depressions worn in the
centers of each step of the staircases that were the only way up and down.
He had arrived at his first class of his freshman year - Spanish II - a good
ten minutes early, and was eyeing the boys who were gradually filtering in to
take seats around him,  many seemed to at least passingly know each other,
and only a couple were also New Boys.   The teacher had yet to appear.

	The morning had been better than he'd expected.  He had figured the
seniors would pounce on him along with the other New Boys as soon as they
emerged from their dorms, but aside from being directed to sing the school
fight song a couple of times - including while skipping and holding hands
with Dunc and Nate Silver on the way to breakfast (he was silently
disappointed Doug hadn't been around) - things had been fairly quiet.  The
prospect of being accosted by seniors who might instruct him to do something
foolish even had served to distract him from his trepidation over starting
classes.  Now that he was actually sitting in the classroom, however, there
were no further distractions, and he was terrified.

	The room was spare, painted a slightly greenish off white, with heavily
varnished dark wood trim here and there and three rows of long fluorescent
fixtures hung from the ceiling, running the length of the room.  There were
fifteen wood and steel desks scattered about - the
kind with a small writing table attached to the right arm (which Brady was
used to using, though he was left handed)  and a shelf beneath the seat on
which to place other books.  Large windows, open given the rising heat of the
day, looked out at center campus, with a line of iron
radiators below them for winter use.

	He was acutely conscious of his jacket and tie looking shabby compared
to the suits and blazer/slacks outfits worn by the other boys.  Please don't
let me look stupid, he thought.  He knew his mother had done her best to get
him some coats 9and even two full suits0 that looked
presentable, but he also could tell that at least some of these boys had
suits from fancy clothiers, probably up in New York or something.  David's
attire that morning, a dark blue pinstriped suit with lapels fashionably wide
yet respectable, had alone made him feel inadequate.

	A kid from the freshman football team, his beany lopsidedly askew,
walked in, glanced about nervously, and smiled a bit when he saw Brady.
Brady retuened his nodded greeting, and as the kid stepped over to the next
desk Brady struggled to remember his name.  Alan something . . .

	"Hey, Brady, Alan Black, remember - from football?"  Alan was gawky,
all arms and legs, but a fast wide receiver who held promise if he could
develop sufficient coordination to stop tripping every time he tried to cut
sharply.  His hair was jet black and shaggy, and his eyes
almost as dark.  "We were in the drills yesterday, working with Evan."

	"Right," Brady breathed, glad that the name had been given.  "Yeah,
sure I remember. You're fast."

	Alan blushed and glanced away a little.  "Thanks," he said.  "So are
you, and you're really quick on your feet when you cut and all.  So, Spanish
II, huh?  How'd you get to this level?"

	Brady allowed himself a slight sardonic laugh.  "No idea," he answered.
"they gave me this test when I was applying here and I sort of faked my way
through it, I couldn't understand much of it.  Guess I faked better than I
should have.  How about you?"

	"Wow, that's cool. I - well, my dad works for Standard Ohio - he's a
petroleum engineer.  So we spent two years living in Venezuela."

	If Brady had felt inadequate before, he felt like a bug now.  "Far
out,' he managed to get out between swallows.  "That must've been really
neat."

	"It was OK for a while, but the food was lousy and it was hotter'n
hell, and the locals really resent the Americans.  I was happy when they
transferred us back here."

	Brady nodded as if he understood.  "So where do you live now?"

	"Oh, my dad's up in Alaska - there's this huge new find way up north
there, and my mom is living in Anchorage for now.  They sort of parked me
here so I wouldn't have to move around with them so much.  Alaska's really
cool - or at least it was this summer; I'm glad I
won't be there much in winter.  Probably freeze my nuts off."

	Brady laughed.  "It's a lot colder here than Venezuela in winter, too,
I bet, so don't get too comfortable."  They laughed softly together.

	"Well look who's Mr. Spic."  Stud Douggie McShane was leaning against
the door to the classroom, books under his outer arm.  He ambled into the
room, keeping an eye on Brady as he chose a desk and slid it to the far back
corner.  "This'll be fun, won't it Jethro?  Nice coat,
by the way."

	Alan glanced at Brady questioningly.  "McShane's older brother," Brady
explained. Alan glanced back at Douggie, then nodded at Brady.  Good, another
one on my side, he thought.  Wait, is it really my side, like there's
McShane's side too - already?

	The warning bell rang - class would start in four minutes.  After it
stopped, Brady could hear the rhythm of the classroom bell ringing atop
Geiger, wafting down the morning breeze through the opened windows.   Dum,
dum, dum-dum, dum-dum, dum, dum-dum, dum-dum, sum, dum-dum, dum-dum . . .
The sound was light, lilting, innocent.  He didn't feel very light
at that moment.

	"Somebody close the fucking windows, I'm already sick of that Goddam
bell," groused Douggie McShane.  Brady noticed that no one seemed to want to
sit very close to him.

	A dumpy looking man with short thinning black hair pomaded back on his
scalp, wearing a suit that looked extremely ill tailored, strode into the
room, his arms flapping oddly about a half-phase behind the rest of his walk.
He had a pencil moustache and very little chin. "Good morning students," he
said in very thickly accented English.  "I am Dr. Cortes, and this is Spanish
II.  If you are not supposed to be in this class, shoo now."  He seemed
moderately amused by the joke, and the class, being no slouches to take a
hint on the first day, responded with some chuckles.  Brady noticed Douggie
McShane remained stolid.  The late bell rang, and Dr. Cortes closed the door
to the classroom.  Here we go, Brady whispered to himself.

	Politely put, the class was a disaster.  Dr. Cortes soon began speaking
exclusively in Spanish - rapidly, seeming to slur words (to the extent Brady
could discern individual words at all), and in an accent unlike anything
Brady had ever heard when the language had been spoken.  He was used to
carefully enunciated tape recitations, but Dr. Cortes seemed to Brady's ears
to jabber incomprehensibly.  He tried to figure out what was being said, to
keep up. Eventually Dr. Cortes switched back to English, but that proved
scarce comfort for Brady, as his English was similarly accented to the point
of being unintelligible.

	And what he did make out was even worse.  "We will have test in one
week on the following tenses:  present, subjunctive, preterit, imperfect,
future, and conditional."  Brady had never heard of, or been taught, anything
but the present tense in Spanish, much less studied any
of the others sufficient to take a test on them in a week.    The longer the
class went on, the tighter his terror gripped him.  Oh fuck, it's my first
class and I'm already on the road to flunking out.  What do I do?  The other
boys in the class seemed to be taking everything in stride, taking notes,
making comments in halting but clearly grammatical Spanish that they were
able to compose in their own heads.  Alan Black even asked Dr. Cortes a
couple of questions, in rapid and clear Spanish of a sort Brady felt he could
never muster.  I'm fucked, Brady, kept thinking.  I am totally, irretrievably
fucked.

	The class bell rang after exactly forty three minutes.  Brady felt like
he'd been through a war, and lost.  He had a free period coming up, until
chapel at 9:30, so he took the opportunity to approach Dr. Cortes, who was
sitting behind his desk, flapping his legs open and closed in
rapid and frankly odd fashion.  "Sir?"

	"Yes?  Mr. Conover?"

	"Sir, I took ALM Spanish in intermediate school and - and it was all
just memorizing dialogues and things.  I - I never learned anything about all
these tenses.  I don't know -  I wonder if this is the right class for me."

	Dr. Cortes nodded, his tongue flicking about the corners of his mouth,
"You come Special Help period this afternoon, I show you,  This test will not
be too hard."  He smiled at Brady, revealing a need for dental work.  "You
are smart boy, I saw your application test.  I know you don't learn these
things in Cullingstown.  You will learn, catch up, be good student. I see you
care, because you come to me already.  That is good, that is important, more
than even knowing right now.  Some students -" he waved a hand dismissively
toward the back corner where Douggie McShane had been sitting - "they no
care, about nothing.  So they never learn. You, I know, will learn." He
looked at Brady closely for a second.  "Don't worry so much, you will learn.
That is my job, OK?  To teach."

	"Yes, sir," Brady said, trying not to let his shoulders sag too
visibly.  He trudged out into the hall as the late bell for second period
echoed about.  He felt like crying again, but again couldn't make anything
come out (or wouldn't let anything come out, at some inner
unacknowledged level).   The hallway was empty, echoey, and cold.   He felt
very alone.

	As he passed the foyer on the first floor, he heard his name called.
Doug was climbing the stairs on the north end of the hall.  Brady broke into
an involuntary grin and turned to meet him.  "I thought you had class second
period."

	Doug tossed his head to clear his forelocks form his face.  Brady
smiled wider.  "Nope, I do German first period, then Earth Science third  -
whatever Earth Science is.  What about you?"

	Brady sighed.  "I just had Spanish II."

	"Wow, you must know it pretty well already to get put into Spanish II."

	"I wish."  Brady explained his predicament, trying to stay detached and
calm.  It wasn't easy; by the time he finished describing the class he was
feeling emotional again.  He gritted his teeth and suppressed it.  "So
anyway, I guess Cortes'll help ne through it, which is cool, but
he's gonna have to some serious helping if I'm gonna do anything but bomb out
completely."

	Doug nodded, his brow furrowed worriedly.  "It's really nice that he's
willing to help you out, though, right?"  Brady nodded.  "You'll be fine, I
can tell.  You're too Goddam stubborn to let some stupid language beat you."
He grinned and leaned in, apparently hoping from a similar response from
Brady.  For his part, Brady took a deep breath and nodded,
looking down in an effort to keep his eyes dry.

	"C'mon, let's go get a donut from the canteen or something."  Doug
threw his arm around Brady's shoulder and steered him back toward the stairs.
Stud Douggie was climbing them, watching the two keenly.

	"New Boys!!" he shouted.  "Get over here!"

	Brady was in no mood for this shit.  "Back off, McShane, you're a
junior."

	Douggie cocked his head.  "I got delegated power to do whatever I
want."

	"From who?"

	"Mark Humphries.  He's a senior."

	Doug seemed almost as pissed off as Brady.  "So what?  Is that OK by
Fieldstone?"

	"Fuck Fieldstone, he's a fucking fairy.  Now get over to my room - "

	"I'm not doing shit for you, Douggie, so back off," Brady snapped.
"Go study for Cortes' test - as if you give a shit."

	Douggie snorted.  "Cortes is a cock," he snarled.  "You see how he's
always beating himself off under his desk?  It's disgusting."

	"Oh, so you notice shit like that, huh? Kind of telling, isn't it?
Doug chimed in.
	Douggie eyed them both for a long second.  "My brother was right about
both of you.  Little snot faggots.   It's gonna be fun busting you assholes
down, you know that?'

	"I can't wait," Brady muttered, pushing past Douggie to the stairs.
Douggie took momentary hold of Brady's lapel, but Brady knocked his hand away
angrily.  "Touch me again, I break your hand.  Got it?  Ignorant farm hicks
like me know lots of ways to bust up dumb animals."

	Douggie started to step closer to Brady, but froze.  "Some sort of
problem here, Mr. McShane?"   Brady turned round to see Dean Storeman leaning
out the door of his outer office.  He could glimpse Miss Harder, who he'd
spoken with about Edgar Bevans when registering, behind him at her desk,
smiling slightly.

	"No problem here at all, sir," Douggie said in a lugubrious voice.
"Just welcoming some New Boys to Wilson and hoping they have a happy year.
And that they learn lots," he added, staring at Brady.

	"Don't you have mandatory study hall during all your free periods this
semester, Mr. McShane?  Help you with your average?"

	"Yes, sir," Douggie responded, and Brady saw a blush rise.  The sight
made him feel momentarily triumphant.  "Mr. Billips excused me to get my math
book for next period.  I had forgotten it in my room."  He held up a thick
grey volume as evidence.

	"That was kind of him.  Now that you've got it, I suggest you get back
to 307."

	"Yes, sir."  Douggie shuffled to the stairwell, his posture angry and
embarrassed.  Dean Storeman watched him his face impassive, then smiled at
Brady and Doug.  "Gentlemen, I expect you both to resist the temptation to be
less than well mannered at all times."

	Brady swallowed.  "Of course, sir.  I don't want any kind of trouble."

	"A good idea.  And you, Mr, Garretson?"

	Doug looked mutinous.  "Sir he was -"

	"Doug agrees, sir, believe me.  We have to go now, we need to get books
too - before chapel and stuff.  Thank you."   He grabbed Doug by the arm and
pulled him down the stairs, Doug's face reddening with every step.

	"What the fuck, man?" Doug objected loudly once they were outside on
the sidewalk. "The guy was being a prick and trying to pick a fight, Storeman
oughtta be told about it."

	"Doug, he knew already.  Why d'you think he came out into the hall?
Relax, man."  Brady was smiling now, relieved and amused by Doug's outrage.

	Doug stared at Brady for a moment, then started laughing as well.
"What an asshole," he muttered.  They strode off together, shoulders bumping.
He wanted to defend me, Brady thought.  That's so cool.

	The rest of the morning went better.  His Math teacher, third period,
looked amazingly old and frail, and seemed unnaturally cranky, but Brady felt
he could deal with it.  If he could deal with Mr. Jocko, he could deal with
anybody.   His English class, fourth period, was more
promising.  The teacher was a whippet thin man in his late 40s with a bristly
black flat top haircut, an enormous nose that looked like it had taken too
many left crosses, and a thick Brooklyn accent.  He was relaxed, amusing, and
completely accessible.  Brady liked him almost
at once.  And, blessedly, Douggie McShane - and Ian, for that matter - were
nowhere to be seen in any of his other classes.

	His sole afternoon class was Earth Science, and the teacher wound up
being Mr. Drake, the varsity football coach.  He noticed that many of the
freshman football players were in the class - himself, Doug, Evan Creed, Jack
Spencer (a burly guy who looked to be the number one
running back), Alan Black, three or four others.  By Thursday of that first
week, they were 	spending the last part of class watching game films.

	The speed with which things fell into a routine amazed him.  The week
flew by.  His afternoon sessions with Dr. Cortes were quickly making him feel
more comfortable with the upcoming test, though he still knew he'd be lucky
to do well on it.  "This is a first test," Dr Cortes assured him.  "I do not
expect anyone to do well.  Some in your class, they are juniors or seniors
who did not do well last year.  They will do badly, I promise you."  The
thought of doing at least better than Stud Douggie drove him.  Having to face
him in class first thing each
morning was bad enough.  He had at least to get better grades than he did.

	New Boy Rules were largely uneventful.  Carrying seniors' books,
reciting information on School history from the Handbook (Brady was grateful
to Bill Fieldstone for the information on Edgar Bevans, as he was the target
of some fairly detailed questioning a couple of times on
the subject - what he couldn't remember, he faked, with sufficient sincerity
that nothing was questioned), singing the fight song in class or in halls
between classes, or in the dining hall or at assemblies, was the most of it
from Brady's perspective.  Doug had little more to report, as did most of the
guys he spoke with on his hall.  It appeared that Bill Fieldstone was running
things with an iron hand, preventing seniors from doing anything too
outlandish with their power.  Some of the seniors apparently were none too
thrilled with Bill's work.  Douggie McShane
daily sank into a deeper and deeper funk, a development that quietly thrilled
Brady.   David seemed somewhat envious, as well.  "You guys are getting off
so Goddam easy, it pisses me off.  It figures Fieldstone'd keep things under
control, but I mean, shit . . ."  Brady tried to use
this as an opening to find out what had happened to David during his New Boy
Rules experience, but David remained resolutely silent on the subject.  The
two were coexisting well, however, with David offering Brady help in math
(Brady was only so-so in the subject, while David was already taking
trigonometry as a freshman and looking to take calculus next year).

	Football was also going well.  Brady had settled in as a starter at
tight end on offense and defensive end.  Ian McShane, relegated to a guard
position on offense, got his wish to be a linebacker on defense, which
cheered him greatly.  Doug was starting center, and the other end
on defense as well.  They had their first game approaching at the end of the
second week of classes, against the junior varsity from Summerton High.
"They don't field a frosh team, so we'll play the JV," Mr. Glendon explained.
"It'll be a good test.  They'll be mostly older and more experienced -
sophomores, a lot of the starters, and a few juniors - so it'll be good to
step up a bit.  Hold us in good stead later on in the season."  What coach
ever talks like that, Brady thought to himself, chuckling, even as he felt a
vague apprehension at playing against older
boys.

	He continued to call his mother nightly.  Her voice was becoming
bouncier, as if she nonetheless.  She would rattle on about doings in
Cullingstown, what people had been in the store, and how all his friends were
asking after him.  "Kenny was in the store today, and he just sat on the
ledge and talked for the longest time.  It was very sweet.  I think he misses
you a lot."   That made Brady feel mildly guilty, though he was far from
forgiving Kenny for anything.

	Sometimes her words slurred a bit, but Brady deliberately ignored it.

	 Evan Creed and Brady were clicking well on pass plays, with Mr.
Glendon even designing a delayed screen pass for him should pass rushers get
too overeager attacking Evan.  "I want to get you the ball sometimes in a
broken field and let you use your speed, Brady," he explained.  The implicit
compliment made Brady feel wonderful the rest of the day.

	The Spanish test came and went, and was a predictable disaster.  Brady
got a 67 on it, and was cheered only by the fact that the class average had
been 45, with Stud Douggie getting only a 41.  McShane complained loudly
about this, swearing out loud to Dr. Cortes in class (to general
astonishment).  For his part, Dr. Cortes apparently had little or no
knowledge of English obscenities (or just ignored them), and simply
instructed McShane to come for special help if he wanted.  His continuously
flapping legs, whenever seated, were starting to crack Brady up. Maybe Stud
Douggie's right and he is whacking off inside those baggy pants, he thought.
The grade he got somehow enthused him.  In one week he'd managed to learn
four tenses of a language he barely understood enough to almost pass a
grammar test.  He insisted on making it
a positive development in his mind, even as he remained painfully aware of
what the score would to do his overall class grade.  I can do this, he
thought.  I can make it.

	Doug Garrettson  and he became inseparable.  This was at once deeply
painful to Brady, because he knew his deepening affection for the boy would
never be reciprocated in the way he pined for, and glorious - because every
moment spent with Doug was precious.  They laughed together, strove in
football practice together, listened to music in their rooms (Dunc and David
were also hitting it off, their shared love for arcane British rock music
binding them fast), and generally goofing off.  Brady was thankful Doug
wasn't in any of his classes - being in the
same room with him would have been fatal to his ability to concentrate.  They
quickly developed their own private jokes, began completing each other's
sentences.  Brady sometimes laughed at the weird irony that Doug and Stud
Douggie McShane shared the same first name.

	"He's my evil Siamese twin, we were cut apart at birth," Doug explained
one evening as they lounged across Brady's bed, with David at his desk
studying while wearing enormous headphones and muttering a song Brady had
never heard.  "And look!  I got all the brains!"

	"And all the good looks, too!"  Brady exclaimed, before realizing what
he'd said.  He glanced at Doug anxiously, but Doug was just Laughing, his
daybreak smile bursting across his face, and Brady's terror at having slipped
up passed in an instant.

	Doug theatrically swept his hair back from his eyes.   "I'm a god, man.
A fine young stallion.  I'm fucking immortal."

	He looked it, at that moment, with his dark hair glossy, his eyes
shining, the tanned skin on his arms smooth and warm colored in the room's
dim light.  Brady had to look away for fear of doing something stupid.
"You're almost good enough for Raquel," he managed to say
teasingly.  "But I got first dibs on her."  He hoped that some open
expression of desire for her would cover for what he'd said.

	Doug roared with protesting laughter.  "Man, she's in my room not
yours, you can't steal my babe!"   He lunged across at Brady,. And they fell
into a playful wrestling match, scattering Brady's bedsheets and making the
frame creak alarmingly.  Brady flashed to his wrestling with
Kenny, and how it had always made him desperately hard, and immediately felt
himself springing upward.   He squirmed away from Doug, perhaps too quickly,
and stood up.  "I gotta pee."

	Doug was blinking a little.  "What, did I hurt you or something? Bray?"
David had turned, and was watching the proceedings impassively.

	"No, no, I just gotta pee and all.  Be right back."  As he slipped from
the room, he said over his shoulder, "I'm gonna kick your ass when I get
back!"

	"You and whose army?"  Doug shouted, laughing.  Luckily for Brady,
evening study hall started while he was in the bathroom, and Doug had to
return to his own room until it was over.  Brady spent the entire period at
his desk, painfully erect.

	He had to jerk off twice that night after David fell asleep.  Or maybe
David wasn't asleep yet, he didn't really care anymore.  The memory of Doug
sprawled across him as they wrestled, the feeling of his lean body, seemed to
run through his blood.  He imagined kissing those full smiling lips, running
his hand through the thick hair, feeling his perfect skin.  He lay awake for
a long time, imagining and despairing.

	Brady was nervous that entire Friday during class.  He could hardly
wait for the game, yet was scared at the same time.  Mr. Edwin, his English
teacher, sensed his nervousness and made a few jokes about how dumb Summerton
High kids were, which loosened things up a bit. After his final class, he
hurried to the gym, to find many of his teammates already there and suiting
up.  He had barely stripped when Mr. Glendon strode through the locker room.
"Let's go, boys,. Onto the Guppy, we got a kickoff time to make."

"The Guppy" turned out to be an ancient half-sized school bust painted
fadedly in the Wilson school colors, with an engine that sounded like it
needed to be put out of its misery even when idling.  The benches were
narrow, lumpy, and in need of new uncracked seat covers.  They were
also impossible narrow, especially when two guys tried to sit together
wearing full football pads.   Brady and Doug teetered on their seat the
entire drive over to Summerton High, which, since it was just across town,
was mercifully short.

	The school was much larger than Cullingstown's.  It had a track around
the main football field, which seemed quite a luxury to Brady (Wilson had a
full eight lane cinder track, of course, but it was a private school, after
all.  Cullingstown High had neither track nor a track team.).   He glanced
nervously about as he clambered off the bus.  A few guys leaning against cars
in the parking lot near them and smoking started casually shouting insults:
"Hey, it's the pussy boys from Wilson!"  "Hey faggots, how many cocks do you
suck there in your little homo prison?"

	Ian McShane made a move as if to go after them (an act on his part
that, for once, Brady had some sympathy for), only to be harshly called back
by Mr. Glendon.  At his order, they gathered close around him.  "All right,
boys, this is an important lesson.  They don't like
us.  Why?  Because they envy us.   Are we better than them?   Maybe, matbe
not, in real terms.  I don't like the whole idea of people being inherently
better because of where they go to school.  But are we better than that
couple of losers?  You beet we are.  And we show that we're better when we
don't sink to their level.  We don't call people names, we don't insult
people, we don't pick fights.  We are Wilson Cavaliers, and we are at all
times ferocious gentlemen.  And the gentlemen part is the hardest one,
especially when kids like that -" he gestured back over his shoulder toward
the parking lot - "are trying to bait you into something.
Be mature, show how much better you are than them."  He pointed to the field.
"That's where we do our talking.  That's where the ferocious part comes in.
You want that?"  The entire team shouted their assent.  Brady could feel the
adrenaline flowing through them all.  "Then go get
it!"  And with a huge collective shout, the 1967 Wilson School freshman
football team stormed out onto the field at Summerton High to warm up.

	They were almost done with their calesthenics when a loud roar erupted
behind them. Brady turned to see a river of football players sprint onto the
other end of the field and form lines.  Many looked huge to him.  "Keep your
mind on your job, gentlemen!"  Mr. Glendon shouted, and they turned back to
their warmup exercises.  Many, however, kept stealing glances back at their
opponents.

	"They don't look like freshmen," whispered Chase Morgan, a stocky kid
who was the other guard on offense along with McShane.

	McShane pushed Morgan into position in the huddle they were forming to
run through some basic plays.  "They're not, asshole.  Summerton always loads
up when we play them, sends a lot of their varsity guys down to kick our
asses.  They enjoy that kind of thing."

	"Wait a second," Evan Creed said, looking suddenly a bit pale.  "We're
going to be playing their varsity?"

	"Some of 'em, at least," McShane said coolly.  "They ran a lot of their
varsity at us for three quarters last year until they had us down pretty bad,
then they let the real freshmen and stuff play the last quarter."

	"How bad was last year?"  someone asked in a trembly voice.

	McShane waved his hand dismissively.  "42 - 7," he answered.  We sucked
last year, this'll be a lot better.  I barely even played.  Glendon's an
idiot like that."

	Brady glanced at Doug, whose face held the same mix of trepidation and
anger that he felt rising in him.  "Well, they are NOT gonna beat us like
that.  I'm not gonna be scared by a bunch of assholes like that!"  He was
shouting by the end. And the entire team roared its agreement.

	Mr. Glendon sent Brady and Evan out for the coin toss.  Three large
Summerton players approached from their sideline.  Brady quickly could see
that these guys were indeed way past freshmen.  The realization, again, made
him both a little frightened and very angry.  They shook
hands wordlessly, and Summerton won the toss.  As they separated, one of
their captains leaned in towards Brady.  "We're gonna fuck you up, little
preppy boy."

	"Die trying, asshole," Brady shot back.  The guy grinned at him and
turned away.

	"Cool it, Brady, we're not supposed to take the bait, remember?"  Evan
castigated him as they jogged back to the sideline.

	"Fuck it, they're two-bit bullies," Brady answered angrily.  "They're
like the guys who used to steal kids' lunch money and stuff.  We go after
them and don't show weakness, they'll wilt.  You watch, you'll see."

	The game didn't start well.  Brady, kicking off, made a hash of the
job, sending a broken backed low knuckleball barely to the 20 yard line.
Luckily, it was so poor a kick, bouncing wildly, that it wasn't fielded
cleanly or returned very far.   Brady lined up at right end on defense, in a
three point stance, and looked at the alarmingly big tackle across from him.
It was the guy who'd taunted him at the coin toss, and as he got down into
his stance, he grinned.

	Brady had been hit hard before, but this was a whole new level.  He
felt himself lifted up and thrown sideways like a rag, the force of the blow
left him seeing stars.  He spun to the inside, around behind the blocker, and
was run over from behind by a large truck.  He got up a
long second later to find that his maneuver had taken him right into the ball
carrier's path, and he'd fallen over Brady's back.  No gain.

	Brady tried to blink his vision clear again as his teammates slapped
him on the back and helmet.  McShane even took his hand for a second.  "Good
job, Conover.  Keep it up."

	The next several plays went in other directions, and Brady did little
but watch in dismay as the Summerton team plowed its way down the field.
McShane was making many tackles on that side from his linebacker position, as
was Doug at the other defensive end.  Brady quickly
learned that though there was no way he could stand toe to toe against the
Summerton linemen, he was quicker than any of them,. And if he guessed right
he could shoot gaps and create general havoc.  On a play from near  midfield,
he did just that, squirting inside the tackle's
lumbering block and hitting the Summerton quarterback from his blind side,
dead in the small of his back.  The strangled cry of pain the quarterback
made as he buckled to the ground, the ball falling from his hand, raised some
ugly atavistic emotion in Brady:  he'd hurt the motherfucker, and he liked
doing it.  Chase Morgan, whose stocky legs were standing him in good stead as
a nose guard, fell on the fumble, and the surprisingly large crowd in the
stands behind the Summerton bench groaned.

	Playing on offense, however, was another matter.  There Brady and the
rest of his team had no choice but to engage their opponents physically, and
they got creamed.  Amazingly, after they punted the ball, the first quarter
ended, with Brady and the rest of his team feeling
like they'd been in a war.

	Summerton pressed hard on them in their next drive, and the Wilson line
slowly buckled.  Brady tried shooting a gap again, only to have a quick pitch
sweep go right past him and up the sideline, the last twenty yards, for a
touchdown.  The Summerton fans cheered, and McShane was swearing in Brady's
ear.  "Stay at home, asshole!  Don't lose fucking contain on 'em!"  He was
right, and Brady was both angry at himself and ashamed.

	On the extra point, the Summerton line forgot to block Brady, and he
sped in untouched toward the holder, who seemed to be trying to get the ball
down for the kick in slow motion.  Brady dove headlong into him, smacking his
chest down where the ball was supposed to be placed.  The ball skittered
away, but the kicker, after an instant's hesitation, trode forward anyway and
kicked Brady square in the chest.  The blow luckily struck the breastplate of
his pads, but it knocked the wind out of him nonetheless.  He struggled to
his feet, wheezing. "Nice block, asshole," the kicker sneered at him,.  "See
how well you play after that."

	The rest of the half seemed like a continual bulldozing.  Summerton
scored two more touchdowns, though they botched both extra points again.  The
halftime score was 18 - 0, and most of the Wilson team felt they were lucky
to have it that close.  Mr. Glendon let them chew on orange slices and rest,
in the shade of a large oak tree, for a good five minutes efore
gathering them.  "OK, who wants to quit?  We're down, they're bigger and
they've used JV and some varsity players against us, and we're hurting.
Who's done?"   No one spoke.  "We all in together?  Good.  Because I have a
little secret to tell you."  He leaned forward, and the boys, curious,
gathered closer as he spoke softly, grinning like a conspirator.  "We're
better than they are.  We're quicker than they are.  They're slow and fat not
in shape, and if we start running our counters it'll open up all sorts of
things.  They can't chase you boys all over the field for the full game,
they'll gas out.  You guys didn't see it, but I did.  By the end of the half
they were already gassed.  Are we gassed?  Keep using your speed, attack with
speed, and good things are going to happen."

	They received the second half kickoff (Summerton's kicker doing an even
worse job than Brady had), and the counter started to work.  Summerton's
linebackers were stumbling, unable to decide which way to pursue, and slow to
react when they did decide.  Evan Creed was a clever ball handler, and Jack
Spencer combined size with a surprising speed that led to some big gains.
After five counter runs in a row,  Evan faked a run and lofted an arcing pass
to Alan Black.  No one came close to him, and he scored easily.  In the
huddle, everyone was jabbering excitedly.  "Shut up, guys., we're going for
two here," Evan barked.

	"Run it over me, I'll kick that guy's ass."  McShane had been
increasingly mouthy to the Summerton defenders as the drive had unfolded.

	"They expect us to run, and to go counter.  We just served them a full
dose of that.  They'll fly after it.  Brady - one count and slant in.  Let's
go!"  Brady felt himself tremble as he lined up to the left.  The tackle guy
he'd been across from all day was angry, but panting
alarmingly.  "Come at me now, bastards," he growled.

	On the snap, Brady lunged inside as if to block him for a counter play
around left end.  The tackle cut outside, leaving him untouched.  He ran six
fast strides diagonally to the center, into the end zone, turned, and just as
his hands came up Evan's pass hit him squarely in the
belly.  He clutched it and eased up, smiling.

	He never saw the opposite linebacker, who apparently didn't like being
scored on.  The clothesline hit was like being shot.  He nearly flipped over
completely, his helmet flying off, and he fell heavily,  Hold on to the ball
was his one clear thought as he tumbled limply, his hands practically
puncturing holes in the leather.  He did manage to hold on, and whistles blew
all about him as the referees ran in to call a foul on the tackle.

	As Brady sat up slowly, he heard more noise, and more whistles.  Ian
McShane had cut the legs out on the guy who'd clotheslined Brady, apparently
hurting his knee, and was now doing his level best to beat him to death.
Other players from both teams started to help their respective players, and
an ugly fight seemed imminent.  The refs shoved boys back, shouting angrily.
Brady watched this spectacle with mild and foggy bemusement, as if from a
great distance.  Mr. Glendon was amid the flurry now, yelling at the Wilson
boys to step back.  All did, except McShane, who tried again to hurl himself
at a Summerton player.  He was swearing at the top of his lungs, and
colorfully (Brady had, in two weeks of prep school, already become a
connoisseur  of obscenity, and he found himself making a mental note of some
of McShane's better combinations).

	"Bray, you OK?"  Doug was kneeling next to him, trying to help him to
his feet.

	Brady snapped back to reality at the sound of his voice, and stood.
"I'm fine," he said. Then, conscious that he still was holding the ball, he
raised it over his head to show the Summerton players.   He considered
spiking it the way he'd seen Homer Jones of the Giants do it, but he was
standing still so it wouldn't look as cool, and given the situation the refs
probably wouldn't appreciate it.  Mr. Glendon was now dragging McShane back
toward the sideline.

	"They kicked McShane and the guy who cheap shotted you out," Doug said
calmly.

	"Why'd they kick McShane out?   The other guy deserved it."

	Doug smiled.  "Well, maybe he deserved something, but not the kick in
the nuts McShane gave him after the ref pulled him off the guy the first
time."  They looked at each other and started laughing.  The Summeron
linebacker was now being helped off the field. Brady noticed that as he
reached the sideline, he buckled over and started puking.  Their laughter
increased, and soon the entire Wilson team was roaring at Summeron's
discontent.

	Summerton fell apart.  Brady's kickoff was huge, coming down at the
goal line, and the returner bobbled it badly before getting buried just past
the 10.  Conditioning indeed began to tell.  The Wilson players were faster,
they couldn't be blocked by the tiring Summerton linemen. Wilson got the ball
back and drove the field, with Jack Spencer  crashing over for the touchdown,
leaving two Summerton players on their backs.  This time Jack ran in the
conversion.  18 -16, as the third quarter ended.

	Brady was still foggy from being hit, but also in a state of complete
exhilaration.  Another deep kickoff, another botched return, another
defensive stand (with Brady putting another punishing blind side hit on the
Summerton quarterback), and they had the ball again. "All right," Even
muttered in the huddle, "they've been chasing the counter all half.  Let's
counter the counter."  The entire huddle broke into cheers and laughter, and
their laughing as they ran to line up visibly disturbed the Summerton
defense.

	Brady knew what he wanted to do to the tackle he'd been battling all
day.  At the snap, he lunged out as if to block him for a counter play to go
around the end on his side, but pretended to stumble as if he'd missed the
block.  "Damn!" he shouted loudly.  The tackle sprinted past him, following
Jack Spencer to the outside, sure that he had the play.  When Alan Black took
the ball, at full speed, from Jack to sprint around to the other side, the
entire Summerton defense froze for a moment in disbelief.  The tackle
stopped, and started to turn to pursue the other way.  The last thing he saw
was Brady, with a good five yard head of steam, hurtling toward him.  The
impact sent him tumbling backwards, almost flipping over completely.  He made
no effort to get up.  Brady stood over him for a moment.   "You just got had,
pal."

	The play got them down to the Summerton 5.

	A new tackle replaced the guy Brady had been facing (that boy needing
some help to leave the field).  He was likewise big, and older looking, but
his face was fearful.  Brady had beaten the guy ahead of him, and he was
scared of what Brady might do to him.  Brady glanced down the line, and saw
the same fear in the rest of the Summeron defense.  The battle was won, even
before Jack Spencer ran straight over the middle linebacker, sending him
flying even more theatrically than what Brady had done to his man, to score
the touchdown that put Wilson ahead to stay.
	The clock ran out on a 24-18 victory, and Brady felt like a god.  He,
Evan, Jack Spencer, and Doug hugged on the field, bouncing up and down, and
shouting.  Alan Black leaped headlong into their midst screaming
inarticulately and scattering them.   Doug took Brady into a crushing
embrace.  The bridge of Doug's nose was cracked open and bleeding, his face
was streaked with his blood and dirt and sweat, and he was the most beautiful
thing Brady had ever seen.  Their embrace lasted far longer than it should
have.

	The only member of the Wilson team not celebrating was Ian McShane.  He
was in the Guppy, shoulder pads off, slouched in the back row.

	Mr. Glendon gathered them together after several minutes.  "So, was
this fun?"  They roared.  "Was this how Cavaliers fight?"  Another roar.
"Was this a win?"  The loudest one yet.  "All right, now listen:  You boys
just essentially beat their varsity.  You might not have realized
it, but they brought more and more of their first string guys over as the
game got out of hand towards the end, not to mention the boys they used on
you all game long.  You fought, you were better conditioned, and you were all
ferocious gentlemen - almost."  His lips compressed a
bit, and everyone knew who he was referring to.

	Brady felt obligated to speak up.  "Sir, I know Ian got out of hand but
he was defending me after I got cheap shotted -"

	"I know what happened, Conover.  And the referees called it.  That boy
was going to be ejected from the game anyway.  Ian lost his composure, and
got himself ejected too, which weakened us.  That loss of composure let all
of you down.  I know the desire to protect a teammate, and I appreciate it.
But you do it within the rules.  I won't have anyone on this team pull a
stunt like that again.  Clear?"  The response was less enthusiastic this
time.  "All right, let's get loaded up, you all need some dinner."

	McShane looked like he wanted to kick someone else in the balls when
they got on the bus.  Brady hesitated a moment, then went back to him.
"Look, I - I'm sorry you got, you know, thrown out.  I - I appreciate you
standing up for -"

	"Can it.  If you'd had half a brain you'd have protected yourself and
it never would have happened.  All this is your fault."

	"Ian, I -"

	"I don't want fucking sympathy from some ignorant hick who doesn't know
how to play football and belongs with those assholes instead of with us.  Go
fuck yourself, Conover."

	Brady was torn between anger and pity for a moment.  He decided to
leave it.  "OK, well, anyway, thanks again."

	"Bite me."

	The shower room back at the gym was boisterous, with Jack and Evan
snapping wet towels at everyone they could.  Alan Black got a nasty looking
welt on his left asscheek, though he laughed about it even as he groaned from
the sting.  Brady found himself idly musing about what a really nice ass Alan
had.   Doug started singing the fight song loudly and off key, and the rest
of the team soon joined in.  The laughter was infectious and irrepressible,
the closeness palpable.  They became a team that day, that hour, in those few
minutes together, celebrating
exhausted and un-self-consciously naked together in an overheated shower
room.

	Brady was towelling his hair when Doug appeared next to him, in front
of their lockers.  He smiled at Brady a moment, then hugged him tightly.
Their nude bodies slapped together.  Brady was conscious of Doug's penis
against his leg, and of his own jabbing into Doug's hip.
The skin was velvety, the muscles beneath smooth and supple.  He couldn't
breathe, or move.  "Oh God,"  he croaked out.

	"I know," Doug whispered into his ear, the warmth of his breath raising
goose flesh down Brady's neck.  "This was so cool, wasn't it?"  He pulled
back, hands still on Brady's shoulders, and looked at him.
	"God, Doug, your nose looks awful," Brady said, raising a finger to
trace the gouge that ran between his eyebrows.  He wanted to kiss it, caress
it, heal it.

	"It'll be OK, I already had Mr. Otis look at it.  I don't even need
stitches, just a better fitting helmet."  He laughed.  "We kicked their
asses, Bray.  Their fucking varsity!"  His fingers were digging into Brady's
shoulders.  Brady's hands were on Doug's sides, just above his
waist.

	They fell silent and gazed at each other for a long second.  Brady's
hands started to slide down a bit onto Doug's hips.   He was breathing in
shallow gasps.  He was starting to get hard.  He abruptly turned and sat
down, tossing his towel over his lap in what he hoped would appear to be a
casual manner.  "That was so neat, I know.  You were great, Doug, you know
that, right?"

	Doug stood a moment, then moved back to his locker.  "Thanks, so were
you."  He yanked his underwear up, facing away from Brady.  The distance
between them, the chasm that Brady knew he didn't dare to cross, was
agonizing.  Brady looked down, couldn't look up at him again.  If he did,
he'd say it, and it would all be lost.  A moment later, Doug wordlessly
strode out from his locker, headed for the dining hall.  Brady sat, head
down.  He didn't care if he was late for dinner or got stung for it.  He
couldn't face his life, not right then, for a little while.

	Why did all his best moments in life now seem reduced to nothing,
simply because he couldn't have Doug?  How pathetic was this?  For the first
time, dark thoughts entered his mind: this isn't worth it, I need to just end
everything.  I can't do this.  God, what can I do?

	The night he was in was pitch black, and the longer he contemplated
things, the less he saw any way out.