Date: Mon, 28 Feb 2011 12:54:39 -0600
From: michaelpete@hushmail.com
Subject: Malcolm 7

Be advised that in the following one will find graphic sexual depiction
between minors and minors and adults. The story is fiction but based on
real characters, events, places and situations. There is no relationship
between the names used and that of any real person. Send comments to
michaelpete@hushmail.com.

Michael Peterson

MALCOLM

CHAPTER 7 – CAMP McFARLANE 1

	Fifth grade had been my most successful year of
school. Academically, I came in second again, this time behind the new kid
who managed hundreds in all his exams. I received a ninety eight in
arithmetic because I forgot to do a problem and the same in history due to
forgetting the year the League of Nations were founded.

	The real success was with my classmates, primarily through my skill
with baseball cards, then the supportive relationship with Frankie
Stillings whom I planned to meet, along with Freddy, in our barn during the
first week after school.

	However, that first free Monday turned out to be anything
but. Sunday evening, my mother shocked me with news that we needed to pack
up my trunk because the next day I'd be going off to a new, very nice camp.

	"Camp McFarlane is a special camp with special activities for
bright boys like you. They have a library and courses in history and
science along with regular camp activities I know you're going to love."

	At first, I was crushed. I'd assumed camp would be part of the
summer but take place a couple of weeks later. Then, it seemed that perhaps
I'd be getting camp out of the way leaving nearly two months to be with my
friends. But, I needed to get word to Freddy and Frankie. I had Frankie's
phone number but none of the three telephones in the house were
unwatched. I figured eventually to be able to use the kitchen phone. I'd
see Freddy after my parents went to bed.

	It was after eight when both my parents went upstairs. I hoped
lifting the phone wouldn't cause a ring elsewhere. It did. I claimed to be
calling for the weather.

	At midnight, I approached Freddy's house.

	"Now, what'd they do to you?" asked Aunt Martha when she answered
the door. "They're sending me to camp tomorrow."

	Freddy required shaking to wake him up. We borrowed a blanket so we
could go outside and talk where we wouldn't be "keeping anyone awake".

	We should have taken two. The mosquitos were merciless. We ended up
putting our clothes back on and lowering our pants, keeping our bare parts
under the folded over blanket.

	Before we parted, tears formed in my eyes. Freddy sensed rather
than saw them and wiped them away.

	"Most it gonna be is fo' weeks. Ain't that bad. I ain't goin'
nowheres."

	We hugged for a long time.

	A new Ford station wagon arrived at seven fifteen the next
morning. The driver and my father had loaded my trunk full of my things. I
carried a book to read on the way though I knew I'd fall asleep after being
out until three the night before.

	Mother tried to be cheery. "Have fun, dear."
	My father just went back inside the house.
	I was taken downtown to a fancy blue bus parked in front of a
hotel. It had Camp McFarlane written in large gold letters on the side.
	The driver of the station wagon said something to the woman who
came to greet me. She hurried me onto the bus. The bus driver closed the
door behind me. There were only about eight or ten boys for the fifty or so
plush seats, ranging from a glum seven year old to a couple of big
teenagers maybe sixteen or seventeen.
	I walked past them all and sat in the back. The two teens followed
me and said, "That's our seat. Go sit somewhere else." There was nothing
friendly about their tone.
	Something went `thunk' below me. Outside two men were loading
suitcases and my trunk into the side of the bus. Minutes later, we were on
our way. I tried to read but had a feeling something wasn't as it should
be. None of the kids looked the type for easy conversation. The younger
ones appeared sour if not angry.
	I slept a good part of the next several hours, awakening when the
bus stopped in a few towns and one large city to pick up additional boys of
all ages along with a few adults until we were nearly full. One of the
adults sat next to me and introduced himself.
	"Hi, I'm Mr. Morgenthau. If you take chemistry, which I doubt, I'll
be your teacher." He held out his hand. I shook it briefly.
	"Where is this place," I asked.
	"Western Pennsylvania, in the Appalachian Mountains. You didn't
know?"
	"I don't know anything about it."
	"Don't worry. It'll be the best two and a half months of your
life. It's..."
	"Two and a half months or weeks?"
	The teacher looked at me like he wished he hadn't opened his
mouth. "Months," he answered meekly.
	"That son-of-a-bitch!"
	"Hey, take it easy, kid. Talk like that will get you in detention
at camp."
	I stood up and banged my head several times on the back of the
seats until it hurt. The teacher pulled me back down.
	"Calm down. Take it easy. It's not that bad. This is probably the
nicest camp in the country."
	"I don' wanna go to camp." I was on the verge of tears, tears only
held back by the anger and hate in my gut. "That son-of-a-bitch."
	"I'm serious, one of the Masters hears you talk like that and
you'll go straight to detention."
	I leaned over and put my arms over my head.
	We were handed ham and cheese sandwiches in waxed paper, a bag of
potato chips and a pint bottle of milk for lunch. I'd had a bowl of
Wheaties six hours earlier and was hungry. Running away was paramount on my
mind. That would need strength. I ate.
	About two hours after our last pick up, well into the mountains of
Central Pennsylvania, the bus turned onto a dirt road and continued on it
for another twenty minutes. The sun had dropped to just above the skyline
when we pulled in front of what looked like a huge two story log cabin.
	I had absolutely no idea where I was. Running away dimmed as an
option. I was a prisoner.
	"Welcome to Camp McFarlane", greeted a young man who boarded the
bus. "The men outside will be calling out names. Go to the one who calls
yours. He will be your cabin master."
	That had an ominous sound to it. The older kids pushed past the
younger. My name was called out by a skinny young man who couldn't have
been more than eighteen. I was one of two. The other was taller than me and
in as bad a mood as I.
	"So where do I have to go?" he said with all the venom he could
muster.
	"First, identify your bags and help carry them."
	"I'm not carrying shit. You carry them."
	I took a step back to watch.
	He looked at me. "So what did you do to get sent here?"
	I shrugged my shoulders. "Why are you here?"
	"Cause I'm a pain in the ass."
	I identified my trunk, which was put on a flat wooden wheelbarrow
and pushed by another teenager. My angry cabin mate refused to carry any of
his four suitcases so they were piled on top of my trunk. We were led up a
lighted path nearly a hundred yards through a series of broad log cabins
each about a quarter the length of the main building. We turned left, past
another cabin and stopped in front of ours. A carved wooden sign over the
door said `Wolverine'. Inside was a broad hallway with a pair of green
doors on the right and a wide one on the left to a large bathroom with no
bathing facilities. The doors on the right hand side had signs with `Master
Warren' on one and `Master Dean' on the other. The polished wood floor
opened onto a large dormitory with glass windows and three wide bladed fans
in the ceiling. There were eight wooden bunk beds to each side.
	The other boy and I were two of seven there. The Cabin Master, who
called himself Master Warren, said the other nine would arrive
later. Dinner was normally at five but the meal had been held up for
arriving campers.
	I was assigned, at my request, to an upper bunk against the rear
wall. These were nothing like the rickety YMCA beds. Instead of springs and
wire under a thin cotton mattress, each had a wood structure with a thick
mattress and three drawers underneath for clothing and other
belongings. Rather than having to climb up the bars in the back, there was
a wooden ladder with wide plank steps built into the end away from the
wall. At the same end of the bunks and between them were desks with
aluminum arm chairs. Each desk and bunk had a reading light.
	From my window, I could look out over wood shake roofs of three
rows of cabins below and into the windows of the cabin next down the hill.
	The dining hall was huge, seating over three hundred according to
Master Warren. There were four rows of wooden tables with thick wood
benches to each side. We each took a tray and walked along a line of
serving stations where we could request what we wanted. I had chicken and
mashed potatoes, milk and chocolate cake. It was better than home.
	There were plenty of empty tables so I sat at one. Within minutes,
several other boys my age and younger joined me. A slightly older boy
wearing horn rimmed glasses and a grin asked me, "What's your name? Where
are you from? What school do you go to?" and finally, "Why'd you get sent
here?"
	After answering the simple ones, I wasn't sure what to say to the
last. "I dunno. Why'd you get sent here?"
	"I flunked everything," he answered loud enough for everyone to
hear and laughed.
	From the banter at my table, and later conversations I overheard in
my cabin, I surmised this was a camp mostly for kids with school problems,
both academic and behavioral. I went to my corner upper bunk and stayed to
myself. Most of the others were loud and nasty. We were all ten and a half
to eleven years old. A few, like the boy who came on the bus with me, were
big for their age. From the clothes they brought and the talk of servants,
I got the impression that everyone came from well to do, even rich,
families.
	At eight o'clock, Master Warren called for lights out. One of the
boys shouted, "Fuck you!" There was a round of laughter. The lights went
out. "Turn the lights back on!" "Hey jerk, you heard him."
	The lights stayed off. The two shouters went to the door to
protest. They went out and didn't come back.
	The shouting was reduced to an angry murmur, then finally
silence. My aching gut told me I was in some kind of reform school. This
was going to be horrible.
	Though I tried not to, eventually I couldn't stop myself from
crying. I did manage to keep it quiet to avoid unpleasantness from my cabin
mates. I wasn't going to see Freddy until September, two and a half long
months away. Once again, my son-of-a-bitch father had beaten me. If I ran,
I had no idea which way to go and would certainly be picked up by the
police before I got very far. I could call my grandfather but was sure
there was little or nothing he could do. My situation was hopeless. I cried
myself to sleep.
	It seemed I'd only slept a short while when a bugle sounded. It was
light outside but just barely. Master Warren came in and called out
"showers! Strip to your briefs. Come get your towels then follow Master
Dean."
	A teenager led us up a hill to a long, ten foot wide cabin that ran
perpendicular to and was twice as long as ours and the others, with a
series of shower heads on one side and a long wooden bench with clothing
hooks every foot or so on the other.
	"Put your briefs and towels on the hooks. There is soap in the soap
dishes at each shower." The water came on at a dozen of the heads. It was
lukewarm. I noticed the boy who came with me the day before was missing. I
also noticed that the biggest boy with us had a cock no longer than
mine. The fat boy beside me was soaping up his hard on. He grinned and
started jerking off. I checked to see if Master Warren or Master Dean could
see him. They were talking to each other, ignoring us.
	Another group of slightly larger boys came running in, hooting and
hollering and snapping towels. The young man in charge of them grabbed the
towel one boy had snapped at another. He took the boy by the arm and led
him away. I added that to the missing two from our group, and guessed they
were being punished. I worried what that might mean.
	I asked the fat boy, "What happened to the two kids from our cabin
that were here last night but aren't here now?"
	He had his eyes closed and was masturbating furiously. He didn't
answer. A moment later he stopped, stood still for a moment, took a deep
breath then turned to me. "What'd you say?"
	I asked him again. He answered, "Detention first time, paddle the
second. They're new."
	His name was Thomas Beasley. He was from New York City. His parents
had sent him the last three years to catch up on his studies. He'd failed a
number of courses every year.
	When he asked, I said, "I got all hundreds except for ninety-eights
in arithmetic and history."
	"You get in a lot of trouble?"
	"Not at school."
	"You're one of them, then. Got parent problems, huh?"
	"Yeh, I suppose so. Are there other kids here `cause a that?"
	"Oh yeh. Maybe half."
	To distract myself from the misery I felt, I looked at naked
bodies. None of the kids in our group had dicks much bigger than mine. A
few had nice physiques. The nicer stuff was among the larger boys but I was
at the wrong end of our group to get a good look.
	After showering, we were taken back to our cabin to dress then led
to the dining room for breakfast. The scrambled eggs were in hot water so I
had French toast, real orange juice, Wheaties and a banana from one of
several bowls stacked with fruit. This time, the dining room was full. The
tables were designed for eighteen with the Masters at the ends. Each was
marked with the name of the cabin whose residents were to eat there. Mine
was the Wolverine cabin. The two missing boys joined us.
	"What happened to you last night," I asked the nasty one from the
bus.
	"They made us stay in a cabin down near where we came in
yesterday. No mattresses or pillow. Just a crappy blanket and it was
cold. Some fat guy told us next time we get paddled. They touch me and I'll
tell my father to sue them. He's a lawyer."
	His name was Herbert Morrison. He was in fourth grade and had
already been in three schools. "They think they can make me do what they
want. Well, I do what I want. My father's a lawyer."
	"You want your banana?" he asked as he snatched it off my tray.
	I snatched it back. "Get your own."
	He grabbed at it but I held on. He whispered loudly into my ear,
"Gimme the damn banana, kid or I'll pound you."
	I yanked it away and put the banana on the other side of my
tray. Freddy had always said that kids who talk a lot are all mouth and
almost never follow up on their threats. I said nothing, just continued
with my Wheaties.
	"You're on my list, kid!" he said.
	For whatever reason, it made me laugh.
	"What're you laughing at, kid?"
	"Nothing."
	"Better be."
	I looked at his screwed up face and laughed some more.
	He looked around the table at the others staring at us and dug into
his pancakes. He avoided me for the rest of the summer.
	Academic testing took up the entire morning. We had a brief recess
around nine thirty. The tests were easy. I completed all of mine well
before the pencils down bell sounded. Most of the others were obviously
frustrated when they handed in their papers.
	Lunch was a variety of sandwiches and soups, cold milk and more
fruit. I chose an apple.
	Master Dean took us on a tour of the camp facility. Clean brick
paths went everywhere. Each was lined on both sides with pines and a
variety of deciduous trees. There were occasional park benches with green
slat seats. Between the two large groups of cabins and out from the back
end were baseball diamonds, soccer and football fields, basketball, tennis
and badminton courts, two swimming pools, an obstacle course that looked
very military, a huge gymnasium with room for four simultaneous basketball
games, and a lot of classrooms. The main building contained a wide array of
services available to us whenever we needed them including a medical clinic
with a doctor and nurse, a social worker and a psychologist, three
chaplains' offices for Catholics, Episcopalians and Presbyterians and a
barbershop we were expected to visit regularly. When the group left for our
cabin, four of us, me included, were asked to stick around for an
interview.
	A tall middle aged woman asked me what my interests were. I had no
answer.
	"Do you like baseball or football, art, making or fixing things,
reading, whatever?"
	"I suppose so." For some reason I couldn't define at the time, I
didn't like her.
	"Specifically which things?" She didn't smile.
	"Whatever."
	"Malcolm, you are here to learn and have a good time. Now which
activities would you like to participate in?"
	I had a different answer in my gut but said, "I don't know. I never
did any of this stuff." I was getting angry.
	She sent me off and called in the smallest kid from our group. I
waited outside on the huge porch. Master Dean took the four of us back to
the camp tour.
	"What'd she ask you?" I asked the small kid.
	"What I wanted to do."
	"What'd you tell her?"
	"Sports but I don't really want to do anything. I hate this place."
	Other than the food and showers, I did too.
	At the end of the tour, Master Warren told us, "You will be
informed this evening which course you will take".
	I paired myself with the smaller boy who, according to him, was a
good student but was in constant trouble with his teacher due to
fights. His name was George Zielinsky. He had the face of a handsome
leprechaun, a slight tan and a strong but small body. He would be eleven in
four weeks.
	"Great place for a birthday, huh?" he grumbled.
	"How come you get in fights?" I asked.
	"'Cause I'm the smallest kid in sixth grade and people are always
trying to take what's mine."
	"Pencils and erasers and stuff?"
	"No, like my place in line at the candy stand or my turn at bat in
gym."
	"How come you're in sixth grade? I almost as old as you and I'm
supposed to be in fourth."
	"I told you. I'm smart."
	I was starting to like him. Physically, other than his tough body
and blue green eyes, there wasn't anything outstanding about him. His light
blonde hair was cut just long enough to comb. His face, like his body, was
small and a little hard. In the shower, I'd seen he had a strong body with
a peter about the size of mine. I sensed fun in the way he spoke and walked
and how he did things. During the exams that morning, he'd marked
completion of each by tossing his pencil up in the air, catching it then
slouching back and staring at the teacher.
	Though I didn't see George as a potential sex partner, maybe he
could help me get through the summer.
	Neither of us received a schedule of activities that night, only
the ten boys going into a basically academic program.
	During the morning shower, Thomas Beasley, the fat kid, this time
two shower heads away from George and me, jerked off again. I got the
impression Master Warren saw him but chose to ignore it. George thought it
was "gross".
	At breakfast, Master Dean told us we'd be going to the baseball
diamond at eight thirty. I asked about our schedules and he said we'd be
told where to go.
	We were among perhaps thirty others roughly our age, all larger
than Georgie, as he preferred to be called.
	"I hate George. It sounds like the father of our country or some
friend of my father."
     The trainers formed us into two lines and demonstrated stretching
exercises we were to perform. I couldn't do anything they wanted. The toes
they wanted me to touch were a foot away from my outstretched finger tips.
	Then we ran around the baseball diamond twice. I was exhausted
after reaching the outfield and collapsed after struggling in with the last
runners.
	I couldn't do a single push up, accomplished just two of the
twenty-five sit ups and no leg raises.
	Then they wanted two more laps around the diamonds. Half of us
couldn't complete the first.
	These were all exercises we were supposed to be doing in the weekly
gym class at my school but most of us just faked or avoided them
altogether. Only the athletic types like Martin O'Mally and Tommy Atkins
did any of it seriously, or, for that matter, could do it.
	Finally, it was time for baseball. We were all given gloves and
separated into groups of ten then paired. Some threw to a batter who was
supposed to tap it back. Most of us just threw and caught balls with our
partners. I'd only used a baseball glove a few times in my life and they
had been unpleasant. Georgie had to nearly roll the ball to me to be sure
of a catch. My throwing was erratic.
	"You throw like a girl," remarked Georgie then proceeded to show me
how. I tried to concentrate but couldn't get Georgie's statement off my
mind. Why would I throw like a girl? No one ever said that before, well,
except Mitchell in a way. I didn't see myself as acting in any way like a
girl. I certainly wasn't afraid of other kids. Was I really a homo, for
life?
	Georgie yanked me back to reality. "C'mon, Malcolm. Pay attention,
like this." He threw slowly over hand. It landed in the glove I held out in
front of me.
	If I could learn to play baseball, maybe I'd have better luck
making friends with my classmates. I knuckled under to Georgie's
instruction. Slowly, painfully slowly, I did improve, occasionally catching
the ball then throwing it where Georgie could catch it.
	"Use both hands to catch!" "Step toward me when you throw!" He
really seemed to know his stuff.
	However, it all came apart when they handed us bats. I only hit two
out of at least two dozen throws. Georgie was very frustrated so I mostly
pitched to him. He hit almost every one of my crazy throws and I caught a
few of his easier hits.
	Then came the game. Everyone played. There were fifteen to a
side. I was sent to long right field. Apparently the trainers had been
watching me. Nothing was hit my way. My two at bats were three pitches long
and uneventful.
	Our team won, in part due to Georgie's aggressive play though it
had a downside. During his first at bat, he hit the ball between the two
shortstops and ran around first toward second. The ball was thrown in the
direction of the second baseman. Georgie looped out as he neared the base
and slammed into the boy as he was about to catch the ball. The boy was a
head taller than Georgie and took offense. Georgie shoved him away when he
approached and said something only the second baseman heard.
	"He called me a curse word!" shouted the boy to the nearest
trainer.
	"I didn't say anything, you jerk!" said Georgie angrily.
	The trainer got between them and calmed things down. Moments later,
the next batter, the biggest kid on our team, slammed one out of the
infield to a pair of outfielders who ran into each other trying to catch a
ball over both their heads. Georgie ran home, turned and gave the second
baseman the finger.
	"Take it easy, Georgie," I told him, "you're going to get in a
bunch of trouble."
	At ten thirty, we were taken to the obstacle course. Now, that was
fun. I wasn't very good but Georgie and I fooled around the entire time,
re-doing obstacles that were more fun than others and coming in among the
last every time. The trainer ignored us. Master Warren suggested we take
things more seriously.
	"Nuts to him," said Georgie. "We're supposed to be having fun,
right?"
	It was during the tire run when the opposing second baseman caught
up to Georgie and knocked him over from behind. Georgie was back up in a
flash and ran outside the tires to catch the boy who didn't realize he was
being pursued. Georgie tackled him from behind. The boy landed on the tires
so wasn't hurt, just very angry. But before he could get his footing in the
middle of all those old tires, Georgie, growling "shithead", pushed him
over again.
	A trainer intervened and dragged both boys off. I didn't see
Georgie again until shower time just before dinner.
	The basketball that afternoon wasn't any fun at all without my new
friend. Anyhow, I was far too exhausted to do more than sit on the
sidelines. We ended the day's program with preparations for an over night
hike along the Appalachian Trail planned for the following Monday. There
was something wrong with the pool water filtration system so none of the
lower form boys would be swimming until Thursday. Grades were called
`forms' at Camp McFarlane.
	Sports program kids were allowed to shower before dinner if they
wished. Naturally, I did and dragged Georgie along. He'd been in detention
since the morning incident. Lunch for Georgie had been a dry bologna and
bread sandwich with a glass of water.
	The scenery in the shower was much improved over the morning
session. Older boys up to about thirteen with big cocks and pubic hair were
with us. I preferred the hairless penises the size of the one my eighth
grade friend, Frankie Stilling, carried between his legs. Several boys with
them horsed around with one other. One pair with around four inches each
and hanging balls kept sneaking up behind one another with hard ons,
sticking his buddy between his ass cheeks. Each attempt was very brief as
the receiver always jumped away immediately. But it stiffened me. Georgie
noticed.
	"Please don't be like Beasley," he said with a grimace.
	I laughed self consciously.
	Georgie requested a bunk change so he could sleep under mine. My
bunk mate would only do it if he could switch with another to be close to
his friend. By the time the negotiations were over, at least eight boys had
traded bunks. Georgie moved his things.
	When I awakened in the morning, every muscle in my body ached. I
could hardly sit up. Climbing down the ladder was excruciating. The shower
was warmer than the day before, or so it seemed, and did make me feel
better. The Master had to drag me out from under the water.
	The rest of the week went by reasonably well. I accomplished a
single agonizing push up, forced my two sit ups to three and completed both
runs though feeling near death.
	Georgie worked hard on my baseball skills and had me batting
better. Thursday, I was amazed to learn the Georgie had never leaerend how
to swim. The shoe was on the other foot. First, I taught him how to float
on his back in shallow water. Friday, we went a little deeper but not over
his waist. He'd avoided swimming the year before but was determined to
overcome his fear of water. He'd been belittled mercilessly and didn't want
to go through it again. By the weekend, I was feeling pretty good about
myself.
	I learned a lot more about my new friend. His parents were
divorced. He was required to spend weekends with his father who generally
left him with a maid in his Philadelphia apartment while he worked. Georgie
was occasionally taken to a ball game or show but always with one of his
father's long line of girl friends. At night, he had to listen to them
screwing. He hated the ones that moaned and screamed.
	His mother was a commercial real estate salesperson in Wilmington,
Delaware. She wasn't around much either and didn't date men. She did,
however, have younger women friends over for dinner then would disappear
with them for a few hours, returning home late and alone.
	Georgie was an only child like me and studied in a private academy
an hour bus ride from his home. This was his second year at the
camp. Friday night before lights out he admitted, "Camp's more fun this
year because of you. I wish you were here last year."
	It made me feel very warm inside then thoughts of Freddy stripped
away my light heartedness. Georgie's remark about me throwing like a girl
came back. I wished I could discuss it with Freddy. He'd tell me whether I
did or not and how much. And, it wouldn't matter one way or the other to my
best friend. I wondered how much it meant to Georgie, and what he thought
of me getting hardons in the shower. I was doing it every afternoon.
	Something else that became increasingly apparent about Georgie was
his combativeness. Our bathroom only had six hand sinks. Twice he got in
shoving matches over sink space that had to be broken up by the Master. One
morning, when a larger boy nudged in beside him at the broad porcelain
urinal we all used, he gave the bigger boy a push causing him to pee on the
side of the next boy down. Georgie was required to wash the soiled
pajamas. He did a fast cursory job of it, grumbling about "shithead big
kids".
	Sunday morning, everybody was supposed to go to the service of his
religious conviction as listed on the papers submitted by their parents. I
went with the six other Catholics plus Master Dean from my cabin, all the
while trying to figure how to escape. There were well over a hundred of us
packed into a small church off the entry road. Just before the sermon, I
asked Master Dean where the bathroom was.
	He whispered, "You're supposed to urinate before you come. There's
no bathroom here. Just hold it in."
	"I gotta poop," I whispered back.
	He frowned and said, "All right. Go to the cabin but hurry back."
	In the cabin, I found Georgie reading a comic book. Another boy was
playing checkers by himself.
	"How'd you get out of church?" I asked.
	"I just told him I didn't want to go."
	I was incredulous. "That's all?"
	"Well, my mother put it in the camp papers, too."
	"That you didn't have to go to church?"

	"Uh huh."
	"Him too?" I nodded at the boy with the checker board.
	"I don't know. Ask him."
	I did. He had the same excuse as Georgie.
	I still didn't go back to the church. When Master Dean asked me
where I'd been, I just said it took a long time.
	"Next week, you sit with me and no leaving so make sure you've
taken care of any bathroom needs before. Got it?"
	As at the YMCA camp, Sunday was visitors' day. As opposed to the
YMCA camp, very few parents showed up. In my cabin, only two kids were
called. Georgie and I went up into the woods behind the camp to explore and
escape the rest. We found some great rock formations one could climb and
hide in. At the top of the mountain was a well used trail that Georgie said
was the Appalachian Trail we'd be hiking down the next day.
	The camp provided each of us with backpacks, cook kits, canteens,
sleeping bags with rain covers, flashlights and other paraphernalia. The
sleeping bags were exactly like the one Freddy and I used. The same thirty
who participated in the sports program made up our troop of hikers. I was
dead tired after an hour. Fortunately, I wasn't the only one. Georgie
called us "wieners". He was for going on until lunchtime. Someone claimed
he'd seen a black bear. Master Collins, an older man who wore shorts and a
broad rimmed forest ranger hat, told us they were in the forest but were
far more afraid of us than we were of them. Nonetheless, we should not go
near them if we chanced upon one.
	"I'd just throw dirt in their face then skedaddle," said Georgie
seriously.
	We set up pup tents in a well used camp site with evidence of a lot
of camp fires. We were all sent out to collect wood. We cooked hot dogs,
heated beans and baked biscuits in rocks heated by the fire. Everyone
received an apple and a Milky Way candy bar.
	Master Collins had us all kneel around one of the camp fires for
night prayers. He said the same Our Father I knew with the extra lines
always used at my Cub Scout troop. Then, he had us sit for what seemed like
an hour but was probably only fifteen or twenty minutes while he preached
about the wonders of nature God had given us and how we needed to live pure
lives so we could one day share God's love in that great forest in the sky.
	Georgie was sure "pure" meant he didn't want to hear "any whack
whack whack sounds from any of our tents. This guy would really hate
Beasley," laughed Georgie.
	It wasn't very cold so Georgie and I opened our sleeping bags flat
and slept side by side on one of them, with the other on top of us. Georgie
had some thoughts on God.
	"I don't think any of these preachers know anything about what God
is really like. In the first place, there are too many of them, Gods, I
mean. You got our God with the beard and Jesus. The Mohammedans have
Allah. The Buddhists have Buddha. The Indians from India have a few. Yeh,
and our Indians have the Great Spirit. He's the one I think might be the
real one. And every one of the religions says their God is the only true
God, which, of course, is impossible. Now, say I believe in our God, the
one in the Lord's Prayer, and when I die, it turns out he's not the real
one. Somebody else's is and I go to hell or I come back as a frog or
something. That's not right. And we have it even worse. You Catholics say
you are the true church. The preachers on the radio say if I don't believe
in what they say, I'm going to hell. See, that's what I like about the
Great Spirit. He's just sort of there and he'll help you out if you ask and
he's in the mood. If you're a decent guy, there's no problem about getting
into the happy hunting ground. There's no don't do this and don't do that
shit. Just be a decent guy. And die during the day so he can find
you. That's all."
	"Where'd you learn all that?" I asked.
	"Books, Malcolm, books, and some television and movies."
	"So you want to be an Indian?"
	"No, stupid. You don't have to be an Indian or anything, just a
decent guy. Just don't be a shithead. But you gotta die in the day or, I
suppose, have someone put you outside the next day after you die, so He can
find you."
	"What about Jesus?"
	"He's part of the God with all the `don'ts' and all that shit."
	"You believe in Jesus?"
	"I don't know which one's for real so I believe in all of them,
some."
	I gradually snuggled close to him but he pushed me away, "Move
over, it's too hot in here."
	Each time we stopped to rest the following morning, Georgie
complained and called us "sissies", "wieners" and, privately to me,
"shitheads". Two of the bigger boys, including the boy Georgie had the
fight with, finally had all they could take. One got on his hands and knees
behind Georgie while the other walked by and bumped him backward.
	In almost the same movement as his fall, Georgie rolled and kicked
the down boy hard in the thigh. I ran to get between them and got a fist to
the head from the bigger boy for my efforts. The Master only saw the boy
hit me. Georgie had fallen back down when I was knocked into him by the
blow.
	"He kicked me!" insisted the bigger boy pointing at Georgie. "Here,
look at my leg."
	He started to open his pants.
	"Just go to the front of the line and stay there.' The master
turned to me. "You, what's your name?"
	"Malcolm."
	"That's the end of it or you'll spend a day in detention, got it?"
	"Yes sir."
	Georgie thought it was hilarious.
	"You better quit fighting or I'll go with someone else," I
threatened.
	Georgie stood with his feet apart. "Then go, shithead."
	He grabbed his fallen backpack and walked ahead. I finished the
hike alone.
	We were picked up that afternoon by the bus that had brought me to
camp. Georgie sat with me on the bus, contrition on his face.
	"I'm sorry. You tried to help me back there. Friends?"
	He held out his hand. It was the first time we'd really touched
each other. I think I held his hand too long because he tugged it away and
gave me a strange look.
	The next weeks were generally uneventful. Georgie was put out by my
constant admonitions to "calm down" and "don't be so sensitive".
	"I'm not sensitive. You're sensitive."
	But we got past it each time and he didn't get in any more serious
fights.
	Better than that, Georgie's goading and instruction from the
trainers definitely improved my baseball and basketball skills. The food
was so good I picked up three pounds.
	Georgie and I became closer than I ever was with Philip or
Frankie. We were two out of six in our cabin not in the academic program so
we were together all the time. One was a skinny boy named Marvin who I
rarely saw without a book. He had a stack on his desk that I borrowed from
occasionally. Another was a slightly plump short boy who seemed to always
have a smirk on his face. His parents were in advertising, he told me, and
out of town far more than at home. He and his younger sister were left in
the care of a nanny, a cook and two maids. Those two were assigned to a
natural science program that included nearly daily field trips up the
mountain. If the woman who interviewed me had mentioned the program, I'd
probably have requested it. I was glad she hadn't.
	The other two from our group in the sports program were both chunky
and nasty. Georgie and I avoided them.
	Thanks to Georgie, Camp McFarlane was, for me, becoming a
relatively pleasant experience.
	And there was the motivation I felt to make myself an athlete the
equal of any in my class. Of course, that was completely unrealistic but I
was desperate for the acceptance of my school peers. Being relegated for
five years to the company of the least popular weighed heavily on me. The
thought of moving up the social ladder was tantalizing, and offered the
possibility of sexual adventures with Victor Cibelli and the class muscle
boys like Tommy Atkins and Martin O'Malley.
	I put up with the discomfort and even some pain as I improved my
performance of the daily exercises and runs. Within three weeks, I was
among the top third in push ups, sit ups, leg raises and pull-ups. Georgie
stayed one or two each ahead of me but he didn't weigh as much so had less
to lift. I completed the runs standing up but could never catch or stay
close to the better athletes among us. Georgie always beat me handily. He
was even outdoing me in the pool where I was one of the better
swimmers. Fortunately, I didn't yet understand the importance of native
talent or probably would have given it all up.
	Afternoons from three until the five o-clock dinner were free. We
could swim or play games with others, anything we pleased. Choose up
baseball games were popular but we only joined them a few times and then
quit to swim. Georgie and I continued to explore the mountain and even
created a little open space inside a stand of bushes we hoped wouldn't be
found by anyone else. We called it "our place".
	I certainly didn't forget Freddy but his absence didn't weigh on me
as it had at the YMCA camp. But the reason I was having fun was
Georgie. The rest of the kids in our group were either unsociable,
overbearing loudmouths or really sad.
	Master Dean forced me to go to Sunday Mass the second week. Georgie
suggested I ask to speak to the camp director regarding it and just say
that I didn't agree with my parents' religious preference.
	The director, a gray haired man named Walpole who used a cane to
walk and spoke with some kind of accent Georgie said was Pennsylvania and
not foreign, asked, "Then, which service would you prefer to attend?"
	"None of them."
	"Why, Malcolm, don't tell me you don't believe in God."
	I wasn't sure what I believed in. "I believe in that but I don't
like churches."
	"Are you a naturist?"
	The only naturists I'd ever heard of were the nudists in a magazine
discussed by some of my classmates. "No, sir."
	"Well, then, where do you want to go to worship?"
	"Nowhere, sir."
	He said he'd speak to my parents and see what they thought but, in
the meantime, he was obligated by the contract he had with my parents to
get me to Mass on Sundays and confession at least once a month.
	I'd have to figure another way to free Sunday morning.
	Georgie and I celebrated his birthday up on the mountain with half
a chocolate cake and four Cokes we'd smuggled out of the dining
hall. Sexual notions toward Georgie were seeping into my perverted brain. I
wanted to give him a really nice birthday present in the form of a good
screw but chumped out. His comments about Beasley and the fat boy's daily
masturbation sessions convinced me my new friend wouldn't like the idea.
	Beasley, by the way, wasn't a homo as Georgie thought, just
horny. Hidden in the clothes he brought from home were two pornography
magazines he claimed to have stolen from his big brother. He used them to
masturbate on his lower bunk when the Master wasn't around. The presence of
other boys never bothered him even when some began calling him "jerk off".
    	Those magazines, however, became very popular as time went on until
Master Dean walked in on three boys wanking themselves with one in the
bathroom. The magazine was confiscated and Beasley never loaned the other
out though boys could join him on his bunk.
	Several times, I watched the group jerk offs with thoughts of
showing one or more of the participants even greater pleasure their bare
hands couldn't provide. But the boys who frequented Beasley's bunk were the
less pleasant like Herbert Morrison, my combative bus mate. And I knew
Georgie would disapprove. Sex had caused the loss of one great friend, I
didn't want that to happen again. Still...
	One very gloomy boy about my size, who was in the academic program,
caught my sympathy. He never spoke to anyone, just moped around and
studied. A number of times I was sure I heard him crying. It made me sad
too watching him but Georgie didn't want to get anywhere near a kid who
would break into the fun we were having.
      One day in the cabin after lunch, before we were supposed to be at
the pool, I saw the sad boy sitting cross legged on his top bunk, up
against the window, staring out at some fixed point in the distance, as I'd
done many a day and night at the YMCA camp. Georgie was in the bathroom on
the toilet. I had to talk to the boy, find out why he was so unhappy, see
if I could help.
	"Hi, thinking about home?"
	He leaned forward on his folded arms but didn't answer.
	"You wanna come with us after your class? We're going up on the
mountain."
	I touched him on the thigh. He reacted with fury in his eyes.
	"Get offa me."
	I backed away quickly. He went back to looking out the window.
	When I told him, Georgie said, "I told you."
	The "battle of the barbershop", as Georgie liked to call it, began
in my sixth week. My hair was appreciably longer than when I arrived but
still far from covering my eyes which had been the point at which I allowed
my mother to take me for a haircut.
	Master Dean, sporting a crew cut that was trimmed every two weeks,
was on my case nearly every day. I pointed out that Herbert Morrison and
Daniel Farraday both had longer hair than mine.
	"That's not a very good example. You don't see anyone like them
going to Mass either. Look at your friend George. He's had his cut and
looks like a real gentleman."
	"Georgie doesn't go to church at all," I countered.
	"The next time your parents come to visit, we'll see," he said then
turned away looking uncomfortable, probably remembering my parents had
never come.
	It all came to critical mass at the end of July when Master Dean
saw me blowing hair away from my eyes.
	"You look like a darn hillbilly, Lloyd. You either go to the
barbershop or I'll take you to the director's office."
	"Then you've gotta take Morrison and Farraday, too."
	Herbert Morrison who was taking a pee but in earshot came charging
out of the bathroom trying to pull his fly up at the same time. "I didn't
do anything!"
	Master Dean looked at us both. Herbert flipped his nearly nose
length hair back over his ear.
	"Then that's what we're gonna do! Where's Farraday?" asked Master
Dean angrily.
	"What?" insisted Herbert Morrison.
	"You're all three getting haircuts right now."
	"The hell I am," snapped Herbert.
	"Watch your language, boy!"
	"Watch you ass, boy!" returned Herbert nastily.
	"That's it, you're both going to the detention!"
	"What for? I didn't do anything!" I said calmly.
	"Neither did I!" growled Herbert, his hands on his hips and feet
spread.
	"Disrespect!" answered Master Dean and grabbed Herbert by the
shoulder.
	As Master Dean reached out for me, Herbert batted his hand
away. "Get your hands off me, boy!"
	By this time, we had attracted a crowd, Georgie among
them. "Malcolm didn't do anything!" he said sharply.
	"Touch me again and I'll have my father sue you," said Herbert as
Master Dean again tried to take his arm.
	Master Dean left and came back with two other counsellors. They
took Morrison to detention but left me alone. Georgie thought it was time
for me to get my hair cut. Not one to give in easily to a challenge, I
agreed but insisted on going the following week.
	It was during that same week, my eighth at the camp, that we found
someone else's special hiding place on the side of the mountain. There were
large rocks on three sides of the six by twelve foot, oval shaped flat
patch of dirt with an entry opening less than three feet wide. An
outcropping of flat stone about fifteen feet up covered it from
above. Inside a waterproof duffle bag, well hidden between some rocks, was
an interesting set of items: an Army blanket, a partially used roll of
toilet paper, soiled underpants, two pornographic magazines and a half used
jar of Vaseline.
	"There's kids jerking off up here, probably from the upper forms,"
observed Georgie.
	But the underpants were much closer to my size than that of a
fifteen year old and I guessed the Vaseline was being used as a lubricant
the way Freddy and I used saliva.
	Georgie lifted the pooped briefs again. "Unh uh." He held the
underwear up to himself, then me. "At least one of these guys is about
eleven or twelve, less if he's fat." Georgie didn't have my experience but
he was still putting things together. "I'll bet you somebody's getting
fucked up here. Shit!"
	We looked for evidence of how recently the place had been used. The
shit in the underwear was well dried but that would happen quickly.
	"Let's put it back just how we found it and check it out every
chance we can," said Georgie.
	My dick was stiff at the thought of what was happening here. I had
to see it at least once.
	We erased all the evidence of our presence and looked for a good
observation post. There was a spot at the base of a large tree that
afforded a clear view but we'd be visible too when we looked. Approach
would be very difficult due to crunching leaves under foot. Overhanging
rocks hid it well from above, unless, "If one of us holds the other, we can
slide out on the rocks up there and maybe see," I said. "And they won't be
able to hear us coming."
	Every afternoon after three that week, except Wednesday when the
director personally hauled me to the barbershop, Georgie and I hiked up
cautiously but found no one. Friday, however, when we decided to check the
duffle bag, we found that one of the rolls of toilet paper was almost used
up and a second one still in its wrapper had been added. The underpants
were gone. They'd been coming up either in the morning or at night.
	"Or lunchtime," suggested Georgie.
	Saturday was free all day so we stuffed some breakfast rolls and
apples in our pockets, filled our canteens and hiked up right after
breakfast to wait. We beat the four who came by half an hour at the
most. Perched on top of the rock formation behind a dead tree branch we
found, we watched two boys about twelve, one perhaps thirteen and a man.
	"That's Master Washburn from Beaver cabin. Shit!"
	The two younger boys were the two good looking blondes I'd watched
horse around many a time during the afternoon showers. They were in the
sports group for twelve and thirteen year olds. Georgie knew them all.
	"The blonde is Harry McWinters. The dirty blonde is Michael
McWinters. I thought they were brothers but they're in the same cabin so I
don't know, maybe cousins of something. The bigger kid is, a, shit, yeah,
Bernie or Barney something. Shit, this is wild. Master Washburn is a
homo. I hope we can see."
	The four disappeared under the rocks. We heard them talking but
couldn't make out any of what they were saying. Wind through the trees
masked the sounds of their voices.
	"Georgie, if we can't hear them..."
	"I got ya. Let's go."
	We headed for the tree we had dismissed as a hiding place because
they'd likely, and did, go past it on the way in and we'd have to make too
much noise to get to it after they arrived. We walked slowly and carefully,
watching out for sticks that might break under our feet. It took a while to
get there since we had to go all the way down below the rocks then back
up. My dick stayed hard the entire time. I was worried we'd be too late. We
weren't.
	"Shit! Look at that! Wow!" exclaimed Georgie in a whisper.
	The Master was on his knees fucking the thirteen year old who was,
at the same time, screwing one of the twelves. My head went woozy. I had to
take a deep breath to fill my lungs. The lighter blonde haired boy sat
beside the stack watching the Master's bare ass pump into Bernie or
Barney. I was sure the boy in the middle had to be delirious with
pleasure. His prostate was being massaged by a big man cock and his own
dick was buried in a tight boy ass.
	I had to find a way to be part of that.
	The Master stopped fucking. I saw his legs stretch out and his head
lower. He was cumming inside the thirteen year old. Then he pulled back and
out and sat on the ground, his back to me. The thirteen year old pumped
fast and hard into the smaller boy. I found it incredible that he hadn't
had his orgasm long before. Then he did. His ass muscles flexed as he
pressed deep inside the boy on the ground.
	The dirty blonde rolled over, pushing his impaler to the side. Well
over four inches of shiny cock slid out of him. He dragged the blonde down
beside him and ran his fingers between his own ass cheeks then over his
cock, transferring lubricant. He lifted the ass cheek of his companion and
pushed in behind him. His hand went between them apparently to guide his
cock home. He pushed, adjusted upward then pushed in again. He wrapped his
arms around the boy he was screwing, took hold of his cock and began
pumping away slowly. The master was wiping off his hardon with toilet paper
while watching the blondes. The bigger boy sat beside them, still nude, and
watched too.
	The blonde being fucked held on to the arm of the hand masturbating
him, possibly to keep him from going too fast. The boy fucking gradually
increased his speed then pushed in hard and stayed there as he jerked his
friend off furiously. He pumped into him a few more times until the boy in
front grabbed his arm and held it tightly to his body.
	They lay like that for a few moments until the Master, in his
undershirt and flannel shirt, his faltering cock sticking out between the
hems of the shirt, poked them in the back with his foot.
	I was sweating all over. Neither of us had said a word. I couldn't
resist feeling Georgie's crotch. He didn't notice until my hand had grabbed
his hard cock. "Get off that."
	"Just curious," I said with what breath I could muster.
	Georgie grabbed mine. I didn't stop him. "You too, so what?" he
remarked.
	"I gotta jerk off."
	"Not here, they're gonna come right by."
	"Nah, they gotta clean up. We've got time." I opened my pants and
pushed them and my briefs down as I spoke. I lay back and began
masturbating.
	"Shit," muttered Georgie and followed suit.
	My motivation for masturbation was dire physical need. I didn't
occur to me he'd join in. He didn't seem the least bit inhibited about
jerking off along side me. I was excited but a bit angry at myself for not
doing something like this weeks earlier.
	Watching him wank away, I almost asked if he wanted to stick his
two and a half inches in me but was sure of a nasty reaction.
	I came quickly. If Freddy had been there, I'd have gone for
two. Georgie was struggling. Nature made me do what I did next.
	"Move," I said as I pushed Georgie's hand away and grabbed his rock
hard penis. "It feels better if someone else does it."
	He made no effort to stop me. He ran his hand up his flat tummy and
closed his eyes. It took less than a minute. His dry orgasm was as powerful
as I'd felt in Freddy whose pulsing in my ass was always strong.
	"That was pretty good," said Georgie with a smile. "Now, we better
get out of here."
	I was so frustrated and angry at myself for not broaching this
activity a month before, I almost forgot what we'd just witnessed.
	Still adjusting our clothes, we retraced out steps back to the top
of the rock formation and watched the four walk serenely back to camp.
	"Shit, can you believe that? I never figured Master Washburn for a
homo." He looked at me and said, "I didn't mean that in a bad way. I just
didn't think, well, you know, I thought he was normal. Shit. I`m sorry."
	I just stared at him. He was clearly saying he considered me like
Mr. Washburn. What was I supposed to do? Deny it? I had just jerked him
off. But other boys who liked girls did that to each other. What?
	"You think I'm homo?"
	"Look, Malcolm, no, I, well, shit! Kinda, yeah. But we're still
friends. I don't care."
	"Why, because I jerked you off back there?
	"No, everybody does that. Shit, I've done that before with another
kid, a couple of times. You just act kinda..."
	"Like a girl?"
	He grimaced. "A little, yeah. But I play with you every day, don't
I. So I don't care. Please don't get mad. I'm sorry."
	Inside, I felt strangely happy, content, relieved he felt that way,
but also angered at myself for waiting so long to do it. "It's okay. Does
everybody else think I'm that way too?"
	Georgie rolled his eyes and lay back beside me. "Some, a few think
so."
	I wanted very much to hug him but was certain he wouldn't like
it. "I didn't think anyone knew. Do I really act like a girl?"
	"Don't worry about it. That's the way some people are. I read about
it in a book my mother's got hidden in her dresser. Some doctor who's doing
research says everybody's got a little homo in them and homos have a little
heterosexual in them and it's normal or something like that. Nobody at your
school ever said anything?"
	"No," I lied, immediately regretting it.
	"How about your friends?"
	"I just have one. He's said some things."
	"Well, like what?"
	"He says sort of like what you did that it's just the way I am. But
he thinks I might change one day."
	We both stared at the trees above us for a while, then Georgie
asked, "You ever do anything with him?"
	"Sort of."
	"Like jerking him off, or something else?"
	"Something else."
	He rolled over on to his side and looked at me. "Well, like what?"
	"You're not going to say anything?"
	"Of course not. So what?"
	"Like they did."
	"He fucked you?"
	"Mmm hmm."
	He continued to stare at me. I looked back. "So, what, you wanna do
it too?"
	"I don't know. I'm thinking about it. You wouldn't mind?
	"No."
	"Do we have to use Vaseline?"
	"Freddy and I just use spit."
	"Shit." There was a strange smile on his face.
	"Is your penis hard?" I asked him.
	"You know it is. Shit."
	"You say that a lot, too much."
	"What?"
	"Shit."
	"Yeh, I know." He was still staring at me, still smiling. "I never
figured I'd fuck another boy."
	"So, you wanna do it up here or down where they did it."
	"We better do it down there."
	We used their blanket. It was prickly like Freddy's and my sleeping
bag. I took everything off. He just lowered his pants and briefs. His cock
stuck straight out.
	"It's easier if you take your pants off."
	He took off his shoes and pulled out of his pants, turning them
inside out. Then he pulled the pants legs back through and folded them. He
stayed hard but I sensed maybe he didn't want to go through with it.
	"You don't have to if you don't want." I didn't really mean that
but was afraid of losing a friend as I had Philip.
	"No, yeh, I want to do it. It's just kind of wierd."
	"You want me to make it wet for you?"
	He put his pants on top of the duffle bag and stood up, looking at
me on the blanket. He had a really nice, flat belly. His cock was small but
straight as an arrow with his circumcised, slightly pointed glans the
perfect arrowhead.
	"I can do it." He held his hand in front of his mouth and dripped
saliva onto it.
	I really wanted to do it for him. I knelt up in front of him and
clamped my mouth down on his peter. He looked down and took a deep
breath. I pulled him forward and sat him on the blanket without ever taking
my mouth off him. He leaned back on his elbows and watched. After going up
and down a few times, I lifted off.
	He said, "No. That's nice. Keep doing it a little more."
	He was small like me so being fucked by him wasn't going to be
anything special. And, the view up his flat tummy was great. I moved and
lay down between his legs, rocking my head back and forth on his cock. I
ran my tongue down over his balls to his smooth perineum. I slid my hands
up his sides under his shirt then back over his tummy. He had great skin.
	Georgie reached out and put one hand on my shoulder. I pulled his
legs up so my tongue could slip farther down between his legs. He lay back
and let me do as I wished. I pushed his legs up higher and let his cock pop
out of my mouth. He did nothing to stop or even slow me. I seemed to be
following some kind of instinct. Nothing I did was considered before doing
it. His skin was so nice. My tongue touched the rim of his pucker. I felt
him twinge. I licked across it. The slight smell of poop didnīt bother
me. He let go of my shoulder and grabbed his knees, pulling them tight
against his body. I pushed the tip of my tongue into the center of his
anus. There was no tightening. I grabbed his hips and pulled him to me as I
pushed my tongue more and more inside him. He wasn't really tight, just
small. The tip managed to get inside the pucker. I fucked him with my
tongue, entering a tiny bit more with each push. Then the muscle in my
tongue couldn't take the strain any more. I licked my way back up to his
penis, now harder, thicker than ever. I tried to prolong things by not
putting much pressure around his shaft. He was way too hot to wait and
throbbed inside my mouth. He sat up quickly and held my head still.
	When the throbbing stopped, he let go and fell back onto the
blanket. "Oh, shit, that was so neat." I knew I wasn't going to get fucked.
	He was apologetic about not being able to screw me though I was
sure he could have. His cock was still stiff as a tree trunk, poking out
from inside his pants when he stood after dressing.
	We cleaned up the site then went back up on the rocks to eat our
rolls and fruit and drink from our canteens. Georgie explained why leaves
were green and changed color in the fall. The world was quite fine, thank
you.
	That afternoon, we went and took long showers hoping one or more of
the boys would show up. They didn't.