This is, as always, entirely fictional, and if stories involving sexual contact between minors is illegal where you live, or icky in your opinion, then don't read it. I welcome all comments, critiques etc.
As always, I'll take this chance to flog my other Nifty Story, Seal Rocks," which is here in the HS section as well, though it wound up several years ago now.
Thanks to Nifty for maintaining this resource. We all owe some small (at least) contribution to it, to keep it going and growing.
When the World Changed, Part 27
Bill Fieldstone was waiting for Brady the next morning as he left breakfast. "Where were you last night for dinner?" he asked sharply.
"Oh, sorry, Bill," Brady muttered, trying not to be too obvious in talking to him. "I, uh - David's dad took me and Doug to dinner, along with my mom. In Princeton. David went too."
"You went to Etienne's?"
"Um, yeah, I guess." He was embarrassed to realize he hadn't even noticed the restaurant's name. "It was on Witherspoon, just down from Nassau -"
"Yeah, OK, I know it." He smiled and relaxed a bit. "Nice place, huh?"
Brady grinned back. "Yeah, it was amazing. So, anyway, I'm like sorry -"
"Forget it. We'll catch up soon enough. Got to get to Work Program now."
"Me too. Later."
Brady exhaled sharply as Bill strode off. Somehow the idea of displeasing him was unnerving.
The day was crisp, windy, and very cold. Brady's breath fogged in front of him as he half ran across campus to class. Doug saw him on the stairs and waved, making Brady's stomach flutter.
Most of Brady's classes were in the middle of midterms, and the tension among the boys was visible. Brady felt good about everything but his Math class, where Mr. Wadleigh had compounded his nasty demeanor by showing little ability or interest in actually teaching the subject. He preferred to spend his time lecturing any boy who got a question wrong about how he was a lazy ingrate who was wasting his parents' money going to Wilson and not doing a lick of work. These constant harangues of course only added to the boys' insecurities, and made it more likely they'd freeze and mess up an answer. Brady especially was intimidated by the old man. He seemed to have some particular dislike for kids from local towns. The day students got it worst, but being from Cullingstown, Brady got the treatment as well at times.
This morning, the class was reviewing some fairly elaborate quadratic equations. Wadleigh was growing impatient with the boys' apparent inability to grasp what he thought he was teaching. "This is simple, gentlemen," he snarled, making the word "gentlemen" sound like a condescending insult. "This is basic thinking and reasoning. If you can't reason your way out of a paper bag, how are you going to function in this world? It's not peace, love, and happiness out there, you know - it's harsh and competitive. Not even your fancy family connections will save you from getting chewed up."
"You boys are spoiled, every last one of you. You grow up all coddled by your parents, and you have no idea what the world is like. Hinchcliffe, get up here and solve problem number 7." He crossed his arms, staring with narrow black eyes.
Billy Hinchcliffe rose, shakily, glancing at Brady, who tried to give a reassuring smile through his own trepidation. He wrote out the problem on the board, then started trying to work through it, becoming quickly bogged down. "Well?" Wadleigh snapped.
"Sir, it doesn't make sense -"
"Of course it makes sense!" Wadleigh strode to the board and scribbled out the solution as Billy stood, blushing, to one side. "Basic formulas, the material we've been talking about for three weeks. And you can't get it." He looked Billy over, dismissively, for a long second. "In your expensive suit." His bony hand waved vaguely toward Billy. "Show me the label on that jacket."
"Sir?"
"I want to see the label on your suit. Now."
Billy pulled the left side of his jacket back. "Hart Shaffner and Marx," Wadleigh read disgustedly. "Your parents buy you a bunch of expensive suits like that, from Hart Shaffner and Marx, and what gratitude do you show them? Do you apply yourself? Do you even care?"
Billy looked as if he wanted to melt between the floor boards. "I'm sorry, Sir, it just -"
"Go sit down. Conover, get up there and let's see what the local rubes can do. Number 10."
Brady was as clueless as Billy had been. He understood the basic concepts (thanks largely to his sessions with David), but there was some weird twist to this equation that made it apparently insoluble. "Sir," as he decided to try going on the offensive, "the rule you described doesn't seem to apply here because there are too many variables -"
"No! It applies across the board! Think, if you don't have too much pig's blood running through your brain." Brady was getting angry now, which didn't help his reasoning. Wadleigh clucked his tongue in disgust. "All right, your turn, Mr. Conover. Show us how much your family paid for that jacket."
Brady froze. He hadn't worn the new suit, or his new blazer - the former he'd worn the day before, after all, and the latter smelled faintly of camphor and clearly needed cleaning before wearing. He was wearing one of the jackets his mother had salvaged for him the previous summer, from God knows where. "Sir, I'm sorry I don't understand, may I please just sit down?"
"No. Open it up, Mr. Fancy Pants."
Brady felt his cheeks burning. He knew what his label said. He pulled open the left side of the jacket. Over the pocket, instead of a manufacturer seal like Billy's, was a simple white tag that read, "Machine Washable." He held his jacket open and stared at Wadleigh.
The class started tittering quietly as the boys realized what the tag said. Brady looked straight at Wadleigh, who squinted to read the tag, then stepped back a bit.
Wadleigh's eyes met Brady's for an instant, then dropped. "Oh, well, that's different," he began, suddenly fumbling for words. Brady didn't wait. He stepped back to his desk, grabbed his books, and stalked out the door. "Conover!" Wadleigh called out after him, before Brady slammed the door shut.
He ran down the empty staircase, breathing hard and shaking. I'm gonna get stung for this big time, he thought. Who cares. As he reached the first floor, his thinking changed. No. I'm not just gonna take this. He turned to the end of the hall, just before the stairs that ran down to the north side doors to the building, and strode into the reception area for Dean Storeman's office.
The woman he'd first met when registering his first day at Wilson, Clara, was at the reception desk as he entered the outer office. She squinted at Brady reprovingly. "Mr. Conover? You should be in class."
"Yes, Ma'am. I'm sorry. May - may I see Dean Storeman?"
Clara sniffed. "Dean Storeman doesn't just sit in his office waiting for boys to meet with him, Mr. Conover," she snapped.
"I understand, ma'am." He was kicking himself for never bothering to find out what this woman's last name was. "I just -"
"Oh, Clara, be a little less official." Miss Harder stepped from behind some file cabinets, where her desk was, and smiled at Brady. "Now, Mr. Conover, what brings you in here?"
Brady was both relieved and flustered in a whole new way. He didn't want to discuss anything with these women, where people might hear. He knew that openly complaining about a Master wasn't a good idea. "I, uh, I was just -"
"You should be in Mr. Wadleigh's class right now, Mr. Conover," Clara cut in, peering at a microscopic list through thin reading glasses. "Did he eject you from class?"
"No ma'am. He - I - well, I sort of ejected myself."
Clara stared at him in shock. "You walked out of a class without the Master's consent?"
Brady blushed. "Yes ma'am."
Miss Harder pursed her lips a bit. "Why don't you sit down, let me look in on Dean Storeman." She swept Brady to a hard backed wooden chair opposite Clara's desk and stepped into the inner office without knocking. As the door closed, Brady realized Clara was staring daggers at him. After a few seconds, he lifted his head, met her gaze uncertainly, and tried to smile. She sniffed again and went back to her examination of the list in her hands.
Dean Storeman opened the door to his office. "Come in, Conover."
"Thank you, Sir," Brady said as he held the door for Miss Harder to pass by. She gave him a wink, making him smile in spite of his trepidation. The bell ending the class period rang. Miss Harder looked at Brady inquiringly. "I have a free period coming up, Ma'am." She nodded.
Dean Storeman ushered Brady to a chair in front of his large desk, then sat across it from him. "It seems you have something on your mind, to walk out of a class."
Brady gulped. "Yes, sir."
"Well, why don't you tell me about it?"
Brady recounted the episode as best he could conscious the entire time that he was speaking ill of a Master. He tried to keep things as neutral and factual as he could. When he finished, Storeman looked at him for a long moment. "Has the School been a good experience for you, Mr. Conover?"
"Sir?" The question was stunning. "Yes, Sir, of course, I don't mean -"
"I know you've had a bit of a wringer these past couple of months, with all that's happened. Especially for a freshman. I hope you don't feel that you're in any sense out of place here. You're not."
"I - thank you, Sir. No, I don't feel out of place." He paused. "Well, most of the time, anyway. I mean I - I'm not, like, from a rich family or anything, Sir, and some of these guys - it's like the money makes them important or something, or they've been places and done stuff that's beyond me, and, and that means that I'm not important, or worthy, or . . . I don't know. It's not all the time, Sir, believe me. And not with my friends. But this . . . today . . . this was really embarrassing, Sir."
"I know that, son." He leaned back, looking out the window. "You know, my father scraped like mad to pay for me to go to Choate during the Depression," he said quietly. He smiled ruefully, the skin taut against his skull. "I worked in the campus laundry. I folded my classmates' underwear for them." He hunched forward towards Brady. "This School is better than the slights you've experienced, son. I want you to understand that."
"I do, Sir. I - I . . . " He felt weird saying it out loud. "I love it here. I couldn't go back. Not now. Not anymore." He wondered if he fully believed it.
Dean Storeman grinned. "Not a lot of students would say that, you know. Griping is one of the few things we actually allow here." He chuckled. "Now, we have to address this issue with Mr. Wadleigh first and foremost. I'd suggest -"
The door behind Brady opened. Mr. Wadleigh stepped in. "Mr. Conover. Dean Storeman." He looked winded.
"Hello, Evans. I had a feeling you'd be down here." Brady fought the urge to panic. "Why don't you sit over there on the couch?" He motioned to Brady's right.
Wadleigh sat slowly, heavily. "Mr. Conover was just speaking to me about an incident he had in your class."
Wadleigh sighed. "Well, he should." He stared at his clasped hands for a long moment. Brady was conscious, for the first time, how gaunt they were - veins protruding alarmingly from the skin, like blue ropes just beneath the surface, large joints that pulsed reddishly, fingers that seemed unable fold together properly. "I was very out of line, son." Brady blinked, wondering if he should look directly at Wadleigh. "Look, my dad ran a subway car for a living. He got me into Poly Prep out of a public school that was . . . well, something you wouldn't want to see. He worked double shifts to pay for it. Left him deaf as a fencepost by the time he was 50." He sighed again. "I know how it is for you, son. That's my point. More of the faculty here do than you realize. The Depression, the war . . . things like that. The deprivation, the - the desire to be something better than where you came from. And those experiences mold you. Like you're being molded now, with what you've live through. We -" he gestured vaguely towards Dean Storeman with a cadaverous hand - "we've all had our tough experiences of life. And they affect how you approach things. Hell, they dictate them. And those experiences, they're necessarily different from the ones you and your classmates have had. That doesn't mean," he added quickly, as if countering an imaginary protest, "that either set of experiences - yours, or mine and Dean Storeman's - are better or worse, or more, well, scarring, or anything like that. It just means, they're different. Which means that we see things differently." He sat back and stared at the ceiling. Brady wondered if he should speak, and what to say if he did.
"Sir,", Brady stuttered, "I - I don't want, you know, to be disrespectful. I'm not, um, like hat. I just - that wasn't right, Sir. I mean nobody's being like deliberately stupid or lazy or anything."
Wadleigh snorted a bit. "I wish I agreed with that last part, Conover. I have my doubts about some boys. But, point taken."
Dean Storeman leaned forward. "I assume, Evans, that you won't be stinging Mr. Conover for this incident? We can regard this as closed?"
"Yes." He looked at Brady. "Come by during seventh period. It really isn't that difficult. You just aren't seeing the process. We'll work through it together."
Brady gulped. He still wasn't sure he wanted to be subject to this guy's undivided attention. "Yes, Sir, I will. Thank you."
"All right then." Dean Storeman stood, the others following suit. Wadleigh left the room. Brady didn't exhale until the door had closed behind him. "That better, son?"
"I - yes, Sir, thank you. I don't want -"
"Go get some lunch, Conover."
"Yes, Sir."
As he walked through the outer office he could feel Clara's eyes boring holes in him. He glanced the other way, towards Miss Harder, who nodded and gave him a small wave.
That night, David shook his head as Brady told the story. "Fucking charmed life. Unbelievable." He opened Brady's closet. "So which one of these pieces of crap is it?" he asked, rummaging through Brady's supply of precisely five jackets. "Yeah, I thought so." He shook his head as he examined the jacker, with Brady dimly realizing for the first time just how shabby it was. "You can't really blame Wadleigh for giving you shit over this thing, can you? I mean really."
Brady caught the teasing tone. "Hey, don't argue with my lifestyle."
"Lifestyle? What, used car salesman baroque?"
"Hey, I got great deals, man. Only here at Reedman Motors in Langhorne, Route 1."
"Just what I need, a nice '56 Ford for $75."
"It even runs. Especially downhill."
"Christ," David muttered, hanging the jacket back up. "I have to teach you everything. Just don't wear that thing up to Dunston, OK? You want to make a good impression."
"Nah, I just got this cool blazer I was thinking of wearing. Fly the flag and stuff."
"Good choice."
The overnight road trip to Dunston for the last football game made him nervous, so he wanted to change the subject. "You doing OK?"
David snorted. "Whaddya think? Another afternoon playing hide and seek inside my head with the shrink. It seems I either have mommy issues or daddy issues. I actually think it's more second cousin issues - the guy's a douchebag." He sat at his desk and stared at an opened book. "But the shrink doesn't share my theory on that." He took a long breath. "I got a letter from my mom."
Brady hoped this was good news. "That's great! How, um, how does she like California?"
Another snort. "She wants me to come out there and live with her. She thinks I need liberation from a patriarchal and hierarchical society." He put The Grateful Dead on his stereo and turned it up loud. "Fuck her."
"You mean like live with her on break and over summer?"
"Course not. She wants the whole turn on, tune in, drop out thing. Wear love beads and sandals, look like a bum, find a guru. She sent that record for me to listen to." He flipped his hand disgustedly towards his bed.
The album was a deep pink, with an elaborate flower-like graphic on its front. Brady looked it over, front and back. "Timothy Leary, huh? What's it about?"
"You think I'm actually gonna play that crap? It's his book about how acid is a religious experience and all that bullshit."
Brady blinked as he read the liner notes on the back of the album cover. "Acid is religious?"
"I know, right?" He flipped on his reading light and hunched over his copy of Silas Marner. Brady could see he wasn't reading. "Why's your mom so cool, Bray? You're so lucky."
Brady swallowed. His mom was cool, but she also drank every night and walked through life in constant grief. Was he really lucky, to have to watch her bear those burdens, unable to help her? "My mom - she just, you know, she copes. However she can."
"Better than mine," David snapped. "Mine runs 3000 miles away from her life and pretends she's a kid, to hide from things. From everything." He took a deep breath. "I think from me." He leaned back. "Dad's cool with me. Being queer and stuff, y'know? I mean he's not out throwing tickertape parades about it, but he at least tries to understand. My mom . . . She spent most of last summer crying about the grandchildren she'll never have. I know she and my dad had a couple of huge fights because she wanted to get pregnant again. Like she wants another kid so she can have a normal one, to make up for me. I mean she's like 40 now, she's headed for The Change soon. Apparently being close like that fucks up your ability to have kids, or makes it more dangerous, or something. There's this research my dad talked about. But she doesn't care."
Brady tried to think of something to say. "David, look, I mean she's your mom, of course she loves you - "
"Right." He leaned back over his book. "Let's just drop it, OK?"
They passed the rest of study hall in silence.
Brady sought shelter in Doug's room as soon as study hall ended. Dunc was listening to something on a huge pair of headphones, nodding his head and occasionally mumbling some lyrics Brady couldn't make out. "Some new band called The Moody Blues," Doug explained. "Another English band. It's not even officially out until next week but he scored a copy somehow from a buddy in the city."
At this point Dunc let out a long wailing, "Oh how I love you, Ahhh-ahhhhh . . . " with his arms over his head. He realized Brady was in the room, and took off the headphones, grinning sheepishly. "I'm not supposed to let anybody else hear this until the 11th. I'll get in big shit if I do. Trust me, it's really cool."
Brady nodded and glanced at Doug. Silently agreeing, they slipped out to walk around center campus together.
The night was crisp, their breath clouded in front of them. Orion was starting its climb up the eastern sky, chasing Taurus and the Pleiades. Brady loved how red Aldebaran shone on clear nights like this, and he pointed the star out to Doug. "How do you know all this star and constellation stuff, Bray? Are you doing like astrology or something?"
Brady laughed. "No, it's - I just like it, I guess. It's like the space program, I read everything I can about it. The stars, and the planet, all that stuff."
Doug snorted. "What space program? We burned those poor guys to death, man, we're never getting to the Moon before the Russians."
Brady sighed at that apparent ugly truth. "Maybe," he muttered. "I hope not."
"So you OK?" Doug asked. Brady knew his incident with Wadleigh had become major campus gossip.
"Yeah." They walked silently for a while, shoulders unconsciously bumping every so often. The floodlight illuminating the chapel steeple made them squint as they passed in front of it. "Am I some kind of sore thumb here? Like sticking out, I mean?"
Doug appeared confused. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I mean," Brady said with a deep sigh, "sometimes I feel like I'm on the outside of all this, looking in. Like it's a world I'm not part of. Not really, anyway. I want to be part of it. I mean I wear the jacket and tie and go to class and all, but I feel . . . different. Not really fitting in, and all." He looked down at his shoes. "I dunno sometimes."
"Bray," Doug said, bringing them both to a stop in dark area past the chapel. His arm circled Brady's shoulder, and Brady felt all his ability to resist vanish. He tucked his face into the crook of Doug's neck, inhaling the smell of him, feeling his warmth and the smoothness of his unblemished skin. "You are one of the guys people look up to here. Even upperclassmen. You stood up to the McShanes, you won't take shit from Wadleigh, you even challenged Taber! You're like a star, man." Doug's other arm held him now as well, and the hug made Brady whimper with desire. "I'm so lucky to know you, Bray." A hand was in his hair now.
He was overwhelmed. He couldn't stop himself. He kissed Doug's neck, softly, lingeringly. Doug's scent mingled with that of his saliva, making his head spin. His lips strayed across the skin for a couple of seconds before he came to himself and pulled back. He realized he was hard as iron, and leaking into his underwear. He felt the panic rise in him, and looked wildly at Doug. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I . . . I -"
"It's OK," Doug answered, his voice a bit shaky. His eyes were wide. "Bray, I - "
"I'm sorry, man! I - I really am. I just - I don't know - It's not -"
"I know, it's OK," Doug said, though his voice seemed far from OK. "It's just, you know . . . " He stepped away slightly from Brady, and Brady felt himself start to die. "Bray, you carry so much stuff around inside. You're all pent up. And I know, I know it's rough for you. Your family, and your dad, and your brother, and your mom, and the money stuff. And the shit here, with McShane and everything. And, and I know you feel like, responsible, for David and all the stuff he's dealing with. But it's all kept in, man. You never talk about it, or cry it out, or punch a wall, anything. It's like no, I'm Brady, everything's just great. But it's not. I can see it, anyway, if most people don't. So does David. You're eating yourself all up inside, Bray. You walk around some days like you're, I dunno, haunted, or something. I keep saying this, but it's like it doesn't get through. I - it worries me, about you."
"You rust from the inside out, Bray. Keep it all in, it makes you hollow. It doesn't stay in, it eats you away and you, you bleed yourself to death, in little bits. I just -" he looked away. "I just, I don't want you to be like . . . I don't want you to stop being you, all right?"
"Sorry," Brady said, hoping the conversation could slip past what he'd done. "I just -"
"And Bray?" He swallowed as he glanced back, smiling a bit. "It was nice. We're cool, OK?" Brady stared, torn between terror and jubilation. "I mean I don't know that I want you to do that again, y'know?" He added very quickly, looking away. Like, well . . . you know."
"Right," Brady managed to choke out. "Of course."
"But, um, it - it was OK. I, like, understand. Happens, right?"
Brady realized he had to say something, or he'd admit too much. "Well, I had to get that flea off you somehow." He made a show of spitting something out of his mouth. "Fucking vet's kid."
Doug started howling with laughter, the mood broken. They were kids again, laughing over a dirty joke. Brady joined in, part of him watching carefully for signs of strain or discomfort in their interactions. "I better not tell you where else I itch then, huh?" Doug asked with an evil grin.
"Oh God, that is so fucking gross!!!" Brady shouted at Doug, pushing him backwards and laughing even harder. He made sure to keep his coat closed over his crotch. It wasn't gross at all, to him.
They began walking again, now bantering about inconsequential things, campus gossip, and football. "So it looks like I'm cleared to play against Dunston. I gotta see the doctor one more time, but it's looking good."
"That's great!!! Miss having you out there, Bray." Doug's eyes were so warm, his smile so open and glowing that it erased Brady's feeling the bite of the cold air on his face. They hesitated there an instant, then pulled back. Doug's smile turned knowing. "I bet Glendon's not at all happy about that, huh? Getting you back'll be such a pain, I mean." He giggled at his own sarcasm.
Brady made a face. "Screw you too." They were silent for several seconds. "I feel so shitty about Alan, man."
"I know. It sucks that he got messed up like that. But he'll be OK, right?"
"I guess. But, I mean, it's - well part of me, I mean he'd taken my spot." He didn't know how to continue; it was a shameful thing to admit. "Is that, like, despicable or anything? I mean I didn't want him to get hurt or stuff like that. Not like McShane, or anything. I just - I didn't want to lose my spot, and I was gonna have to fight to get it back, and . . . It's like it sucks he's hurt, but it - it's, I dunno. Convenient." He sighed again. "That's really awful of me isn't it? To think that?"
The seconds that passed before Doug answered seemed eternal. "I get it," he finally said, flatly. "I mean we fight each other for a spot - starting and all that. But we're supposed to be like teammates and friends at the same time. And we are. I mean of course we are. But one of us winning means another one loses. I dunno. It - it shouldn't be like that, but I dunno how to make it different." He looked at Brady. "I know what you meant. I watch the guys who don't start every day and, and I'm scared - well part of me's scared - that I'll like screw up or something and one o' them'll start in my place. That . . . that'd like kill me."
Brady exhaled. "I know. I - I've been stewing about that since I got hurt. That I'm gonna lose out somehow. I'm scared of coming back. I mean what if I'm like gun-shy or something now? What if I'm afraid to get hit or hit somebody because it might mess me up again? You, you can't play like that. I'll suck. They'll bench me."
Doug shook his head. "You're fine, Bray. I mean I know how you feel, but you of all of us don't have to worry. You're the best guy we have out there."
Brady was loath to hear compliments - his upbringing made him reflexively reject them as empty glad handing - but he felt a surge of pride at hearing Doug say that. He strode on, feeling lighter than air. What a great night, he thought.
The leaves behind them on the path crunched. "What's going on, you young stallions?" Fieldstone stepped from behind them and walked along, slipping between Brady and Doug.
Doug gave Brady a confused glance. "Um, hi Bill. Just walking around before lights out."
Fieldstone nodded. "Cat got your tongue Conover?"
"No! No, I - we were - you just kind of surprised me, Bill. You been like tailing us or something?"
Fieldstone smiled. "Nah. Just a little fresh air. Well, see you later." He peeled off into a senior dorm - Brady noted that it wasn't his own.
The two walked for a few seconds in silence. "He's kind of creepy sometimes," Doug said.
"Um, yeah. I guess. I don't - I mean I don't think he means anything by it, you know. He's just -"
"Was he following us or something? He's always watching you, did you know that? I've seen him. Like after chapel, or in the dining hall, or between classes. It's like he's always checking on you and stuff."
Brady felt ill. "Well, he really takes this Bevans stuff seriously. Like it's a, a legacy, or, or something . . ." He trailed off, knowing it didn't sound at all convincing.
"I dunno. It's weird. Kinda like perverted, you know?"
"That's gross! He - he just -" Brady struggled to describe it. He realized he didn't know himself.
"Whoa, calm down, Bray. I just . . ." Now it was Doug's turn to trail off. "I don't trust him, OK? I don't even know what that means, really, but it - it just doesn't feel right." He smiled, looking abashed. "I guess I like watch over you too much, or something."
Brady felt his cheeks flush. "Well, we're friends. That - that's what we do, right? For each other."
"Always." Doug's gaze was direct, and very sharp. "Don't let him mess with you, OK?"
Brady swallowed. "No, course not. I - I mean, whaddya mean, anyway, 'mess with me'?"
Doug pulled back a bit and turned away. "I - just please be careful, OK?"
"I will, it's OK, man." A shout from Lawrence Hall, of the senior dorms, distracted us. A mattress was sliding out a third floor window, tipping slowly earthward. "Goddam it, Bryce, don't!!!" came a disembodied voice.
"OK," Doug said. "We gotta go check this out."
"I'll say," Brady answered. He grinned, partly at the prank, and partly from relief. This looked like it was going to be really funny.