Date: Thu, 12 Apr 2012 20:59:50 -0600
From: Rich H <rlhsanclemente@gmail.com>
Subject: When the World Changed Part 8

Here's the latest chapter of this story.  My thanks, again, to those
who've offered comments (positive and negative) on it, and I hope anyone
out there who does read it will feel free to tell me what they think.
This is fictional, so if anyone thinks they recognize anyone they know in
the story - well, they're wrong.  If reading a story like this is illegal
where you live for any reason, by all means don't read it.  All rights
aside from those given to Nifty in submitting it to them remain mine -
who knows, maybe someday I'll come up with something someone will want to
publish (I dream a lot). If you do like this story, you should take a
look at my other Nifty story, "Seal Rocks," which is also here in the HS
section with the last chapter posted about a year ago.  Read and (I hope)
enjoy!

When the World Changed, Part 8

	Brady's chest developed a nasty diffuse bruise overnight where he'd
been kicked.  It throbbed dully as he showered, groggy in the grey predawn
in the floor's bathroom, the morning grumbling and bitching of his
hallmates echoing around him.  They were all losing their initial
inhibitions about being seen in the communal room at that hour, even when
erect from the need to piss.  Brady himself had managed to avoid that
particular embarrassment so far, but he was amazed at how many other boys
seemed not to care.  The others would of course make all sorts of obscene
comments whenever someone showed up hard - usually about being a faggot who
was hard over the prospect of seeing other naked boys - but the teasing had
an understanding tone to it that belied its apparent nastiness.  Since the
concept of morning wood had never been explained to Brady, this knowledge -
that everyone got it from time to time (for some it seemed a daily
occurrence) - was a great relief.  Maybe I'm not such a freak after all, he
thought.  It was, to some extent, comforting.

	At those moments he keenly wished he lived on the same floor as
Doug.  He wondered if Doug awoke hard in the morning, and if the guys on
his floor ever saw him like that in their bathroom.  The possibility of
such a thing was thrilling, and of course only made it more difficult for
Brady to keep himself reasonably flaccid as he cleaned up.

	Breakfast was a quiet affair.  Mr. Freeman wasn't there, so the
table Prefect, a pimply junior named Owen Delaney, assumed the role.  "You
New Boys better all be going to the game today," he counseled.  "We gotta
support the team."  Most of the freshman nodded desultorily - it was too
early to think that far ahead - but Brady was eager.  He had no work
program that morning, and only one class at 9:30, so he could go back to
sleep for a bit after eating.  The whole day stretched out before him as a
treat.

	He and Wolfsen got pulled from their table by some seniors toward
the end of the meal to skip about the dining hall singing the school fight
song.  They laughed as they did so, and soon a large group of New Boys were
ordered to join them.  As he moved clumsily about the tables, laughing,
Brady saw and recognized face after face.  They were his friends, his
colleagues.  David was leaning back on his chair, one elbow over the back,
laughing quietly and whispering to Jerry Goldman, who was seated next to
him.  Stud Douggie, in another part of the hall, glowered at the whole
scene.

	Then Brady caught sight of Ian McShane, and he faltered.  His left
eye was blackened, his lower lip swollen.  He was sitting in a clearly
uncomfortable position, as if he couldn't find an arrangement that wasn't
painful.  Jesus, what happened to him, Brady thought.  Their eyes met for
an instant.  Ian flashed just an instant of deep sadness, then sneered and
turned away.  Brady stumbled, having slowed down at this sight, and Wolfsen
ran into him.  The entire line of boys threatened to tumble over like
dominoes.  The rest of the hall roared with laughter at this development.
As people were dismissed a moment later, Brady tried to catch sight of Ian
again, to no avail.

	He caught up to him in the walkway, by the trophy cases.  "Jesus,
Ian, are you OK?"

	Ian refused to look at him.  "I'm fine, farm boy.  Fuck off."

	Brady persisted.  "I mean it, what happened to you?"

	Ian swung round.  "This is what I got for covering your stupid ass
yesterday" He hesitated, his eyes darting about.  "The - the Summerton guy
slugged me, while we were tangled up, OK?  It's all your fucking fault
anyway.  Maybe you didn't hear me the first time, so I'll try it again:
Fuck off."  He stormed off, head down.

	Brady stood there for several seconds, being jostled by boys trying
to get by.  "Hey Bray, what's going on?"  Doug was behind him, along with
Evan Creed, who was sinking his teeth into a large apple.

	Brady hardly even registered their appearance.  "McShane - d-did
you see him?  His face, and all?"

	Evan shrugged.  "He's ugly, I don't wanna see his face."  He
grinned at what he regarded as a clever remark (it was still very early in
the morning, after all).

	"No, I mean it, he's all fucked up - he's got a black eye and his
lip's all swole up, . . . "

	"Damn, how'd that happen?"  Doug's eyes met Brady's as their minds
worked in the same direction.

	Brady blinked.  "He - he said the Summerton guy slugged him
yesterday."

	"That's bullshit, he didn't have any of that after the game."

	"Maybe it took a while to show," Evan suggested.  "That happens,
right?"

	Brady and Doug glanced at each other.  "Could be," Brady said
uncertainly.  "I dunno."

	"New Boys!!"  Stud Douggie was striding down the walkway toward
them, a thin blond haired kid next to him.

	"Man, you're a junior, will you get off it?"  Evan snapped.  Brady
found that interesting: Douggie's not just been going after me.

	"But I'm a senior," the blond kid snapped back.  He gestured to the
name card on his lapel, with a school deal on it as seniors wore to denote
their authority during New Boy Rules.  "So shut up.  Let's go, I have some
shoes that need shining, and maybe more after that."  Douggie smiled
wickedly.  "Whaddya think, Douggie, we got anything else lined up for these
pussies?"

	"Hell yeah," Douggie said with a nasty smile.  Brady felt a vague
stab of fear.

	"Hey, Conover!"  Brendan McCracken was ambling down the walkway, a
full head taller than any of the boys around him.  He wore a lopsided smile
on his craggy face.  "You better be there today, you need to watch the
offense.  What're you doing with him, Talbot?"

	The blond senior (Talbot, Brady noted - he hadn't met this kid
before) shrugged.  "Me and McShane were gonns have a little fun with the
New Boys."

	McCracken frowned.  "Can it, Talbot.  I know what your version of
'fun' is, and you're not fucking with any of these guys."

	Talbot straightened up angrily (not that it appreciably closed the
size gap between him and McCracken; Brendan was still enormous).  "You got
no right to tell me what I can and can't tell a New Boy to do."

	"Maybe, but I know Fieldstone already rusticated you for five days
for the little stunt with DeFillipis last weekend," McCracken replied
coolly.  "He's on you tight, Andy, and I'll be too, with these guys. "  He
glanced at McShane.  "You got any business here, McShane?"

	Stud Douggie looked a bit intimidated.  "I - I'm just, you know,
hanging out with Andy and stuff."

	"OK, well this is senior business.  Take a hike."  Stud Douggie
swallowed and turned away, striding off with an angry slouch to his
shoulders.

	Without McShane beside him, Talbot seemed to deflate.  "I - I was
just gonna have them shine some shoes, Brendan.  For the floor, you know?
I - I wasn't gonna - "

	"You're on really thin ice, Talbot.  Take a breather, OK?"  He
shooed Talbot away with a dismissive wave of the back of his hand.

	"Thanks," Brady breathed as Talbot left, vanishing into the swirl
of boys passing by.
	"No sweat.  Gotta go to bat for the team, right?"  Brady smiled,
feeling vaguely embarrassed.  Something else that almost happened, but
didn't.

	"Hey Brendan," Doug piped up, "what happened with DeFillipis?  He's
on my hall, and he was gone for a couple of days earlier this week."

	McCracken hesitated.  "Talbot had him do some physical stuff, and
he got hurt.  Not bad, from what I understand, but you're not supposed to
get people hurt, you know?"

	"What'd he do?"  Evan asked.

	McCracken shrugged, though he seemed a bit stiff all of a sudden.
"Don't really know.  They just told the seniors on Wednesday to not go
overboard.  Fieldstone was on a tear, even Leeds got into it."

	"What's the deal with Fieldstone, anyway?"  Evan asked.  Brady and
Doug exchanged another glance as the group trotted down the stairs.
"Somebody told me he was a faggot."  Brady found himself inhaling sharply.

	McCracken laughed.  "Fieldstone's all right.  He's - - different,
OK?  Great cross country runner - don't ever go out with him on a run
unless you're ready to die like a dog.  He did that to me our freshman year
and I thought I was a goner."  The discussion moved to the prospects for
the cross country team, and the track team next spring.  Brady noted how
McCracken had subtly changed the subject.

	They emerged from Geiger into a dazzling bright, cool morning, with
bright leaves scattering before a breeze.  The air felt thinly cold,
brittle.  McCracken looked about and smiled slightly.  "OK, New Boys, I
think a long skip down center campus holding hands and singing - really
loud singing - is in order here. "  He clapped Brady on the back.  "Move
it, I got class at 8."

	Brady laughed and took Doug's hand.  It felt warm and soft.  They
looked at each other and smiled.  Evan grabbed Doug's other hand, laughing,
and they took off, raucously out of tune.

	Brady dozed briefly after that, still in his jacket and tie, and
barely made it to Earth Science.  Coach Drake had little interest in
discussing albedo.  He paced the front of the class for a while, lecturing
absently, then started drawing plays on the blackboard, intensely
explaining the blocking patterns and anticipated defensive reactions.
Brady and Spencer paid close attention; many of their non-football
classmates took the opportunity to nap discreetly.  Coach Drake was out the
door before any of his students when the bell rang.

	Since buses were leaving before the usual lunch hour, an informal
sandwich buffet was set up in the dining hall.  Brady took an extra
sandwich for later in the day and slipped back to his room to change for
the bus ride.  David and Doug did likewise.  "Take some cash, too -
sometimes they stop the buses at some hoagie place on Route 1 in like
Pennsauken or someplace," David advised.  Brady was trying to save his
money, so he decided to ignore that idea.

	Getting out of campus was a thrilling, liberating experience.
Except for the trip to Summerton High for the game, Brady hadn't left the
place in three weeks.  The bus was raucous.  The driver - one of the
grounds crew Brady had noticed driving a tractor mower on center campus a
couple of times - had little ability to control the boys, and less
inclination as long as he could see to drive.  The result was a hilarious
anarchy.

	The school, to Brady's surprise, was not in Germantown itself (he
vaguely knew that the city was right by Philadelphia, and had been a ghetto
for "foreign" German immigrants in the eighteenth century).  As Brady's bus
unloaded, he saw the Guppy already parked by a small freestanding locker
room.  The varsity was already here.  It took twelve buses to bring all the
Wilson students, and they made a small sea of purple and gold as they
loudly took over the visiting stands.  Doug strolled next to Brady, wearing
a thin jacket and a purple and gold school six-footer scarf.  Their
shoulders casually bumped from time to time, each touch secretly thrilling
Brady.

	The stands were crowded and, again, raucous.  Brady was at times
frustrated because so few of the boys around him seemed to be watching the
game with much interest, preferring instead to talk, make up nonsensical
cheers, and generally blow off steam.  The school cheerleaders (led, of
course, by Bill Fieldstone) periodically made the New Boys recite one of a
number of 1920s vintage school cheers that were set out in the School
manual each still had tied to a belt loop.  They were preposterous, dated,
and unintentionally funny - lots of "Sis!  Boom!!  Bah!!!" and similar
stuff that made them all both amused and vaguely embarrassed to be shouting
at the top of their lungs.  Brady was surprised to see david shouting them
with particular vigor - school spirit didn't seem to fit in with his
understanding of David's makeup.

	The game itself was plodding.  Wilson had clearly not practiced
enough to gell as a unit on either side of the ball, and the Germantown
team (which had already played two games) was just as clearly better
prepared.  Brady found himself losing interest after a while, except for
two things: watching McCracken and observing Stud Douggie.  The former was
a sight to behold.  McCracken was like a man among boys, moving catlike but
with immense power.  Brady involuntarily winced more than once at some of
the hits he laid on defenders - how can anyone get up from that, he
wondered.  He realized that in some ways he was supposed to be the heir
apparent to McCracken, and the weight of that responsibility fell heavily
on him.

	The other interesting sidelight was Stud Douggie.  He didn't start,
but went in at times to play on the defensive line.  The stands were too
low to afford a very good view of what was going on in the interior line,
but Brady noticed that the run defense seemed weak up the middle whenever
Douggie was in.  He also seemed to get into shoving matches frequently
after the whistle with opposing players, until in the late second quarter
he was called for a personal foul penalty that negated a Wilson quarterback
sack.  Coach Drake pulled him from the field at that point, grabbing him by
his face mask and pretty obviously dressing him down loudly before pushing
him to the bench.  He sat for a moment before kicking over a large water
bucket.  Brady saw Mr. Glendon then yell at Douggie in his turn, pointing
at the bucket angrily.  The half ended with Wilson down 13 - 0, and Douggie
sitting very alone on the bench.

	Brady and Doug wandered about behind the stands during halftime,
comparing notes about what they'd seen.  David was gleeful over what looked
like Stud Douggie's humiliation.  "Even if we lose, it'd be worth it to see
him get what he deserves for a change," he exulted.

	Brady noticed a couple of New Boys nearby, who he'd seen hanging
out with ian McShane, frown at this.  He realized he needed to change the
subject.  "So have you been here before - last year or something?  I mean
this looks like a nice campus."

	David shrugged.  "Nah, they came to Summerton last year.  Kicked
our asses, too.  This looks OK - I mean it's a campus, right?  Now if they
got good food, that's another thing entirely."  That launched a long verbal
assault on the quality of the food in the Wilson dining hall, in which
everyone participated.  Brady kept an eye on the kids who'd eavesdropped,
just in case.

	Some cheering arose from the stands above them.  "What's that?
Brady asked.

	David shrugged.  "Probably the cross country meet.  They race
during halftime."

	Brady slipped around the edge of the bleachers to watch.  A pack of
runners, with some other straggling behind, was descending a hill towards
the field.  He soon picked out Bill Fieldstone among the lead group, his
dark eyes very focused and a deep blush high on his cheeks.  He was
startlingly pale, given his dark hair.  As the pack swept past the Wilson
stands, the boys cheered on their Cavaliers.  Fieldstone was being jostled
by a couple of taller Germantown runners, and Brady saw the ferocity with
which he repelled them with sharp elbows.  The look on Fieldstone's face
was shocking.  Brady had only seen him in his schoolday face, a placid
appearance of self confidence and control.  His glare now was predatory.
Brady realized that he would kill - himself, the Germantown runners,
anybody - to win the race he was in.  The intensity was withering.  The
pack rolled around the track one time, then back up into the trees behind
the field.  "How long is the course?"  Brady asked.

	"No idea," David said.  "They run for fucking ever, as far as I'm
concerned.  Wouldn't catch me dead doing shit like

	About five minutes later, the runners appeared again. The pack had
thinned dramatically.  Fieldstone sprinted back to the track between two
Germantown runners.  The two were huffing, their arms flailing mightily in
their extremity.  Fieldstone, by contrast, was a model of precise,
purposeful movement - arms driving straight ahead and back in a short
economical swing, head slightly cocked to the left, mouth almost lazily
open.  The color was deeper across his face, his brow was knotted.  Brady
could see how much the pace hurt him, how deliberately he kept himself
relaxed to avoid tightening up and losing the fluidity of his stride.  .
Only his eyes showed the ferocity of his desire, as he again fought off
elbows from the Germantown runners and accelerated further past the Wilson
stands toward the finish line on the other side of the track.  The
Germantown runners broke down on the last turn, their arm motions
tightening and their strides faltering as Fieldstone drove relentlessly
forward.  He crossed the line a good ten yards ahead of his closest
pursuit, slowed for a few strides, then seemed to fall apart in stages as
he skiddingly collapsed to the cinder track.  Coach Goodwin ran to him, and
spent a good five minutes hunched over his runner as others crossed the
line behind them.  Fieldstone eventually rose to his feet, shook off
Goodwin's hand, and started a slow jog back around the track, a towel
around his neck.  As he approached the Wilson stands, the ovation was
deafening.  He raised his right hand slightly to acknowledge it, his face
streaked with sweat and dirt, his knees and palms bloodied from his fall.
He didn't look at anyone in particular; his gaze seemed directed to some
inner place of deep pain and exhaustion.  His face was drawn, mottled red,
and still intense from the effort he'd just put forth.  It was the most
feral thing Brady had ever seen.  He realized how right McCracken was to
warn them not to cross Bill Fieldstone - that ferocity, turned against
anyone, would be devastating.  Brady was caught between admiration, pride,
and fear.

	Doug was next to him.  "Jesus," he said.

	David nodded.  "He's a piece of work when he runs.  He doesn't like
to lose."

	"I guess not," Doug laughed.  "At anything."

  	The varsity team began to click in the second half.  They
engineered a long drive that included a couple of short look-in passes to
McCracken - the same route that Brady had been working on with Evan - that
led to punishing runs after the catch, and brought Wilson to the seven yard
line.  On second down, McCracken caught another look-in pas and barreled
over the middle linebacker into the end zone.  The Wilson stands erupted,
New Boy beanies flying in the air, fists pumping.  Brady, inspired, hefted
David up and started passing him down the line of boys, with Doug joining
in almost immediately.  In no time David was aloft, laughing harder than
Brady had ever seen him laugh, bobbing atop a small sea of arms and hands
as he was conveyed to the side of the stands and dropped off onto his feet.
Wolfsen became the next victim, and soon every little kid in the Wilson
student body seemed to be flying through the air, being passed up or down
or across the stands.  Several of the Masters in attendance began shouting
for the boys to stop, on safety grounds, but no one paid any attention.  It
was far too much fun to worry that someone might break their neck.  The
fact that the extra point went awry did little to dampen the rejoicing.
Bill Fieldstone, by this time showered and dressed again as a cheerleader,
applauded the foolish scene.  His eyes met Brady's for a moment, and Brady
nodded, acknowledging his run.  Fieldstone smiled quietly back at him
before turning again to lead another cheer.

	The game became a defensive struggle, with Wilson unable to
replicate its success.  Brady noticed Stud Douggie didn't go into the game
this half.  He paced, a little apart from his teammates, helmet nowhere to
be seen, with hands on hips, visibly agitated.  David kept pointing at him
and smiling.

	With about three minute left in the game. The Wilson defense forced
a punt close to the Germantown goal line.  Brady stiffened as he watched
the defense deploy.  "It's the punt block formation, look," he whispered to
Doug, as if afraid he'd tip someone off if he spoke too loudly.  "They're
going after the punter."

	David had heard.  "Do the other guys know that?"

	"We'll see in a second," Doug answered, his face as taut as
Brady's.

	They didn't know.  The block formation quickly overran the left
side of the offensive line, with no less than three Wilson players swarming
in on the punter, who had no chance.  He took one look, tried to feint to
his right in some vaguely conceived idea of running his way out of his
predicament, and was buried at the twelve yard line.  The Wilson stands
erupted again, with Doug and Brady pounding each other's backs and hugging,
David hopping up and down and embracing them both.  "Don't pass me around
again!!" he squealed.  "I wanna see this!!"

	Brady ducked down and lifted David onto his shoulders.  It took
three hardnosed runs for Wilson to score, with Mike Raskauskas, a senior,
finally bulling over.  More cheers.  David looked down at Brady and Doug.
"Now what do we do?  Go for two?"

	The boys frowned at each other.  As they did, Coach Drake sent the
kicking team onto the field.  Some of the Wilson boys groaned, and the
Germantown fans began jeering.  The extra point tied the game.  Brady felt
let down.  Obviously he didn't want to lose, but settling for a tie seemed
unsporting somehow.  The Germantown fans were chanting "Par-SEE-ghian!!
Par-SEE- ghian!!"  The Germantown players were acting as if they'd won.

	They were so pleased with themselves they failed to cover Wilson's
onside kick.  When Brent Harpring, a junior Brady had sat with for a week
in the dining hall, recovered the ball at just about midfield, Brady leaped
so violently he almost dropped David.  He felt David's legs clamp about his
neck hard in an effort to stay atop his shoulders and safe,.  He felt
David's hardness poking the back of his neck.  Doug embraced him joyously
at that point, distracting him.  For a delicious moment Brady's nose buried
deep into the crook of Doug's neck, amid his soft hair.  The smell of his
skin, the slight sheen of sweat, the tickle of the hair against his lips,
made him weak.  He grabbed onto Doug instinctively, groaning, "Oh, God," to
himself.  Doug held him fast, the power of the arms about him only making
him feel shakier.  David leaned down and slapped his cheek slightly.
"Bray, what's up, man?  You OK?"

	Brady pulled back quickly, gulping in air to steady himself.  "OK,
I'm OK.  Sorry.  I, uh - I - "

	"Gettin' all psyched up, huh Bray?"  Doug was smiling at him.  The
sight made him feel so good, he had to smile back.  What seemed like a long
time passed.

	"Hey, should I get down?"  David sounded nervous.  Brady looked up
to see him watching with deep serious eyes.

	Brady adjusted David's weight atop him.  "No, it's OK.  You wanted
to see, right?"

	"Yeah, but I don't wanna fall on my ass or anything either."

	Doug laughed.  "I'll catch you if Brady passes out or something."

	"I'm not gonna fucking pass out, c'mon.  Gimme a break here."  He
hoped his air of irritation would cover for him.

	The game from there, sadly, proved a letdown.  The offense was
again unable to move the ball, and the clock ran out on a 13 - 13 tie.
Neither team, nor their fans, felt much like celebrating.  Fieldstone
ordered all the New Boys to the sideline to sing the school fight song as a
group to the team, but there was little real enthusiasm in the rendition.
The Wilson students began dispersing toward the buses.

	Bill Fieldstone appeared next to Brady.  "Good race," Brady said
sheepishly, extending a hand.

	Fieldstone smiled amiably as they shook hands.  The schoolday face,
- the self possessed senior - was back.  "It's early in the season, it hurt
today.  When I'm in shape it doesn't hurt like that."

	"It looked like it hurt, yeah."

	Fieldstone shrugged.  "It's not supposed to be all fun, I guess.
But it's no fun at all unless you try.  Plus, those guys were assholes -
they thought they could box me in and knock me around with elbows and
crap."  He took a deep breath.  "That sort of stuff pisses me off."  He
smiled at Brady.  "We should go for a run sometime"

	Brady snorted.  "No way, you'd kill me running like that."

	Fieldstone smiled again, more gently, and patted Brady's arm.
"I'll be gentle, New Boy.  Promise."  His gaze lingered a moment on Brady's
face before he moved away into the crowd.
	Brady heard Ian McShane behind him.  "What a fucking joke!  A
fucking tie!!  Drake didn't have the balls to go for it when he had the
chance.  Fucking moron."

	Brady refused to turn around - he knew he'd only get angry.  He
glanced at Doug, whose jaw was clenched, and David, who was slouching along
looking surly.  "Hey, he did the onside kick, that took some guts, man.
That was a real gamble, he could have lost the whole game," someone said to
McShane .
	"Bullshit.  He lost this game the whole first half when he played
chicken shit.  My brother gets fucking benched and look what happens - they
run all over us."  Brady wanted to respond that the opposite was the case -
that they'd run all over us until Stud Douggie got pulled.  "And he's got
Nazzarro kicking when he isn't worth shit, either.  Drake is a fucking
loser moron!!"  Ian shouted again.

	"That will be quite enough, Mr. McShane!"  A clipped, oddly honking
voice cut through the din, and all conversation near them stopped.
Mr. Taber strode through the crowd to stand directly in front of Ian.
"Mr. Drake is a Master at this School, and a fine one at that.  I will not
have you hurling imprecations against him - certainly not here, on another
campus, and indeed not anywhere.  And especially not in that tome of voice.
Am I very clearly understood?"

	"Yes, sir," Ian replied softly, the resentment audible. Brady's
ability to refrain from turning to witness this sight was starting to
crumble.  Did anybody else on earth really talk like Taber, he wondered.

	"You can expect detention for that outburst, Mr. McShane, and far
more if I ever - EVER - hear it repeated.  Any questions?"

	A pause.  "No, sir, I understand completely, sir."

	Mr. Taber turned and walked past Brady.  "Mr. Conover, I hope you
enjoyed the game?"  he said as if nothing whatever were the matter.  The
flash of his eyes was still an angry one, though.

	Brady gulped.  "Yes, sir, it - it was very, you know, enjoyable.  I
mean I wish we'd won and stuff - "

	"Not to worry, Mr. Conover, I understand.  No one likes to tie.
Cavaliers like to win."  He glanced behind Brady.  "And we do so as
gentlemen - win or lose.  Or even tie."

	Brady swallowed again.  "Yes, sir."

	Mr. Taber nodded.  "Mr. Tanner, I'm happy to see you came.  I hope
it was enjoyable."

	David was polite; he obviously had enjoyed hearing Ian get chewed
out as much as Brady had.  "Oh, yes, sir, it was a good game.  We were
gutsy at the end with the onside kick, I think."  He grinned at that line,
knowing Ian could hear it.

	"I agree.  Now, to the buses, all of you!"  He moved away,
shepherding boys toward the parking lot, his hands flapping as he walked.

	When he was about twenty yards away, Ian muttered, "Look at that
walk.  What a faggot."

	Brady had had enough.  "What's your deal, McShane?" he snapped as
he turned.  "Will you give it a rest just once in a while?"

	"Fuck you, Jethro, you're probably sucking his cock already.  You
and your queer buddies there," he added, waving a dismissive hand at Doug
and David.

	David started laughing exaggeratedly.  "What's your deal, pussy?"
Ian snarled.

	"I was in the library this week, Ian, and I looked up 'douchebag'.
It had your picture."

	Ian shot a fist at David's jaw.  It missed.  David, for his slight
stature, was quick.  He ducked away to his left , while Brady and Doug
stepped forward to confront McShane.

	"Stop!!"  Mr. Taber's voice boomed, unnaturally loud and shrill.
He strode between the parties and stood directly in front of McShane.  "To
your bus, immediately.  When we arrive back on campus, you and I are going
to visit Dr. Leeds."

	McShane started to object.  "Sir, he -"

	"Enough.  I saw what happened.  He was saying something to you -
probably taunting, knowing Mr. Tanner - and you reacted by throwing a
punch.  That is unacceptable, however cutting Mr. Tanner's remark may have
been."

	"Christ, McShane, you at least lasted till January last year.
You're not even gonna make October," David jeered.

	"That is quite enough, Mr.  Tanner.  I know you two don't get
along, but I don't need you goading anyone.  You do that far too much
already, and I expect it to stop.  Understood?  Get to your buses now, all
of you!  I may yet put you all in detention - if I can trust you in the
same room."

	The boys slipped onto their bus.  Brady felt embarrassed, along
with his simmering anger at McShane.  Doug was glowering.  David, on the
other hand, seemed giddy.  "They're gonna fuck him up, I love it, not even
three weeks!!  Did you see his face, man??  This is so great!"

	David, what's going on here?  Why're you so fired up to mess with
McShane?"  Doug was asking what Brady had been wondering.

	"He's an asshole, OK?  Is this news or something?  I mean he's been
fucking with you guys too, you oughta be just as happy."

	"We know he's an asshole, that's not the point," Brady answered.
"The point is why are you so pent up over him?  What happened with you guys
last year or whatever that's got you so bent out of shape?"  Brady slid
into a window seat, and was quietly thrilled when Doug dropped down next to
him.

	David sat across the aisle from them.  He was silent now, and
avoiding eye contact.  Doug started to repeat the question, but Brady
nudged him, realizing the attempt would only be counterproductive at that
point.  Doug glanced at Brady for a moment, then smiled and shrugged.
Brady's face split into a grin as well, and they started laughing and
talking both at once - about the game, about what dumbasses the other
cheerleaders had been, about what a jerk Ian was, about the houses and cars
they passed as the bus pulled out towards the Turnpike.  Their knees
periodically pushed against each other in the tight quarters of the bus
seats, and Doug eventually turned that into a shoving contest to see who
could get the most leg room.  Brady was winning until Doug upped the ante
by ticking him, at which point Brady fell into a giggling fit that soon had
Mr. LePage, a biology teacher who was chaperoning on the bus, shouting back
at them to keep it down.  Even with this admonition, it took Brady a few
minutes to subside entirely - every time he looked at Doug, he felt the
laughter well up in him again.  He noticed David watching them from across
the aisle, his head down but his eyes taking it all in with a deep sidelong
stare.  He looked lonely and sad.  Jerry Goldman sat next to him, staring
absently out the window.

	The boys eventually quieted down, and Doug fell lightly asleep, his
head tipped sideways toward Brady, his breath coming in slow soft snores.
Brady sat ramrod straight, hands on his thighs, feeling Doug's breath
against his cheek and his leg lightly pressed against his own.  His body
rang with the memory of Doug touching him while they tickled each other.
He kept a small loopy smile on his face the whole way back to campus.  He
didn't notice David's frequent appraising glances.

	The buses pulled up in front of Geiger just in time for dinner.
They were allowed to eat without having to change into jacket and tie,
which was to the boys another intoxicating taste of freedom.  The fact that
the team hadn't (quite) won got lost in the raucous euphoria of the dining
hall.  Brady kept looking over at Doug, who was about five tables away.
The sight made him smile.

	Dunc demanded a full recounting of the game (and all the assorted
sideshows) when they got back to Linsley.  He had apparently spent the
afternoon working on a homemade guitar amplifier, only to have it short
circuit about an hour before the buses' return.  The short had caused half
the campus to lose electricity, and the grounds people were on a tear,
demanding to know who or what could have been responsible.  "I managed to
ditch the amp in the lake, I don't think they saw me," Dunc said with a
depressed sigh.  "It coulda been so cool . . . ."  Doug shook his head
slightly, with an amused glance at Brady.

	"Where the hell did you get parts to make an amplifier, anyway?"
David demanded.

	Now it was Dunc's turn to smile slightly.  "There's this old guy
down on Main Street in town who runs a TV repair place," he said.  This was
news: none of the New Boys had really ventured off campus into Summerton at
all yet, and they'd had no idea Duncan had gotten that brave either.  "I
just started shooting the breeze with him, and all, sucked up to him a bit
about what he did in the war - he's got all this Marines shit on the wall -
and he gave me a bunch of spare parts, tubes and stuff, and some circuit
boards.  I thought I had it figured out," he sighed.  "Maybe I should find
one and take it apart so I'll see how it really works instead of guessing
and trying to remember this thing I read last summer in Popular Science."

	Brady couldn't restrain his laughter.  "Yeah Dunc, I'm sure
everybody on campus with an amp is dying to have you take it apart for
them.  You'll wind up getting like Radio Moscow or something."

	"My dad has an old radio that you can get Radio Moscow on," Evan
Creed chimed in from the doorway.

 	Doug stared.  "You're shitting me, what's it like?"

	Evan laughed and bit into the apple in his hand.  Where does he
keep coming up with these huge fucking apples, Brady wondered.  "It's
really weird.  The news announcers are these women with really soft quiet
voices and this accent that's so perfect it's sort of impossible.  And the
news is stuff like, 'Vietnamese freedom fighters killed 37 American
imperialists today in the continuing struggle of their people for
liberation from Western oppression.'"  He started laughing at his
imitation.  Brady felt a chill.

	Doug glanced at Brady.  "That's not funny, that's like sick,.
That's our own people getting killed and they're making it like we're the
bad guys."

	"Man, we are the bad guys over there, I hate to break it to you,"
David snapped.  He also had a wary eye on Brady.  "I don't mean like the
soldiers themselves or anything, but like the reason we're there - Johnson
and McNamara and Rusk and all those assholes - Westmoreland - it's all
total bullshit,.  We don't belong there."  He took a deep breath.  "It's
like we're wasting all these good people, you know?"

	Brady felt everyone watching for his reaction, but he didn't know
what to do, or say.  He had found himself increasingly feeling that David
was dead on, that his brother was being used as cannon fodder in some
pointless stupid chess game that had no meaning.  But wasn't admitting that
denigrating what his brother was doing?  He didn't so much love Trent, the
way he loved Hal, his middle brother, so much as he worshipped him.  He'd
been gone from the house, in college and then the Army, since Brady had
been seven years old, and he knew that Trent had very consciously assumed
the role of father figure after their dad's death.  The weight was visibly
heavy on him, and it showed in his flaring temper.  One reason he was sure
Trent would come back from the war is that he couldn't imagine anyone
hurting Trent if he got really pissed off.

	He blinked, took a breath.  "Yeah," he finally said, "it's all
bullshit.  But it's always like dumping on the soldiers, and not the
politicians.  That can't be fair."

	"Bray, I'm not dumping on anybody but the politicians, OK?"
David's voice had a real note of urgency, more than Brady had ever heard.

	He looked at David for a moment and smiled quietly.  "OK, I know,"
he said, looking back down.  "But when Trent gets back you better be
careful what you say.  He keeps telling me, he knows how to kill people
now."

	The laughter was thin and forced, until Jerry Goldman piped up, "So
let's introduce him to McShane!"  That broke the mood, and the discussion
quickly devolved into a listing of body parts they'd like to see Ian
McShane lose in the most grisly possible fashion - with a second list
quickly filling up for Stud Douggie as well.  Brady soon was demonstrating
a few of the hand- to-hand tricks Trent had showed him: blows to the
trachea or a thumb jabbed hard into the armpit ("That paralyzes the main
nerve to the arm for a little bit, and if they can't move their arms well
it's all kind of pointless for 'em, you know?"), a palm to the nose bone to
drive it up into the cerebral cortex, gross things like that.  He'd never
really contemplated their being used before, the damage they could cause.
He found himself becoming quiet amid the burgeoning chatter.

	Doug eventually pulled him into the hall.  "You OK?"

	Brady leaned back against the plastered wall.  "Yeah."  A pause.
"What - what if he doesn't come back?  I mean there's like 200 guys being
killed every week now.  It's on Walter Cronkite every Wednesday, I can't
watch the news that day.  My Mom - " he paused to control his breathing " -
she, she couldn't handle it.  I mean, she drinks too much now, at night,
because of my dad."  Why did he say that, he'd never told anyone such a
thing.  "I mean, I just dunno, I dunno what - what I'd do - or she'd do
. . ."  He found the urge to cry assaulting him again, and felt his
defenses rise to stop it in its tracks.  The internal battle made his
insides hurt, but he kept control.

	"He'll come back, man, you know that," Doug said, his arm around
Brady's shoulders.  The grip was solid, the limb against his body warm and
solid.  "He's like doing headquarters stuff now, briefings and shit, you
said, right?  So he's not out in the jungle getting shot at any more."
Brady nodded.  Let me bury my face in his chest, please, he thought, but he
resisted.  "So his tour ends at the end of January, and while the gooks do
their New Year's thing - what'd they call it, Tet, or something, I heard
about that last winter - he gets to fly back home and bust your chops for
being a wimpy prep school boy."  Doug unleashed one of his daybreak smiles.
Does he know how that gets me, Brady wondered.  "It's gonna be OK, man,
trust me."

	Brady smiled, blinking to keep his eyes clear.  "I - I trust you."
He smiled openly for a moment, before realizing what he might have said.
He looked down, and stepped away.  "I - I just don't know, um, about the
Viet Cong, and all."

	Doug laughed and tousled his hair.  "Man, he must be something if
he has you that scared of him.  You're not scared of anything."

	Brady laughed, shaking his head.  "I'm scared of lots of things."
And, looking at Doug's beaming face and sparkling eyes, he knew abruptly
what one of them was.