Date: Fri, 20 Feb 2009 08:29:11 -1000
From: S turner <scotty.13411@hotmail.com>
Subject: Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned-Chapter 5

Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned
By Scott Turner

Chapter Five

This chapter is dedicated to my good friend, Stephen.


Disclaimer: This story is completely a work of fiction.  It occasionally
depicts consensual sexual activity between adult men.  If this is not your
cup of tea, is illegal where you are or if your parents don't want you to
possess or read such material, then please find another story or website.
What follows is copyrighted by the author, 2009, and may not be reposted,
reproduced or published without the expressed written consent of the
author.



      It was a sick, muffled chirping sound that first stirred him.  `An
ailing or injured bird?'  His barely conscious brain tried to make sense of
the annoying noise.  `Right outside the window?'  "Ummmmmph."  He coughed
and then mumbled into his own bare armpit.  "Just die already, will ya'?"
Scott lifted his head off the pillows a couple of inches, leaving his
forearms tightly locked beneath them both.  His right hand was sound asleep
anyway, and not of much use.  He blinked twice, looked around and, now
mostly conscious; he identified the offending noise as the call of his cell
phone.
      He grunted again, shimmied his torso toward the edge of the mattress
and reached for the pair of jeans that lay in a heap on the floor.  "Who
the fuck is calling at six on a Saturday morning?"  Hooking onto a belt
loop with his index finger, Scott swung his feet to the floor.  "This can't
be good news," he muttered to the obviously disturbed fattest cat in the
world.  After fumbling with the pants that he'd hastily discarded the
previous night, he fished the phone out of a hip pocket, coughed up a glob
of phlegm, leaned to his left and spit it into the wastebasket.  He
unfolded the phone with his left hand while he tried to shake the pins and
needles from his right.  "Hello!"
      "What the fuck are you trying to do to me, dumbass?"  It was Craig,
and he didn't wait for Scott to respond.  "First, it's a goddamn good thing
you answered.  Second, where the fuck are you?  Third, what the fuck are
you trying to do to me?"
      Scott scratched his head, then his left armpit.  "Huh?  I'm not
trying...I mean, I'm at home."  His right hand continued to tingle.
      "You leave a fucking message last night about wanting to flop on my
couch.  So, we leave a blanket and a couple pillows out and go to bed,
figuring you'll traipse in here in the middle of the night.  I get up to
take a leak a minute ago and...no Scott.  No note from Scott.  No fucking
hint of Scott!  I figured you were either in jail, in the hospital or in
the fucking morgue!"
      Scott's head was already in his hand, eyes clamped tightly shut.
"Oh, shit, Craig. I'm sorry, bud.  I didn't mean to..."
      "What the hell happened?  I figured that if you'd gotten lucky or
something and made other plans that you'd at least call and let us know, if
only to brag..."
      Scott was wide awake now, his mind running a losing race.  "And I
would have...if that's what had happened."  He wasn't quite lying to his
friend, he told himself.
      Craig had finally calmed considerably.  "So, you didn't?  You
know...amuse yourself in some wild romp or something?"
      Then Scott did wander toward fiction.  "Naw, actually it turned into
kind of a boring night, so I decided to come back here early.  Figured
better to wake up in my own bed today so I can get busy painting and finish
that project in one weekend."  He was hoping a change in the subject would
move Craig away from wondering about Friday night.  It worked.
      "You're painting the spare rooms this weekend?"
      "Yeah, before Marty left last week I dragged him shopping for shit to
paint with and I'd hoped to start and finish both rooms this weekend.  Then
I'm gonna shop for a desk and stuff for the little office I'm setting up
here."
      The reprieve from the previous night's sins expired quickly.  Craig
was back at it.  "So, nothing happened last night?  To you?  Scott Turner,
Jr?  Nothing happened?  Come on, Scott, nothing never happens to you.
You're telling me that for the first time in almost five years you went out
and about in Madison and nothing happened?"
      "Nothing worth reporting, or bragging about."  At least he was back
to telling mostly the truth.  He heard Craig whisper away from the phone.
"He's fine.  Inconsiderate asshole, maybe, but he's fine."
      In the background he heard Stephanie's relieved voice.  "Well, that's
good.  But at least he could have called."
      Scott nodded, eyes closed again in renewed embarrassment.  "Tell her
the message has been received, loud and clear."
      Craig coughed.  "She heard the message loud and clear from my end.
Next time..."
      "I got it!  Next time I'll stay in Madison and report as promised, or
at least I'll leave a message to let you know I'm safe and sound."
      "That's better.  Now I'm gonna go back to sleep...if I can."
      "Hey, Craig, I'm really sorry, again.  Give the same to Steph.
Better yet, why not bring her back to bed and give her something else?"
      Craig gave a quick snicker and dropped to a whisper.  "We got that
taken care of last night.  We thought we had to hurry and get it out of the
way before company might show up."
      "Craig?"
      "What?"
      "Go back to sleep.  And...thanks a ton for caring."
      Craig yawned.  "Don't let it go to your head...asshole."
      "I won't.  And I won't do it again."  Once more, Scott felt like he
was telling the truth, mostly.  At least he was pretty sure that was his
intent.
      Before he'd even closed the phone, Scott flopped back on the bed,
staring at the ceiling for most of a minute.  He closed his eyes and draped
an arm across them.  "All growed up."
      He felt a cold wet nose brush across the tops of both of his feet.
Brett the dog whined.  Scott sat back up and met the lab's wide head with
both hands.  He scratched Brett's jowls.  The dog appeared to grin,
completely oblivious to any signs of turmoil.  "It would seem, my good and
noble friend, that we have a debate raging between our upper head and our
lower one."  The dog shook his head loose and looked plaintively toward the
bedroom door, beyond which lay the kitchen and beyond that, the sliding
door to the back yard.  Scott stood and signaled with a shot of his hand
that he understood.  Brett hopped up onto all fours.  Scott raised his arms
and leaned back in a long morning stretch before looking back down.  "And
we've left one very pissed off Filipino hottie and one anxious and caring
former roommate in our wake."  He slapped his thigh and stepped toward the
door.  "Come on, boy.  I don't need to piss you off, too."
      As Brett the Dog carefully inspected the turf within the jurisdiction
of his rope, Scott put on the coffee and mused.  `What the hell is wrong
with me?'  The drive home from Madison had been frantic, but mostly within
the posted speed limits and other traffic laws.  He remembered vividly the
argument he'd had with himself during his hasty retreat to New Allsted,
mostly in silence, but sometimes out loud.  He'd pictured and even felt
Willie's lithe body pinned against the wall of his condo's hallway.  He
remembered involuntarily shouting "No."  It had felt involuntary, anyway.
"That's not what you want, Scotty," he said to himself.
      "Fuck that!" came the response, exclamation point and all.  "You do
too!  It was right there in your grasp.  That beautiful, wonderfully built
little guy was yours for the taking.  And, hot damn!  He wanted it!  It's
why you drove to Madison in the first place, dumb shit.  He was a fucking
dream!"
      The conflict went on in his head, unabated and unrestrained.  `You're
a slut, Turner.  Just another horny piece of meat tramping around hookup
joints looking to dish it out and take it all.'
      He'd leaned back in the driver's seat and humphed.  "But you're not.
That isn't who you are...or at least not who you want to be.  Not anymore
anyway."
      He answered the dog's call to come back into the kitchen and inspect
his food dish.  Standing aside to allow the lab entrance, he sighed.  "I
could have fooled me, Brett.  I guess it ought to mean something past
getting my rocks off?"  He thought back to his freshman and sophomore years
in Madison: Marty, Frank and Jesse and even that stud in the Twin Cities,
Marty's old buddy Danny. And there'd even been a romp with his former TA in
poli-sci, Randy Oakes.  `Damn,' he thought.  `Those were great times.'  He
giggled a short twitter and the dog cocked his head.  "Were being the
operative word I guess, Brett."
      He scooped a cupful of Iams from a large tin container in the kitchen
closet and shrugged.  "But why am I asking you?  What the hell do you know
about self-indulgent, recreational whoopie?  As far as I know you've never
fucked for fun, if at all, in the three years we've known each other."
      At least Scott had a bottle of lotion, a tireless right arm and hand,
a good memory and an even better imagination.  He looked back at the dog
and chuckled at the end of a resigned sigh.  "I suppose I'm one up on you
there, too."



      Scott had shaken off the bulk of his weekend blahs and was sitting at
a table for four at Gustavson's at 6:15 Monday morning, drinking coffee and
scanning the morning "State Journal."  He smiled when he read a piece that
Craig had written about a Madison dentist who traveled twice a year to
Guatemala, providing free services to the local population.  `From covering
up-and-coming bands on the road, to interviewing tooth doctors who've been
waaaay on the road.  I'll bet he's tickled shitless to write this crap.'
      He was still smirking at the paper when the bell over the front door
rang again, a tinny chime he'd heard a dozen times since he'd opened the
paper, and he didn't look up to notice Tara until she was seated across the
table.  He looked startled.  She looked chipper, and beautiful.  "Oh,
g'morning.  I didn't even see you come in."  Tara smiled and set a three
ring binder and her purse on the empty chair next to her.
      Her grin turned down a tad and she shot a suspicious glance.  "You've
had that goofy grin on your face since I walked through the door.
Something must be funny.  Recollections of a wild weekend?"
      Scott's smile wilted in an instant.  He shrugged, folded the paper
and plopped it in front of the napkin holder.  "Nah.  Just something I was
reading here.  This weekend, I just painted like a demon both days, but
that's about it."  He craned his neck and winced.  "Still have a few kinks
from some of the bending and stretching into unnatural poses to reach the
tough spots.  I should have left the closets alone.  Ever try to paint the
inside of a closet?  It's cramped."
      Tara pouted.  "Aw...I told you during lunch the other day that you
could call me for help.  Like I said, I know how to swing a paintbrush
pretty well and probably could have even helped you with your closet."
Scott glanced at the ceiling.  "And I sure as hell could have used a break
from the action on the home front."  She ordered Darjeeling tea when the
waitress handed her a menu.
      Scott swallowed a sip of coffee.  "Ah...thanks.  But the last couple
weeks have been so hectic; it was nice having a long weekend of relative
solitude.  Just me...the animals...a twelve pack...some tunes blaring...The
Who, Barenaked Ladies, Stevie Ray, Leon Redbone, Duke Ellington, Frank
Zappa, even some Ella Fitzgerald."
      "Wow.  You're all over the board."
      "It was all good, but thanks again for the offer."  Scott looked
around the dining room.  "Wonder where Brian is.  He said he'd be here by
now."
      Tara shrugged and checked her watch.  "Well, we should probably order
anyway.  This place is pretty fast, especially with the morning breakfast
crowd, but if we're going to eat we should probably get started."
      Scott nodded and threw a friendly wave at the waitress.
      After their order was on its way to the kitchen, Scott leaned forward
on the table.  "So...the action on the home front?  Nothing serious, I
hope?"
      Tara propped the teabag against her spoon and squeezed it with the
string.  "Well, my grandparents...my mom's folks...they moved in with us a
couple months ago and she...my Nana...she can be a handful at times."
      Scott felt a subtle but all too familiar knot in his stomach.  "A
handful?"
      Tara nodded and looked down.  "She's not very well right now and
getting worse.  Confused a lot of the time...forgetting what day it
is...this morning she was up and dressed for church when I got up a little
after five."  She sighed heavily.  "Sometimes she's not even sure where
she's living..."
      "Is it...?"
      Tara nodded again.  "Alzheimer's.  The doctors say she's past the
real early stages, but not bad enough for a nursing home or anything.  And,
my granddad had his hip replaced this summer, and he just couldn't handle
their house any more and tend to Nana...so..."
      Scott leaned forward further with both arms flat on the table.  He
wanted to reach out and grab her hand.  "Oh...Tara.  I am so sorry to hear
that.  I can really feel your pain if it matters any.  Been there, done
that."
      "You too?"
      Scott's lips pressed into a tight, straight line and he nodded
gently.  "My grandma... Gran' I always called her.  Her last several years
were a gradual slide downward ...until..."
      "It killed her?"
      He sat back and scratched his neck.  "The official medical cause was
heart failure, but she wasn't at all well...uhm, in the head that
is...especially that last year or so.  It was hard losing her, but if she'd
lived much longer it would've gotten a whole lot worse."  A sad chuckle
escaped his lips.  "But she told me, in one of her more lucid moments, that
she had it a lot better than others her age with degenerative diseases.
She said `When I don't know if I'm coming or going or which way is up, it
doesn't bother me one goddamn bit.'  He laughed out loud.  "She'd brag that
she was meeting and making great new friends every day.  Never mind that
they were the same people all the time, and a lot of them were family."
      Tara rolled her eyes and tried to smile.  "I suppose there's that.
Nana spends plenty of quality time clipping coupons for shopping trips
she's never going to take, but she loves it.  And she's been reading the
same chapter of some trashy romance novel over and over since she moved in.
Plus, she's always been a neat freak, so the house is spotless.  She dusted
and vacuumed the living room and dining room twice yesterday.  I'm just
worried about my folks and my granddad...and for her of course."
      "Well, if you ever need a sympathetic ear, or a shoulder to cry on,
Tara, I hope you won't hesitate.  Like I said, I do know what it's like."
      "That's nice to know, Scott.  It really helps a lot.  I mean it."
      Scott pulled out a folder and handed her the outline of the standard
U.S. History timeline.  "This is the content of our current curriculum for
the sophomores.  It runs from Reconstruction starting in the late 1860s to
as close to the present as we can cover in one year.  Other than a review
of some of the basics of our founding...`The Declaration'...Constitutional
Convention and all that, the rest is pretty contemporary stuff.  Mostly
twentieth century, after the first quarter."
      Tara frowned.  "I didn't know you guys don't do the colonial period."
      "That's covered in ninth grade.  We do it again in the AP class, but
that's `cuz it's recommended to jam two years of content into one for the
true college prep student."
      She screwed up her mouth.  "Well, that nixes `The Crucible' and any
of the `Leatherstocking Tales.'  And I was hoping to bring in some of the
Existentialists of the nineteenth century, too."
      Scott smiled.  "I love teaching Emerson and Thoreau, and we'll cover
that stuff it in the upper level class later on."  Then his eyes widened.
"But, we could work it in when I start dealing with the women's rights
movements of the early century through the twenties, or again in the civil
rights movements later on."
      Tara made a few notes on Scott's timeline.  Then she looked up.  "You
know, it could be a waste of time to get too far ahead on this without
Brian being here.  As it is, he's sure that Emilia isn't going to buy
anything that didn't originate with her, and most of that was etched into
her yearly calendar a few decades ago.  So, don't you think we really need
him here?"
      Scott pinched his lip.  "You're probably right.  Tell you what.  You
just keep that outline and the timeline.  Take a look at it and think about
your literature.  Make a copy and give it to Brian and the three of us can
meet again later this week.  Maybe lunch some day."
      She put the folder away and smiled.  "Plus, that'll give us time to
chat."  She stirred her tea.  "You know, I don't want to pry, Scott.  But
you said the weekend was spent by yourself.  Anybody special in your life
right now?"
      Scott grinned shyly.  "Single as sin right now."  He took a drink of
his water. "Which is just the way I like it.  I have enough on my plate
with the new place and the new job and all that comes with it."
      Tara's smile shrunk noticeably for a moment, and then her eyes
searched his.  "So, no college or high school sweetheart hanging around?"
      He chuckled at her persistence.  "Nope. Just went through a peaceable
separation from my latest real romance not too long ago.  We finally grew
up and admitted we were headed in separate directions, and that for us to
pretend it wasn't so was a waste of both our time and emotions."
      Before she could ask any more questions, he tossed it back.  "And
you?  Surely there's a lucky beau in your life."  He tried to will her
response with a shouting mind. `Say yes, say yes, say
yes...yesyesyesyesyes.'
      "Nope."
       `Wrong answer.'  He had to work to avoid slumping in his seat.
      Tara leaned in, eyes wide.  "So, you're still friends with her?"
      Scott looked around the restaurant.  "Uhm...we're still
friends...yeah...good friends."  `Asshole!  AssholeAssholeAssholeAsshole.'
As he scolded himself for the subterfuge, it finally dawned on him that
neither he nor Greg had picked up the phone or even bothered with an e-mail
in the past couple of weeks.  `Good friends?  JackassJackassJackass!'
      "That's nice.  I wish my last breakup had gone so smoothly."
      Determined to keep the subject on Tara, Scott painted on a plaintive,
sympathetic gaze.  "Awww...not pretty, huh?"
      They both leaned back to give the waitress room to set down their
plates.  "Hayden and I went out pretty seriously most of my sophomore and
all of my junior year at Whitewater.  But, while I was in Germany..."
      Scott salted his eggs.  "Hayden's attention wandered?"
      Tara picked up her fork and stabbed a chunk of cantaloupe. "To my
best friend's...former best friend's...waiting embrace...and her bed.  The
fucker.  And that evil bitch."
      Scott raised his coffee cup.  "Here's to bad things happening to them
both."  Tara smiled and clinked cups with him in good humor, but her sad
expression tugged at Scott's heart.  He realized again that he really did
like Tara...even cared that she'd been hurt.  And his insides still ached
over the fresh knowledge of her Nana's situation.  His smile came easily
now.  "And I've no doubt that Hayden wasn't anywhere near good enough for
you.  In fact, with messed up judgment like his, I'm sure he'd have become
tiresome for you anyway."
      She shrugged a short shrug.  "Yeah...I suppose.  He was a real shit
about it, too.  Their affair was five or six months old already by the time
I got back from Europe.  He could have at least been up front about it
while I was over there.  I mean, we talked or e-mailed each other at least
every week.  Usually several times.  I could've maybe respected a little
honesty from the jerk."
      `Honesty.'  Scott chomped into an English muffin.  "Yeah."  He chewed
and swallowed and found a way to change the subject.  "You know Hattie
Prinsen, don't you?"
      "Yeah. She teaches the senior speech class and the drama elective.
And, she coaches the forensics team and is directing the musical this fall
along with the choir director, Ollie...Ollie...oh, I forget his last name."
      "Oliver Abernathy.  Used to sing with a Milwaukee opera company, I
guess.  So, heard anything about their casting the play?"
      Tara's face lit up and she tapped the table.  "Oh! That's what I was
going to tell you!  I knew you'd be want to hear this.  Chris Propst is
getting cast as Joseph."
      Scott slapped the table and gushed a fast laugh.  "He got it!"
      Tara wiped her lips.  "Yeah.  I was up at school for a while
yesterday and Hattie and Ollie were in her room working on fitting the rest
of the kids in on the stage.  Everybody who tried out is getting put
somewhere, but they had the major named parts already set.  They both said
that Chris was outstanding in auditions and they're really excited to see
him pull this off."
      Scott laughed.  "The kid is a mystery to me.  He can be such an
outgoing, gung-ho jock one minute, and the shiest `Mr. Modesty' you'll ever
know the next.  He's an animal on the football field.  Off the field, he's
usually all full of his braggadocio bullshit.  And then I can't get him to
say a damn thing in class.  But Judy Ronzani says he's a marvel in the art
room, the choir room and on the stage."
      "The strong, silent, macho type with a creative muse prodding him
from, time to time."
      Scott grinned.  "I guess that's `Topher.  Brando without the whacked
out personality."
      Mr. Gustavson himself met the pair at the cash register where they
split the bill evenly down the middle.  He was a short, squat man with
shocks of white hair that sprang from the sides of his head and a gleaming
pate above his thick, silver eyebrows.  His smile was infectious.  "Dutch
treat it is."  He laid three singles and some coins on the counter.  "Thank
you both ever so much, and you kids have an ab-so-tive-ly pos-i-lute-ly
wonderful day."  His mirthful giggle gave testament to the apparently
clever word play.
      Scott fished a couple of red and white peppermints from the bowl next
to the register and handed one to Tara.  He smiled and winked at the jolly
host. "And you too, my good man!"
      Gustavson nodded at the large window out front.  "Be careful to dodge
the raindrops."  He gestured toward Tara with his smiling eyes.  "I do
believe she'd melt if she got wet."
      They both looked over their shoulders.  Sure enough.  The radio
weather reporter had predicted an early morning storm, tapering down to a
lazy rain that would settle in on New Allsted for the day.  Scott took off
his jacket and looked at Tara.  "You parked very far?"
      She pointed over her shoulder.  "About half a block up that way on
the other side of the street."
      Scott held up his AE jacket.  "Well, I brought no umbrella so this'll
have to do.  We can't have you melting out there.  I'll hold the jacket and
you'll just have to stick close.  We'll run over to your car first, and
then I'll head back to mine."  He jabbed his thumb in the opposite
direction of the diner's front window.
      Tara spied the trunk of Scott's car a few spaces past the front door
and offered a polite protest in the face of Scott's chivalry.  "Oh,
baloney!  I'll just run for it."
      A shocking flash of lightening lit the pavement outside, followed
immediately by a loud thunderclap.  And then the angry skies opened up.
      Gustavson gave her an apprehensive smile, brows arched in caution.
"Better listen to Sir Lancelot or whatever here, honey.  I'd let you kids
use my umbrella, but the missus is done making bread and setting up the
kitchen for the lunch crowd and she's leaving for the casino in a half
hour.  She'd kill me if I lent it out now."
      Scott took three steps toward the door.  "Now or never, Ms. Burke.
We're gonna be late."  He pushed the inside door open with his butt.  "I'll
hold the coat, we'll run like hell, and might only get our shoes wet."  He
smiled once more at the waving proprietor and hoisted the coat by its
collar.  The rain pounded on the aluminum awning above the outside door,
and a gushing, shimmering sheet poured over its front edge just a few feet
from the curb.  "C'mon, Tara!  It's now or never!  We gotta go."
      Tara ducked under his makeshift little tarp and grabbed Scott's
waist.  She squealed as they stepped from under the building front's cover
and felt the first few pelts on their shins and shoes.  "Run!"  Scott
shouted.
      They looked like fierce competitors in a family picnic's three-legged
race with Scott holding the coat up and Tara holding onto Scott's waist,
each one trying to coordinate their quick steps crossing the street.  Once
alongside her Taurus, Scott mumbled a few profanities as she searched for
the keys.  Tara leaned against Scott, trying to remain beneath his arms and
the upstretched jacket and she swore.  "Fucking-A!  I just dropped the
damned keys in here.  Where in Sam Hell are they?"
      Scott couldn't help but laugh.  He shook his head and shouted, "You
have five seconds and then we're gonna run back to my car.  I know where my
fucking keys are!"
      Tara's face lit up as she withdrew her hand from the purse.  "Got
`em!"
      He waited until she'd shut the door and started the car.  Tara looked
up through the driver's side window laughing and gave him a thumbs up with
her left hand while she turned the car key with her right.  He pivoted a
fast one-eighty degrees and sprinted diagonally across the street toward
his car.
      Once safely inside his own car, a bit soggy from the knees down, he
sighed.  "She has no fucking idea what she's in for with her Nana."



      At the start of first hour, Scott looked out at the sea of grinning
faces.  His khaki slacks were a rich brown from the knees to the cuffs.  He
grinned at himself.  "Anybody ever seen the movie `Singin' in the Rain?'"
      Nothing but sappy grins and a few snickers came back.
      "Never mind.  I should have known better.  I know I look like a wet
rat, but it'll dry."
      Fifty minutes later, as his kids were putting the finishing touches
on a worksheet that he'd let them get a start on, he heard a dull, rhythmic
`whack' in the hall, over and over and over.  He told the class to pack up
their stuff and walked to the doorway.  Zach Jacoby was pulling himself
down the corridor on his crutches, with Christopher Propst carrying his
books.  Both young men smiled and Zach waved with a nod of the head.  They
pulled up short of the classroom door.
      Scott reached over and lightly swatted Zach's shoulder.  "Glad to see
you at school for a change, Mr. Jacoby."  He turned and beamed at an
ebullient `Topher Propst.  "And you!  You!"
      Chris' smile was joyful.  "You heard?"
      Zach released his grip on the right crutch, keeping it tucked under
his arm, and swatted Chris on the chest.  "Of course he heard, Dippy McDoo!
Jeez!  This is New Allsted.  Everybody already heard that you're starring
in what's bound to be the greatest high school production of the
long-running Broadway smash...blah, blah. blah."  Zach looked back at Scott
and made no effort to hide a smirk.  "Looks like you're just drying out,
Mr. Turner.  Word is that more than one teacher showed up this morning a
little damp around the edges.  Sounds like kind of a trend."  He winked at
Chris and Scott nodded a bit warily.
      Chris looked back at his buddy.  "Word is they came in together just
before first hour started, both soaking wet."
      Scott's lips scrunched and his eyes rolled.  "Ms. Burke and I met for
breakfast to plan some common units with my history and her English
classes.  We got caught in the rain when we left Gustavson's."
      Both guys continued to mug and slowly nodded their heads.
"Uhhhhh-huhhhhh" they sang in unison.
      Chris leaned over and whispered.  "She's a serious hot babe, Mr. T.
I shouldn'ta dropped German last year."
      Scott's eyes flashed friendly caution.  "And Mr. Early is working on
the project with us."
      Zach's mouth crimped up at the corner and he emitted a quick "tchk.
Funny.  We just walked by Mr. Early's room and he was standing there at the
front of his class...dry as a bone, wasn't he `Topher?"
      Chris nodded.  "Desert dry, I'd say."
      Scott switched gears.  "You guys gonna be traveling in traffic-free
halls for a while?"
      Chris kept on smiling and nodded.  "I...I mean we...we got a pass
from Dr. Watson to leave classes early or show up late `cuz my gramma here
needs to get through the halls without anybody banging his leg, and he
needs his trusty mule to carry his friggin' books."
      Scott arched a brow and shot Chris a mild disapproval.
      Chris mouthed a mild defense.  "I said friggin!'
      "Joseph wouldn't even say friggin'"
      "Mr. T.  I AIN'T Joseph.  I'm just gonna play him on the stage."
      Jim Daley, whose class was also packing up for the day, craned his
head around the corner of his door.  "Christopher!"
      "Okay, Mr. Daley...I AM NOT Joseph."
      "Thank you."
      Scott made a tight fist and aimed the front of it directly at
`Topher.  He was quickly rewarded with a knuckle bump and a glowing smile
in kind.
      The bell rang and Zach leaned against the hallway's wall.  Chris put
himself between his friend and the flow of foot traffic, and then handed
Zach's books to Scott.  "I'll be back right after the halls are empty again
after the next passing time.  He can go to physics or chemistry or whatever
a little late today."
      "It's anatomy."
      "Whatever."  He shrugged and shot Zach a stern gaze while he pointed
at his leg.  "Just keep that thing out of traffic.  Nobody can go bumping
into it or they gotta deal with me."  He nodded a quick goodbye to both of
them and was gone.
      Scott stepped aside and waved Zach into the room with a grin.
"You've got the strongest nursemaid in Kilbourne County, if not the state."
      Zach clomped on his crutches all the way to his desk and giggled.
The ripple of Zach's triceps as he moved his legs with the force of his
arms, paired with the boyish laugh struck Scott as an unlikely combination,
though oddly endearing. "He's loving it, too.  He gets off on the idea that
I need him to survive these days."  He pivoted on his good foot and plopped
into the seat.  Scott pushed a spare chair next to his desk and Zach raised
his braced leg.  "Thanks, Mr. Turner."  He sat back and adjusted his weight
in the seat of the desk.  "Plus, he's just using me as an excuse to be late
for his own classes."


      Scott finished making copies of the first major exam of the year for
his government class half-way through his plan period.  He checked the
clock and headed for the lounge.  He'd debated whether it was too early to
lay a biggie on the kids, but finally reasoned that they'd covered enough
content that a test was warranted on Friday.  And, in case any of the kids
appeared to be sinking, it was early enough in the semester that they could
repair the damage.  Squaring the stack of exams, he checked the clock and
decided to duck into the teachers' lounge.  He was betting that he'd
finally run into Brian and could give him some good-natured shit about
missing the morning's breakfast meeting.
      "Well, good morning Mr. Early!" Scott sang with dripping sarcasm as
the door closed behind him.  "So nice of you to join us.  I've been up and
at `em since before six this morning.  Had a great morning repast at
Gustavson's.  There was only one thing missing."
      Brain hung his head and raised a hand in Scott's direction.  "I know,
I know!  I forgot to set the alarm last night and Trish didn't wake me
before she left for work.  Most days it's still dark when she heads out the
door anyway, but she could've at least checked the alarm."
      Scott met the English teacher's sheepish grin with a sarcastic smile.
"Aaahh...so it's your wife's fault.  You wouldn't accept that crap from the
kids, would you?"
      "Enough!  A thousand pardons!  I'm guilty as charged."  Brian looked
tired.
      J.P. Masterson put down the sports page and grunted.  "Early?  Miss a
meeting?  Get used to it Scott."
      Brian sighed and then snorted back.  "And I won't be at next week's
union meeting either, John, so don't bother saving me a seat."
      Masterson let the remark pass and glanced over at Scott.  "You gonna
be there, Scott?  We're gonna hear the job action plan from the bargaining
team.  We need a lot of people there."
      Scott nodded.  "Yeah, J.P.  I'll be there."  He paused.  "By the way,
I talked to my dad the other day.  He says that nothing's come to his
committee about local teacher unions' negotiations.  Not from the state
union, not from anybody else.  Maybe you ought to write a letter."
      Wayne Billings sat forward.  "But I read they're probably gonna press
ahead with the jump in required graduation credits in the academic areas.
I just know my end of the building is gonna get screwed."  He shook his
head.
      Scott didn't respond, but made way for Masterson to keep control of
the conversation.  J.P. ignored Billings' gripe as well.  "Even more reason
why we're gonna have to take care of this contract thing on our own.
Madison won't look out for us.  Guess we're just gonna have to send a
message to the board and the good people of New Allsted on our own.  We
don't need to take this shit.  We just gotta tell `em so."
      Scott grabbed a cookie off the plate that the foods class had sent
down and took a bite.  He nodded back at Brian.  "See ya' later in study
hall.  Let me know when you want to have lunch with me and Tara.  We can
hammer something out later this week."
      Brian just waved and leaned his head on the back of the couch.



      The regular meetings of the NAHS faculty took place on the second and
fourth Monday of each month, after school in the high school auditorium.
"They usually go for an hour," Jim had advised.  "Kim knows that that's
beyond the required time for us, but nobody's complained that much.  There
have been times when we've gotten bogged down in piddly crap nobody cares
about, but usually that stuff's on the agenda first."
      "What if we went to work-to-rule?" Scott asked.  "If the meeting went
later than the contracted dismissal time...?"
      A rueful grin emerged on Jim's lips.  "Then we'd all get up and walk
out the minute that the clock says the contract day is over, even if she's
in mid-sentence."  He sighed.  "It's not a pretty sight and it's damned
uncomfortable for most."
      True to Jim's prediction, Kim began the meeting by reviewing the
district-required building goals for the year.  These were usually fluffy
but commendable statements on increased student achievement that nobody
could disagree with, but which nobody could explain in concrete educational
terms either.  Scott leaned over.  "This is eye wash for the taxpaying
public, isn't it?" Scott whispered.
      Jim smirked and nodded.  "Smart boy, Scott.  Like I said, we start
with the piddly crap.  The board wants every building to have goals, so the
administration writes goals.  The goals that really matter here are the
ones you have for your room and your students.  Where the rubber hits the
road.  If you can show that yours match theirs in some manner, all the
better."
      Kim closed the last slide of her power point presentation and asked,
"Any questions?"  Silence.  "Fine, then.  In that case I'll hand things
over to Mr. Cox and Mr. Gerdes for some discussion on student conduct,
rules and regulations that we feel need some attention early in the school
year."
      Jeff Gerdes took the floor first.  He began with the observation that
all faculty members needed to take accurate attendance every hour of every
day of the year.  He reminded them that attendance reports were legal
records relating to the state's compulsory education laws and that the
school district had a heavy obligation to keep the record clean and
accurate.
      Scott leaned toward Jim again.  "We need to be reminded to take
attendance?"
      Jim chuckled softly through his nose.  "You'd be surprised at how
many think they're just too busy with working their magic to be bothered
with counting heads and reporting back to the office."
      Narrowing his scope a bit, Mr. Gerdes went on to reaffirm the
importance of holding kids accountable for being tardy to class.  He
clearly expected there to be a price to pay for continually showing up to
class late, and he expected every teacher to exact that price from the
kids.
      J.P. Masterson raised his hand.  "Can't I just lock the door and
close it when the bell rings?  They're late, then they're out of luck."
      Gerdes shook his head.  "No, John.  We've been over this.  We want
the kids in class, even if they're late getting there.  But we want you to
hold them accountable when they are late."
      Masterson huffed and shook his head.  "So I gotta create more work
for myself to keep track of who's not getting there on time, and then again
to keep track of who is and who isn't serving the detentions I'm assigning.
Just because the kids aren't doing they're jobs, mine has to get bigger?"
      Gerdes just nodded, stone faced.  "Yes, John.  That's about it."  It
was clear to everyone that they'd had this conversation before.
      Michael Cox stood.  His face wrestled with the knowing smirk that had
first emerged when Masterson had opened his mouth.  Cox was a little
shorter than Scott with a shaved head and thick neck.  He outweighed Scott
by at least a hundred pounds.  He still looked like the wrestling coach he
had been until this year's promotion to assistant principal/athletic
director.  He'd been characterized by the other department members as a
rather lazy and unimaginative educator with mediocre, if marginally
acceptable, standards.  Disparaging jokes by his former classroom
colleagues, plus the page after page of sparse lesson plans from previous
years, all painted a picture of the man who wanted to coach and who liked
giving orders, and who was willing to accept some classroom duties as a
means to that end.
      Cox raised his brows and sighed.  "And I get to deal with everybody's
favorite...dress code."
      There were a few muttered expletives and shaking of heads, although
several staff members sat up a bit more straight in their chairs.  Scott
noted that Emily Lawson, the English department's "Iron Lady" moved forward
in her chair and picked up a pencil to take notes for the very first time
since the meeting had begun.
      Cox perched his ample backside on the table at the front of the room.
"Here's the bottom line.  The policy hasn't changed much, but we need to
always review it in light of changing fads.  In addition to the cleavage
issues, the belly button issues, the visible boxers issues, we need to get
better at monitoring the content issues.  Some of the t-shirts the kids are
wearing are getting more and more, uhm, provocative and even offensive.  We
keep reminding them that they're at high school and not at the mall or the
skate park, but some don't get it and others don't care.  Now, here's what
the relevant part of the policy says:
      `No student shall wear, while attending New Allsted High School, or
display on school property, items which bear messages that tend to promote
or glorify the use of drugs or alcohol, or which tend to degrade, disrupt
or threaten a safe and orderly educational environment.'
      "Now," Cox scratched his head.  "You guys see the kids and what
they're wearing more than we do in the office, and for longer periods of
time.  You need to be the front line in upholding this policy.  I know that
it requires certain judgment calls from you, and we need you to start
exercising your judgment more regularly.  Since we're startin' a new year,
now's a good time to raise the bar.  So, guys, when in doubt about what a
kid's wearing, send `em to the office.  We'll counsel them on the meaning
of the policy as far as their clothes are concerned.  If they don't get it
and keep wearing stuff like that, we'll hit `em with a dose of discipline
and ratchet it up a notch each time `til the behavior changes.  But you
can't just turn a blind eye to a lot of their advertising of sex, drugs and
rock'n'roll, not to mention violence and even fightin' words now and then."
      Scott saw a few heads nodding and heard a muttered smattering of
support for Cox's sentiments.  Jim just sighed.  "It's an annual discussion
here, Scott.  Some folks just love being the clothes police.  Others hate
it or ignore it.  Just pray that there aren't any questions about specific
examples.  He wrinkled his nose and whined, `Well, what if a kid has
this...or what if a kid wears that...'  If Michael lets that go on, we're
gonna be here all night.  Some of `em...they either lack the judgment he's
talking about, or they're just afraid to use it."
      There weren't any questions.
      As they left the meeting, Scott leaned toward Jim.  "Why do I get the
feeling that some of our colleagues leave home every day with a skip in
their step and a song in their heart because they're thinking, `I can't
wait to get to school and enforce the rules.'"
      Jim chuckled and shook his head.  "For a few of them, Scott, you'd
swear it was their reason for being, and the teaching comes second."



      Scott had learned that the state Department of Transportation sent
staff members to the New Allsted Police Department twice a month to handle
citizens' license and vehicle registration issues.  Wanting to update his
driver's license to include his new address, he took advantage of the
convenience on a bright and sunny Tuesday.  He'd stopped in Dr. Watson's
office to make sure he could use part of his plan period to take care of
personal business.  "I have fourth hour plan, and it runs into my lunch, so
is it okay for me to hustle down there and hustle back?"
      Kim looked up from a thick file folder and shook her head.  "Not a
problem, Scott, as long as it isn't a continual thing.  The good people of
the community get a little antsy when they see their teachers out and about
during the school day."  She giggled.  "Believe it or not, when I was still
teaching, we had a guy who used to have a schedule like yours.  Every
Thursday and Friday, he'd just saunter out of school and spend an hour or
so checking out the local garage sales.  Finally, people started calling
the superintendent to complain, and he really got his wings clipped."  She
laughed again at the recollection.  "Just sign out with Millie so that she
knows where you are.  In case you'd have car trouble or something when
you're gone, she needs to know."
      Scott contained the usual head roll that Millie's name had come to
elicit and changed the subject.  "Uhm, as long as I'm here, any word on an
attorney coach for the mock trial team?  I've talked to a couple kids, and
they're anxious to hear that it's really going to happen."
      Kim put down her pen.  "I haven't heard back from Victoria yet on
that one, but I'm glad you mentioned it.  I'll give her a call."  She
leaned back, folded her hands just beneath her breasts and smiled.  "So,
you've been recruiting kids already?"
      "Well, I only mentioned it to a couple of kids, like Zach Jacoby and
Chris Propst.  Not sure that Chris is up for it, but Zach's basically
frothing at the mouth.  And, he seems pretty sure we could get enough kids
to field a team."
      Kim nodded her approval.  "He'll eat that stuff up.  I think it's
great you can provide him with something else to sink his teeth into
besides football or basketball this year."  She mulled it over.  "I'll
speak with Vicki and I'll let you know.  Thanks again, Scott."
      Having secured the proper permission from the principal's
administrative assistant, Scott found himself standing in line at the
police station behind a stooped over gent with John Deere's insignia on the
back of his windbreaker and a feed cap on his snowy head.  He leaned half
on his cane, half on the counter, and tested the officer's patience
mightily.  In a gravelly voice just below a shout he repeated himself.  "I
said it's Zywiec.  That's z-y-w-i-e-c.  Sounds like Zivik.  Rhymes with
civic, but with a Z up front.  It's Polish, what the hell do ya' want?
Last name in the phone book.  You can look it up."  He pulled a hanky from
his hip pocket and dug at the corners of his mouth with a knuckle wrapped
in white.
      The officer duly noted the fact with a nod, never diverting his gaze
from the computer screen.  "Maybe I'll look it up later.  All I really
wanted is your name, sir.  And, current address if you have it."
      "If I have it?  Well, of course I have my address.  It's the same as
my last address.  Hasn't changed in over fifty years!  All I wanted is my
new damned paper to drive."
      When the gentleman shifted his weight, Scott caught sight of the
officer's gold name badge and giggled softly into one of the envelopes in
his hand.  Rather than explain to the elder citizen the benefits of plastic
over paper, Officer Mazurkeweicz just glanced to his left at the pert
brunette woman in the navy blue vest emblazoned with the state's DOT
insignia.  "Mr. Zywiec is just here for a renewal."
      The girl nodded and clicked on her keyboard, clearly having heard
everything the gentleman at the counter had said, "Alright, Mr. Zywiec, if
you'll just step over here for a new picture, we'll have you on your way in
no time."
      Mazurkeweicz's lip curled into a half sneer and he grunted to a
colleague who looked up from his clipboard grinning, "Polish?  I'll give
the old man Polish if he wants."
      Gambling a bit, that the police officer had a sense of humor, Scott
stepped forward and put his driver's license on the counter.  "Uhm, it's
Turner.  That's t-u-r-n-e-r.  Rhymes with earner, burner, and learner, but
with a T up front.  It's something or other; Scots-English-Irish I think.
Do you need to know that?  And all I need is the `paper to drive' with my
current local address, please."
      He'd judged correctly, as Officer Mazurkewicz answered with a
sarcastic smirk and a nod.  "Right, Mr. Turner.  Obviously you've paid
attention and know the approved routine."  Scott laughed at the cop's
levity.  "Do you have a piece of mail from the city or the phone company or
something I can use to verify the new address?"  Scott had come prepared
and slid a letter from the school district and one from the cable company
across the marble surface.  The officer's eyes scanned the address and he
nodded.  "Hasborough's place.  I'd heard that it was vacant again.  You're
with the school district, huh?"
      Scott tapped the counter with his fingertips.  "Yes sir.  Teaching at
the high school."  He leaned in a little further and spoke in a hush.
"Uhm, if I can ask, do you know if Mr. Zywic-rhymes-with-civic, is on our
streets any particular time of day?"
      Mazurkeweicz smirked.  "Want to avoid him, eh?  Not a bad idea."
      Scott felt a hand on his shoulder.  "You and your men will want to
keep an eye on this one, Officer Mazurkewicz.  He's new in town and could
be up to God knows what kind of trouble."  The voice, in particular the
charming accent, brought Scott's mind back to the Wagon Wheel and the
Kiwanis meeting the previous week.  Before Scott could turn his head he
felt the hand slide over and tap a friendly pat on the back.  "Rumor has it
that he's out to influence the community's young people, and I fear I
cannot attest to the true caliber of his character."
      Mazurkewicz grinned knowingly at Jonathan.  "A client of yours,
Attorney Bedford?"
      Jonathan patted Scott's back again, and pulled his hand slowly to the
left to rest once more on Scott's shoulder.  "Not yet, I'm afraid, but he's
hardly been in town long enough to stir up anything worth advocating,
either for or against."
      Scott turned and presented a surprised smile.  "Jonathan!  I guess I
shouldn't be shocked by running into you here."
      Mazurkewicz snickered.  "Hardly a surprise, Mr. Turner.  Mr. Bedford
has us to thank for a good chunk of his business.  The city's thinking
about charging him rent for all the time he spends visiting our `customers'
in the cells out back or in either one of the conference rooms.  We're
considering hanging his name on the door of one of `em."
      Jonathan tilted his head back and chuckled.  "It would be an honor,
sir.  When can I get a key to the building?  It would simplify things so
much if I could just gain access of my own accord when you good men and
women are busy violating my clients' rights in the dead of night."
Mazurkewicz chuckled and shook his head.
      Jonathan turned back toward Scott, a gold fleck twinkling in the rich
brown iris just above the right pupil.  He arched the brow above that eye.
"You didn't misplace my business card, did you?"
      Before he could respond, the policeman interrupted.  "All the other
information on the current license accurate and up-to-date, Mr. Turner?"
      Scott nodded.  "Yes sir, all the physical stuff is anyway.  Haven't
changed a lick since I renewed it last up in Madison a few years ago.  Just
need the address updated."
      The officer nodded again and resumed his clicking.
      Scott looked back again.  "Oh, no, I haven't misplaced it."  He
tapped his right back pocket, and noted that Jonathan's eyes followed his
hand.  "Still in my wallet.  I've just been too darned busy.  Besides, I
was thinking about going to Kiwanis again this week.  I'm thinking about
joining."
      Jonathan's smile widened and he nodded his approval.  "They're good
people, that club is.  I do enjoy getting together and chewing the fat with
them once a week.  It helped me get my bearings a bit more quickly when I
first moved to town."
      Another officer, a stocky woman in her forties with short, mousey
brown hair emerged from the back room.  "Mr. Bedford, I've got Mr. Wallace
in conference room number two waiting to see you."
      Jonathan grinned and nodded.  "Thank you so kindly, Sergeant.  We
should only be a half hour or so.  Could I please obtain a full copy of the
arrest report on him?"  The sergeant held up a short stack of papers
without altering her deadpan expression.  Jonathan nodded.  "Most
efficient, as always."  He patted Scott on the shoulder again.  "You're in
good hands here, Mr. Turner.  These folks are professionals of the first
class."  He smiled once more.  "So, don't be a stranger.  Drop by the
office when you're in the neighborhood.  If I'm available, we'll have a cup
of coffee or something. If not, then we'll set something up."  That gold
fleck in his eye twinkled again.
      Scott nodded.  "I think I'll do that."
      Jonathan stepped toward the opening in the counter on his way to the
conference room.  He paused and nodded a slight bow.  "Officer Mazurkewicz.
Always a pleasure, sir."
      Scott's eyes slowly ambled down from Jonathan's broad shoulders.  His
front teeth caught the tip of his tongue.  `What a wonderful ass.'
      Mazurkewicz smirked and nodded without taking his eyes away from the
computer screen.  Once he finished typing, he glanced back at Scott.
"Alright Mr. Turner.  Just step over to the screen there in front of the
camera."



      "We gotta what?" Byron McGregor asked over his shoulder.  His desk
was turned around forming part of a square with three other students.
      "You heard me, Mr. McGregor.  Not the whole thing, just that first
section...The Preamble."
      Jared Steinmetz raised his hand half-way and Scott called on him with
a quick point of his index finger.  "Uhm, Mr. Turner...the way I see it,
Mr. Jefferson has always been regarded as one of the finest writers this
country ever produced.  Do you really think we should be messing with his
best work?"
      Scott smiled and leaned back on the table at the front of the room.
He folded his arms.  "Well, Mr. Steinmetz, I've never had the privilege of
meeting the great man, but I don't think he'd mind.  And I'm pretty sure he
won't complain."
      The groans resumed in the face of Scott's determination to make this
work.  Scott held up both hands to quiet the din in the room and shouted.
"Okay, gang, listen up!  We spent the whole period yesterday discussing the
difference between a `nation' and a `country,' and the difference between
`nationalism' and `patriotism.'  As a class, you convinced me that a
`nation' is a group of people who know they all belong together because of
all the stuff they have in common...a language, history, religion, culture,
ethnic identity, and on and on...but a whole bunch of feelings that make a
nation a nation.  And then, you astutely convinced me that a `country' is a
chunk of land with borders drawn on a map, with a name of its own, a
capital, a government of its own and a flag.  You also concluded, together,
that nationalism was a love of and loyalty to your people.  You said that
patriotism was a love of and loyalty to the country.  Finally, as I
recall," he looked back at Jared, "YOU were pretty adamant that it was even
possible for one nation to overlap and live in more than one country."  He
gestured toward a perky young woman with curly red hair.  "Ms. Braatz here
very keenly observed that more than a few Native American peoples, for
instance, overlap the U.S.-Canadian border.  I believe it was she who
shared that she has two adopted cousins who are, nationalistically,
Winnebago Indians, and were born in Canada.  These are the same people who
also inhabit tracts of Upper Michigan and northern Wisconsin, in the good
old U. S. of A."  He leaned over toward the girl.  "In fact, didn't you
say, Carolyn, that one of them hopes to serve in the United States Air
Force after high school?"  Carolyn Braatz nodded proudly.  "So, they're
Canadian by birth.  Winnebago by birth.  United States citizens today.  And
they go to tribal powwows to honor and celebrate their nationalism, yet
they want to serve Uncle Sam in the armed forces of the United States out
of a sense of patriotism.  Is this a great country, or what!?"
      Ethan Hayes shook his head.  "I'm gettin' a headache again."
      Jared spoke up again with a sly grin.  "I get all that, Mr. Turner,
but this is `The Declaration' we're messing with.  THE Declaration!  You
can't ask us to rewrite THE Declaration.  That's, like, sacrilegious or
something."
      "And you, young man, are beginning to sound like THE laziest
student."  He returned to the front of the room and held up a copy of the
hallowed document.  "Look, gang, despite Jared's best efforts to weasel out
of this assignment, this is the same text that most of you said, point
blank, uses way too many big hoity-toity words, has goofy grammar in places
and, in general, you admitted you don't understand what it actually
says...or actually means anyway.  How many of you agreed, for example, that
Jefferson's use of the phrase `one people' didn't sound right at first?"
      Most of the kids raised their hands.
      "And yet, here it is in Jefferson's own words: `When in the course of
human events...ONE PEOPLE...'"  He paused to let them to reflect a few
seconds.  "And how many of you understand that better, now that we've
sorted out the whole `nation' versus `country' thing?"
      The hands stayed in the air.
      "And when I read that opening phrase again, `When in the course of
human events...,' somebody in here suggested that just writing `Whenever
and wherever...' would have been easier to understand... who was that,
anyway?"
      Cory Wilkenson wrinkled his nose.  "That was Dania.  She's not here
today."
      Scott's eyes darted around the room.  "So it was, and so she's not.
But was she right?  Does `Whenever and wherever' sound better than `When in
the course of human events?'"
      Jared shrugged.  "Not better, maybe, but easier to understand."
      "That's my point!  Now, does anybody think Jefferson meant something
else?"  Nobody.
      Scott nodded quickly.  "Okay, then you already have a start.  All you
have to do, in your groups of three and four, is to finish the job.  You
know, I had a communication prof. in college who always preached that the
first rule of effective communication is `Know Your Audience.'  You're just
going to be Mr. Jefferson's editors for the eyes, ears and brains of a
modern teenage audience."  He winked at Jared.  "Look at it this
way...you're doing the old boy a favor.  Just rework the rest of the
preamble so that it makes sense to you, top to bottom."  He wheeled a cart
into the middle of the room.  "There's not enough space for us in the
computer lab today so you won't be able to Google the terminology that
might give you trouble, but the research you'll have to do is pretty light,
so we're gonna do this the old fashioned way.  I have about fifteen
dictionaries that I begged, borrowed and stole from every room on this end
of the building, if you need them.  You might have to look up words like
`unalienable.'"
      Jared persisted.  "I dunno, Mr. Turner.  I don't think Mr. Jefferson
would approve."
      Scott put a hand on his shoulder.  "Not to worry, Mr. Steinmetz.  The
original work is still well protected in the National Archives almost a
thousand miles away.  Your efforts here today won't change that national
treasure one little bit.  His masterpiece is safe from the likes of you,
I'm sure."
      A few kids were stepping over to get a dictionary or two for their
respective groups.  Scott clapped his hands loudly.  "Oh and, get this!
There's a bonus for the group that does the best job!"
      The mention of the word "bonus" hushed the class.  "I'm going to
bring your handiwork to the next meeting of the social studies department.
They will judge your various versions, and they will select the one revised
effort that best represents the spirit and intent of Thomas Jefferson's
brilliant testament on the subject of nationalism, but in modern-day
American English."  Some students smiled, gasped or coughed little bursts.
Others groaned.  Scott held up his hands, his own excitement revved up now.
"And...And!!  And I've spoken with Mr. Billings in the
Tech. Ed. department.  He has assured me that his graphic arts class can
reproduce the brilliantly revised text on a four by six foot sheet of faux
parchment..."
      Cory Wilkenson wrinkled his nose again.  "What parchment?"
      Jenny Schacht leaned over.  "Faux...it means fake."
      Scott nodded and gave Jenny a quick thumbs up. "But it looks really
cool.  Just think of the bragging rights!  And it will be mounted out here
in the social studies hallway, covered with Plexiglas, and it will proudly
stand for all to see, to read and to understand completely...in your own
words."  He checked his watch.  "Now, if you're all done whining, you still
have just over forty minutes.  As long as you're working the whole time, if
you don't finish today, I MIGHT be persuaded to give you some time in class
tomorrow."
      He knew it would take all of both class periods, and probably then
some, but he kept that to himself.  Once the students were all working,
Scott circulated around the room and thought back on his conversation of a
few days ago with Jim Daley.  When Scott had shared his plans, the wise
elder scholar had told him they'd never get it done.  "Not at that age.
Sad to say, but the real meaning of most of The Declaration is over their
heads when they're that young."
      Scott was on a mission to prove his mentor wrong.
      He floated from group to group, listening in and enjoying the
discussions.  A loud laugh came from the opposite end of the room, and his
eyes were drawn to a foursome that included Jared Steinmetz.  Just as Scott
was signaling them to turn the volume down a notch, Jared's tshirt caught
his eye.  The student was wearing a white hooded fleece that was unzipped.
From between the open front sides of the light sweatshirt he could see
Jared's black tshirt, inscribed with yellow print.  "I Belong to a
Drinking Team" read the first line.  "With a Bowling Problem" was printed
beneath.  Between the two lines of print was the outline of a beer mug
imposed over the silhouette of a bowling ball.
      Scott strolled across the room and listened in for a minute.  Mimi
Faherty had obviously been chosen as the group's scribe, and she was trying
mightily to summarize their collective conscience on the meaning of the
term `liberty' as Jefferson had intended it.
      With a quick jerk of his head, Scott caught Jared's eye.  "Uhm,
Jared?"
      "Yeah?"
      "That shirt.  I don't think you ought to be wearing that at school."
      All conversation on that end of the classroom came to a halt.  Jared
leaned back and screwed up his face.  "Aw, come on, Mr. Turner.  It's
funny.  You're not offended, are you?"
      Scott folded his arms.  "Me, personally?  Not really.  And it is kind
of funny, I guess.  But it's also outside the limits of the school's dress
code.  I'd say that message promotes or glorifies alcohol consumption,
wouldn't you?"
      "Aw, come on, Mr. Turner.  It's a joke!"
      "I know what it is, and I also know the dress code.  And, I'm also
getting to know my job as far as that goes, too.  We specifically discussed
it at a staff meeting the other day."  Scott scratched his head.  "You've
had that on since you got here this morning?"
      Jared nodded once with pride. "Sure have."
      Scott's brows crawled downward a few degrees.  "And nobody else has
said anything?"
      Jared shook his head once.  "Not one word, Mr. Turner."
      Scott sighed and his brows crawled back upward as he tilted his head.
"You know I ought to be sending you to the office to have Mr. Cox pass
judgment on this one."
      Jared's jaw dropped.  "Not now!  We're just getting to that whole
`pursuit of happiness' stuff."
      Scott surveyed the other three with his eyes.  "Please tell me that
I'm not going to get only Jared's ideas on the meaning of that phrase.
`Pursuit of happiness' according to Jared Steinmetz?  That could be a
little disturbing."  They all laughed, including the object of Scott's
teasing.
      Mickey Sorrenson's head jerked and he deadpanned, "Very disturbing,
Mr. Turner."
      Delhia Bonner giggled.  "And probably illegal in quite a few states,
including this one."
      Mimi's eyes begged Scott.  "But there's only fifteen minutes left!"
Scott looked over Mimi's shoulder and scanned the page she'd been writing
on so furiously.  They did have a good start on the project, and it
appeared they were taking the job pretty seriously.
      Jared interjected, "Tell you what, Mr. Turner.  If it'll make your
life easier, I'll zip up my sweatshirt to hide the naughty message."
Sarcasm dripped from the last few words.
      "And you'll keep it zipped?"
      "Promise."
      "And you won't wear it to school again?"
      "Probably not."  He smirked as he pulled the zipper up and Scott
watched the print disappear.  "Now can we get back to work?"
      "Well, you only have two classes today after this one.  Keep the
shirt covered, don't wear it again, and write me something brilliant."
      Jared flashed an appreciative smile.  "You're aces, Mr. Turner!  You
won't see this shirt again."



      The last bell of the day rang and Scott's eighth hour filed into the
hall.  As had become his habit, he joined the other department members
outside their classroom doors, assuming his role as a casual sentinel to
the end of day glad-handing, ass-grabbing and mostly harmless tussle that
infects students at the close of any given school day.  Lockers opened and
slammed shut.  Kids laughed and some squealed.  As usual, a few sharp
indictments were hurled about this teacher or that.  "Can you believe he
actually expects...?"
      "He's nuts!  The guy's friggin' nuts!"
      Scott's mind wandered again, back to a conversation with his mentor
two days prior.  Somehow they'd discussed their way to the subject of
student language.  Jim's `old-school' stripes were in plain sight, although
the veteran still couldn't explain why `friggin' would get a scold, but
`fuckin,' whether a verb or an adverb, even if used in a casual,
lighthearted manner, still called for something short of decapitation.  The
reality was, though, that Jim hadn't had to address this issue in the past
couple decades.  Not really, anyway.  Every kid in the building, and more
than few of their parents, knew that anything stronger than "darn" was
gonna get a reaction from Mr. Daley. And, the plain fact was, no student of
New Allsted High School wanted to earn the furrowed brow or the bent frown
of disappointment from the icon of NAHS.  Scott finally explained it the
best way could.  "You ever listened to George Carlin, Jim?"
      "He's vulgar."
      "Yeah...often times gratuitously.  But he's funny too.  I have to
admit that I'm something of a devotee of his general philosophy on words."
      "Philosophy?  From that hippie?  If foul language and anger are now
counting as a philosophy..."  He didn't quite finish the sentence.  "You
know that he got arrested in Milwaukee?"
      Scott chuckled at Jim's use of the word `hippie,' and observed,
somewhat meekly, "Jim, the guy's not much younger than you are."  Mr. Daley
squelched a measure of concession with a slight grin, lips pursed tight.
Scott continued, "But his overall take on language is this: words aren't
vulgar because of the sound they make.  They're vulgar in the way in which
they're used."  He tossed an empty Coke can into Daley's wastebasket.
"But, yeah, I read an article about the 1970s and it said that the
Milwaukee police cuffed him when he got off the stage over there one
night."
      "His...what was it?  The Seven Words..."
      Scott nodded a quick nod.  "The Seven Words You Can't Say on TV."  He
checked the door to Jim's room with a single glance and then leaned over
and quietly mumbled, "Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and
tits."
      Jim gasped.  "I guess you do know his work."
      Scott puffed his chest.  "Had it pretty much memorized when I was
in...oh, about the third grade.  Made me very popular on the playground.
My dad had an old tape of that routine that Carlin did, and me and some
buddies listened to it a lot when the folks weren't around."  Knowing that
the Daleys were devout and active members of St. Mary's, Scott added, "You
should hear him go off on the Catholic Church."
      Jim's frown deepened.  "Well, that's another matter entirely.  But
you certainly don't condone that language in class from your students, do
you?  Or in the hallways?"
      Scott leaned back.  "Of course not!  Condone? Not at all.  And, no, I
don't routinely use them either."
      "Routinely?"
      Scott leaned forward.  "All I'm saying is that I think it's a lot
about context, Jim.  It's how they're used.  Sure, some are worse than
others.  Why?  I'm not sure yet, but I do recognize and respect social
norms and community standards.  I know `the F-Bomb' is out of bounds
always. Most of those others are too.  But if a kid shrugs with a smile now
and then and says, `What the hell?' I'm gonna correct him verbally and move
onto something more important. But if that same kid looks at another
student with a sneer, points a finger in anger and says, "You can go to
Hell!", that's another story.  Same word, same spelling, same sound...but
an entirely different message.  That kid might get a short trip to Mr. Cox
or Mr. Gerdes' office.  Likewise, a kid hits his elbow on the doorframe on
the way into class and mutters `Aw, shit!' under his breath, he's going to
get a frown, a scolding and told not to say that again.  But if the same
kid looks at a classmate and says, `You look like shit,' or `You got shit
for brains,' or if he looks at me and says, `I don't give a shit,' then
he's gonna get tossed out on his shittin' ear."  Jim slowly leaned back and
thought it over without comment.
      The hallway crowd had thinned, as most of the younger students who
couldn't yet drive scurried to get on a bus or get to an after-school
activity, and Scott coughed out a light snicker when he heard the unknown
teenager blurt out the ever-popular `friggin.'  As the hall noise
dissipated, he heard the phone on his desk ring, so he ducked back inside
his room.  The narrow LCD screen announced that Mr. Cox's office was
calling.  "Good afternoon!  This is Mr. Turner."
      "Hi, Scott.  This is Michael.  Once your hall is clear, would you
have a few minutes to stop by?  I need to review a couple things with you."
      "Not a problem.  We're nearly all clear now, and we've got Andy,
Felicity, Matt and Jim all still standing guard.  All's quiet in the 400
hall.  I'll be there in a minute."
      Just as he reached the intersection of the school's two main arteries
inside the front door near the commons area, Jared Steinmetz crossed his
path, sweatshirt zipped up to his neck.  Scott was pleased that Jared was
still living up to his end of the bargain.  "Running a little late today,
Jared?  You're usually one of the first ones out the door, waiting for your
bus."
      The teen scowled.  "I missed my damn bus. Cox's day obviously wasn't
complete without hassling me, I guess.  He dragged me in after the last
bell and made me miss it.  Now I gotta wait `til my dad can get over here,
and he can't get free for another half hour."
      Scott shrugged and grinned, an effort that was ignored by the sullen
student.  "Ah, well.  Grab your history book and sit here in the commons
and read while you wait.  You'll live to see another day."
      Jared let his backpack drop onto the bench and his shoulders fell a
couple inches.  "Whatever."
      The assistant principal's door was open, Michael Cox behind his
cluttered desk, so Scott just paused at the doorframe and spoke.  "Here I
am.  What's up, Mike?"
      Cox waved him in and looked over Scott's shoulder.  "Grab the door,
will you Scott?"
      With a tinge of apprehension, Scott did as he was asked and closed
the door.  Cox gestured to a chair.  Scott took a seat, one hand on each of
his thighs.  Cox finished jotting a few notes and closed a file folder.  "I
just had Jared Steinmetz in here."
      Scott chuckled.  "So he says.  Sounds like you and Jared are old
friends."
      Cox forced a grin and glanced at the ceiling.  "I suppose that's one
word for it.  Not the first one either he or I would choose, but..." he
shrugged.  His grin withered.  "Scott, you were at the faculty meeting the
other day, weren't you?"
      "Of course I was.  I didn't think they were optional."
      Cox shook his head.  "They're not.  Well, some of the head coaches
are excused during their seasons so they can oversee their practices, but
that's about it."
      Scott just nodded without comment.
      Cox leaned back and continued.  "I was sure I saw you there."  He
chewed for a moment on the end of his pen.  "Any idea why Jared was in here
just now?"
      "I talked to him for a sec on my way in and he didn't say.  I didn't
ask.  Figured it was none of my business."
      Cox leaned on the desk and folded his hands.  "Well, I stepped out
into the main hall at the final bell, and here comes Jared, loping down the
hall, happy as a clam, broadcasting with his t-shirt that he's a member of
a drinking team with a bowling problem, with a huge mug of beer brightly
emblazoned on the front of his shirt.
      Scott sunk.  "He was?"
      The administrator wiped a square hand over the top of his shaved
head.  "And he said that you'd told him that it was `all cool.'"
      Scott shot up in his seat.  "I did not!  He told you I said...?"
      Cox interrupted with the same fat hand.  "He said that you told him
that as long as he kept the sweatshirt zipped that it'd be cool for the
rest of the day."
      Scott swallowed.  "I saw the shirt, yes.  I called him on it.  It was
well past the middle of sixth hour and we were in the middle of something
good going on in class.  Jared was a big part of his group's work.  When I
asked, he said that nobody had questioned him on it all day long.
And...yes, Mike, I told him to zip up the outer sweatshirt and not wear
that t-shirt again to school.  He said he'd go along with it."
      Cox laughed.  "And you believed the little shit?"
      Scott stumbled for a moment and finally spit out, "Well...yeah."
      Cox leaned back again and shook his head with a patronizing grin.  "I
can simplify it for you, Scott, and probably make your job a bit easier.
For starters, Jared Steinmetz is one of the most devious and disrespectful
little bastards in this building.  I had him in class all last year and I
have his number."  His eyes focused on nothing that Scott could detect.  "I
could tell you stories..."  He shook his head. "But that's neither here nor
there right now."  He sighed.  "Now, Scott, I can understand some
reluctance on the part of a first-year teacher who doesn't want to play the
hard-ass where the rules are concerned...you know, wanting to get along
with the kids and be popular and all that..."
      "But, Mike!  That's not..."
      The grin dissolved as Cox leaned forward and folded his hands again
on the desktop.  "But you're not free to taper the student handbook
policies to fit into your own comfort zone.  That's why we spent time in
the meeting the other day on this specific subject."
      Scott slumped back again, simmering over the administrator's reading
of the situation.  His eyes narrowed a bit.  "Then, I have to ask, Mike,
are you also calling in the five other teachers who'd seen Jared before I
had him in class, but who said nothing at all to the kid about his shirt?"
      Cox shrugged and then shook his head.  "That's getting awfully close
to personnel matters involving other staff that I wouldn't discuss.  All I
can say is we're doing the best we can to get to a consistent response to
this type of behavior from our staff, building-wide.  That's why we're
having this conversation."
      A high-pitched ping sounded from the computer to Cox's left.  He
glanced at the calendar that had popped up on the screen. "Well, I'm due up
at the district office for a meeting with one of the parent booster clubs."
He started to stand. "Just...from here on out...if Jared, or any other kid
for that matter, shows up giving the finger to the dress code like he did,
send them straight to me or Jeff.  We'll take care of it from here."
      Scott had suddenly grown very impatient.  "Understood, Mike.  Uhm, is
there anything else?"
      A quick recollection flashed on Cox's wide face and he snapped his
fingers.  "Oh, yeah.  Good thing you asked.  There's gonna be a reporter
from `The Gazette' here tomorrow to get the lowdown on all the new teachers
at NAHS.  They write up a puff piece every year a couple weeks after school
starts.  She'll speak to Kim for a bit, probably chat with a few students
here and there and then we're scheduling lunch with her and all the new
staff members in the conference room.  I'm going to give her all your
resumes for background.  All you guys gotta do is give her a few quotable
quotes about what a little slice of heaven New Allsted really is."  He
winked.
      Scott nodded as he turned the doorknob.  "I'll be there, Mike."  He
stood and opened the door, then paused.  "Can I ask? What happened to
Jared?"
      Cox shrugged.  "Just a good talking to.  He and I reviewed the
language of the policy.  I explained in blunt terms what it means.  He
whined about the rule and tried to lay today's crap on you.  I told him to
save it, and that the next time he showed up lookin' like that I'd assign
after school detentions and get his parents involved.  After that, if he
keeps it up...who knows?"  Cox's sardonic grin at `who knows?' made Scott's
stomach tighten a notch.
      When he got out of the office and into the commons Jared was gone.
`Damn!' Scott thought.  `I wanted to have a word with,' he borrowed Cox's
phrase, `the little shit.'  He scanned the intersecting halls in three
directions and then checked the front sidewalk through the building's front
doors.  No sign of Steinmetz.  Scott shrugged and muttered, "Prob'ly just
as well."



      By the end of sixth period on Wednesday, Scott had collected six
revised versions of The Declaration's preamble in one class and seven in
the other.  The kids voiced surprise and satisfaction in their own
accomplishment, and freely admitted that they'd learned a lot.  Stephen
Svengaard was shaking his head as he returned to his seat.  "I been readin'
and hearin' that crap for a long time Mr. Turner.  I'm already turning
sixteen today, and I finally know what the whole thing really meant when
they wrote it."
      Scott's eyes lit up.  "Happy birthday, Stephen!  Sixteen is a biggie!
Five thousand, four hundred and eighty days.  One day after another.  Time
really flies when you're having fun, huh?"
      Stephen was a youngster that Scott had come to think of as `a
plugger:' an average student academically, above average in temperament and
ethic, and he admired the kid.  He dropped a friendly hand on the young
man's shoulder.  "Well, Stephen, you know the most important part,
anyway. A lot of folks in their thirties, forties and even older still
don't get it most of the time.  You're a few steps ahead of them already.
Just think how smart you're gonna be by the time you can vote."
      Stephen's lips went crooked on one side and he shook his head.  "But,
Mr. Turner, if we were really started as a country `cuz of the idea that
powerful nations always have to leave other nations alone when they say
they want to be left alone, then how come we don't follow that rule any
more?  I mean, they were saying that everybody had to have at least the
chance to agree to the way they're gonna be ruled.  They meant everybody,
right?  And all the time?"
      Scott shrugged and sighed, and thought about it for a second.
"Stephen, my fine young scholar..."  Stephen buried his chin in his chest
and tempered a prideful smile.  "...don't forget those questions.  We don't
have time to get into all of that right now.  But we will as the year goes
on.  And when we do—and I think it'll be often—I want the whole class
involved.  But I promise we're going to be coming back to those kinds of
questions several times all year long, whether we've got our noses in the
history book, or even when we discuss current events.  I hope you won't
forget to ask those questions over and over and over, every time you think
it applies to whatever it is we're discussing...or whatever your country is
doing, for that matter."
      The bell rang and the kids all stood.  "Ah, Jared?  A minute of your
time, please?"
      Jared, who had hardly uttered a word the entire period just nodded
without looking up.  When the rest of the class had left, Scott sat at his
desk and motioned for the youngster to take the chair facing him.  Jared
complied without making a sound.  Scott looked at him for twenty seconds
and cleared his throat.  "Any idea what I want to chat about today?"
      Jared stared at his shoelaces. "Yeah.  The shirt."
      Scott leaned forward and shook his head.  "Not so much the shirt,
Jared.  Your agreement with me on how to deal with the shirt for the rest
of the day is my problem.  We had an agreement, young man, and YOU were the
one who suggested our little compromise yesterday.  I believe your last
words on the matter were, `I promise.'  Now, like I said in class, in my
book..."
      Jared didn't look up, but interrupted anyway.  "I know!  In your book
`Promise' is a huge word, not to be used casually, lightly or often.'"
He'd quoted Scott verbatim.
      "Does this mean that I was a dope to think you'd live up to a
promise?  If you think I'm a fool, Jared, just tell me so and we can
probably save a lot of time the rest of the year."
      Jared squirmed and finally lifted his eyes to meet Scott's.  "Of
course not, Mr. Turner, and I'm sorry.  I really am.  It's just that
Mr. Cox is such a..."
      This time Scott interrupted.  "Don't try to blame this on Mr. Cox!
You had every chance to get in and out of here yesterday unscathed.  You
decided to flaunt the rules on your own.  One of Mr. Cox's many jobs, and
one of MY many jobs is to enforce those rules."
      Jared didn't try to contain his teenage scorn.  "And those rules
suck!  What about freedom of speech, Mr. Turner?"
      Scott's jawline pulsed as his teeth clenched and relaxed.  "We're not
even going to go there, Jared, not now anyway.  You think the rules suck?
Then you should do something to try and get `em changed.  But that's
another issue.  What I'm talking about is the fact that you sat here,
looked me in the eye, and made a commitment that you'd keep the darn thing
covered for the rest of the day.  First, YOU decided to color outside the
lines. Then, YOU offered a promise to me and then YOU promptly ignored it.
As a result, YOU got called on it all by the powers that be.  And, in the
process, I came away looking like I'm either unable or unwilling to do one
of the simplest parts of my job."
      Jared was suddenly fascinated again with his shoelaces.  "Did Mr. Cox
get all nasty with you and stuff?"
      "The details of my conversation with Mr. Cox are none of your
business.  Safe to say, though, that I don't have any wiggle room to use
much discretion when it comes to the dress code from here on."
      Jared slowly passed his hand over the top of his head, front to back.
His unruly brown locks rose and fell.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Turner."
      Scott sighed, "Don't apologize for that, Jared.  I'm the one who
stood here and made a decision yesterday about how to do my job.  I've
thought it over, and I still think it was a reasonable call on my part,
under the circumstances.  I'm just left wondering if I made the right
decision with the wrong person.  Live and learn.  I have to take whatever
comes my way when I make choices.  I'd suggest you try doing the same.
Just leave me out of it, will you please?"
      Jared tugged on an ear and shrugged one shoulder.  "I'll try."
      It was getting into the next period.  Part of him wanted to continue
the conversation, but Scott needed to get to study hall.  So, he reached
for a pad of hall passes, scribbled the date and time and sent Jared on his
way.  He reached out with the pass.  "Try to stand up, Jared."  The
teenager popped to his feet.  Scott raised a brow.  "See?  You don't just
try...you either do or don't."
      Jared grasped the corner of the pass and allowed a shy smirk to
emerge.  "I guess Yoda was right."
      Scott held the paper firm.  "Yoda was always right."  He let go of
the pass and glanced at the door.  "Now, get out of my classroom."
      Jared did a quick full turn on the balls of his feet and headed
toward the door.


      Once settled into his study hall, Scott spent the entire period
reading his kids' work on `The Declaration.'  Both Janice and Brian, on
either sides of the partition, noticed his smiling, some times laughing out
loud.
      When the final bell of the day rang, he made a straight shot for the
copy room.  He dropped the stack of papers in the document feeder and made
seven sets to give to the members of the department for their review before
next week's meeting.  He went to hand-deliver Jim's set to his classroom,
but Jim was nowhere to be seen. So, he dropped the stack of papers on the
empty desk and bounced down the hall toward his room.



      He strolled across the asphalt toward his car a little before five
thirty.  About a dozen other vehicles dotted the staff parking lot.  Once
the halls had cleared and a few kids had stopped in the room to ask about
an extra credit assignment he'd made available, he'd set about entering
grades into the computer and decided to phone the parents of six of his
students.  He wanted to share his concern that, even though the year wasn't
even two weeks old, their kids hadn't completed any homework assignments.
He left voice messages on the machines at two of the numbers, suspecting
they'd be erased before the parents got home.  Four parents did answer. One
assured him, over the screams of a younger sibling, that she'd have a word
with her son.  Another mother and one dad assured him that there'd be hell
to pay when the kid got home from practice or work.  The last one was a
father who had no idea who Scott was, and said flatly that he wasn't even
aware his daughter had a history course this year, but that he'd tend to
it...if he thought of it the next time he saw her.  Scott made a note in
the phone log he kept in his computer of the calls and the parents'
responses.
      "You can't imagine the difference documentation can make," Jim had
told him.  "Make a note of every contact...even every effort of a contact
with parents, as well as their responses.  I had this kid once, early in my
career, who'd obviously learned the fine art of lying from his father.
When he failed the semester, both father and son insisted that nobody knew
he was at risk of blowing it, or what the little shit could have done to
salvage the credit.  Wally Hannan, the principal at the time, didn't
believe them either, but it was a long and pretty testy `he said-he said-he
said' between me, the kid and the dad in Wally's office."
      He reached over to the printer next to his computer and squared a
stack of freshly minted pages, and then walked through the nearly empty
halls toward the copy room.  He'd need sixty packets of the information for
tomorrow's government classes.  Opening the door to the small room, he was
greeted by the marvelous ass of the Xerox repair guy who was bending over
and was up to his elbows in the big machine's insides.  Scott slumped back
against the door, his eyes darting between the machine's upturned top
cover, the dormant control panel and the repairman's bubble butt.  "Out of
commission?  I was just in here a couple hours ago, and the thing was
working just fine."
      The sinewy maintenance guy didn't stand, which was just fine with
Scott, but just looked over his shoulder and offered a resigned, "Sorry to
say.  Out of commission for a while anyway.  I'll be at it a couple
hours. Somebody tried to clear a paper jam with...with I don't know
what...but they jammed this baby up, but good.  bent the hell out of one of
the internal paper guides, too.  I'll be stuck here `til seven at least.  I
called for a part that I normally don't carry with me, and they're gonna
have to drive it down from Madison.  It's on the way now."
      Scott's eyes roamed up the round cheeks of the worker's ass, up and
across trapezoidal back and quickly scanned the wide expanse between the
shoulders.  `I'd invite you back to my classroom to wait for the delivery,
but the door has a window in it, and I'd rather not have a passerby seeing
the two of us buck naked, rutting and grunting in each other's arms on my
desk,' thought Scott.  `Of course, if it's going to be a while, you could
follow me out to the house and we could enjoy an hour or so of raw hedonism
and debauchery in front of the cat and the dog.'  As Scott bit the inside
of his lower lip and silently slapped himself upside the brain, the
technician, Alan by the name on his uniform shirt, stood up and turned.
Scott locked eyes with the guy and avoided any unseemly visual wandering.
"Uhm, it'll be running by tomorrow morning?" Scott asked.  He held up a
small sheaf of pages.  "I can come in early and do these first thing."
      Alan just nodded with a half smile.  "It'll be good as new once the
part gets here.  But please, if you get any haywire pages jammed inside,
just follow the directions on the computer screen here to fix the problem.
It's not brain surgery, as long as you take it step by step.  And PLEASE
don't stick anything in there that doesn't belong to try and fix the
problem."
      "Not me.  I'm not one to go and stick something where it doesn't
belong...uhm...unless you asked me to first."  Even Scott couldn't believe
he'd said that.  He fidgeted a second.  "Uhm...in a situation like this,
that is...er, with the copier, I mean."  He waved the pages in his hand
once and mumbled, "Thanks.  You have a good evening."
      He winced as he passed the Xerox van still parked in the first row of
stalls.  He unlocked the car and paused before dropping his book bag on the
passenger seat.  "You, Mr. Turner, can be a first-rate schmuck."
      By the time he reached the house, his Alan-inspired chubby was mostly
gone.  Scott boiled some angel hair pasta, tossed it with some olive oil,
garlic and fresh parmesan and grilled a chicken breast he'd left to
marinate before going to school.  Between bites, he bitched at a spokesman
from the state department on McNeil/Lehrer about the administration's
"fucked up view of the world."  Brett the Dog didn't seem nearly as
concerned, so long as little nibs of white meat and the occasional string
of noodles kept floating his way.  Scott always laughed when he'd toss a
noodle in the air and it would swing up and wrap around the dark brown
snout when the dog caught the end of it.  It was almost as fun watching
Brett try to lick the ones he missed off the hardwood floor.
      He spent a couple hours reading and marking up the latest AP essays
on the lasting effects of the French and Indian War from both the British
perspective and that of the colonists.  All in all, he was pleased with the
kids' work.  He'd go through them again tomorrow and write complete
critiques.  He wrote the outline for a coming unit in the standard history
class.  Once the review of the founding documents was finished, the
curriculum jumped forward to the Industrial Revolution of the late
nineteenth century.  It occurred to him that Brian and Tara might be ready
to assign "The Jungle" in their lit. classes at that time.  He remembered
reading the book in high school and he grinned as he made a note: `need
that excerpt where the book describes an occasional immigrant falling into
the melting vat at the packing plant, and then going out into the world as
lard.'  He chuckled.  `The kids'll love it.  We thought it was pretty cool
at sixteen.'
      He e-mailed the notes to his school address and shut down Word.
Returning to the internet, he pulled down his "favorites" menu and clicked
on the "Nifty" link.  He hadn't been there in a couple weeks and scanned
the recent titles for works in progress by a couple of his favorite
authors.  Finding nothing, he scanned through the latest additions in the
"College" section of their archives.  He randomly selected a couple
different titles and quickly read them, continuing his unofficial contest
for the writer with the most euphemisms for the word "cock."  Nobody had
yet bested the guy he'd read that previous summer, with his eleven various
synonyms for the male member, and thirteen different adjectives describing
it when fully erect, both the appearance and wild sensations.
      He looked down at the fattest cat in the world who was curled up at
his bare feet, looking something like a huge, seriously over-leavened and
badly burned crescent roll.  He pointed with a knuckle toward the story on
the screen.  "I'll bet I could write this stuff," he boldly asserted to the
cat.  The cat looked doubtful.  "Let's see...young teacher catches the
unsuspecting but extremely hot and horny Xerox repair guy in the copy
room..."  He snickered at the vision of Alan bent over the machine, his
legs spread wide, grunting while Scott stood behind him hammering himself
deep inside.  He looked at the cat again.  "Or how `bout this?  Southern
lawyer, transplanted to Wisconsin, meets said teacher at a local service
club, again at the police station, and finally comes onto him, begging the
sexy Yankee to `conquer the south' once again."  Scott chuckled, drained
his drink, hit the "close" box on the screen and shut down for the night.
"Naaaaah.  I can't write fiction, and nobody would believe the frickin'
truth."
      He let Brett the Dog out for his last pee of the night, set up the
coffee maker and adjusted the automatic brew time.  As he checked the
setting of the alarm back in his bedroom, Brett was settling into his spot
in the doorway to the walk-in closet.  "Kiwanis tomorrow, buddy.  Think
Jonathan will be there?"
      Brett bent down to wash his cock and balls with his tongue.  "Lucky
bastard."



      The alarm went off at 5:30 and Scott was on his feet in record time.
The coffee maker had kicked in ten minutes earlier and its rich aroma
wafted in to welcome him to a new day.  Scott stretched, reached into his
boxers and scratched his lonely gonads and paused to give his morning wood
a friendly squeeze.  He slid into his summer robe, a burgundy-colored light
cotton with gold piping at the hems and he padded down the hall toward the
kitchen.  His mood was light as he poured the first cup of the day and he
was more bright eyed than usual as he plopped on the couch and turned on
the morning news.  He was glad that New Allsted wasn't so far from Madison
that he couldn't still get their local stations, and welcomed the
round-faced veteran morning news guy and his always chipper Asian-American
co-anchor, a female named Katie whom he'd come to like since she'd joined
the station a year earlier.  Katie could always deliver even sad news with
grace and a certain distinct aplomb, Scott thought.
      After his third sip of coffee he checked the clock.  "Okay, let's
make a plan for the day.  Briefcase packed...gas tank over half full, so no
need to stop on the way...Kiwanis meeting...Jim will be glad to see
me...Jonathan might be too...I hope...head over to school...first hour
notes ready to go, second hour AP lecture all set...third hour test
review..."  He paused and stared at reflection of the table lamp in the
front window.  "Aw, fuck!  The copying!  I got a five-page packet I need to
get to the government kids today.  Test is tomorrow.  Five pages...two
classes...sixty copies...always a line in there in the morning...no time to
do it after Kiwanis...not enough time between classes before third hour.
Maybe Brian could, or Tara or Jim or Andy or Matt."  He wracked his brain
trying to figure if one of them had an early morning planning period.  He
wasn't sure.  He didn't think so.  Brian and Andy were always in the lounge
when he stopped in during fourth hour.  Jim's plan is sixth.  Tara's was
end of the day.  Matt's...he wasn't sure.  He drank another gulp and tried
to simply will a handy solution to his sudden scheduling dilemma, and then
glanced over at Brett, who'd just ambled down the hall from the bedroom.
"Fuck.  Fuckity fuck fuck fuck!"  Brett stretched his front legs straight
and bowed, pushing his chest to the floor in a morning dog stretch.  "I
gotta go in and get to the copier this morning.  Hunky Alan didn't get the
job done in time yesterday, the cute bastard."  Brett looked sideways at
the patio door, sniffed at Scott's feet a few times and looked back up with
the usual morning message on his face.  "I know.  You gotta pee.  I gotta
get in the shower pretty soon and then go into fucking school.  No Kiwanis
today, buddy.  Might as well relax a little and then go in early.  Maybe we
can give ol' Millie reason to fret about something today."
      He had a second cup of coffee while Brett took care of business
outside.  With no need to rush, he leaned back on the couch, plopped his
feet on the table and let his mind wander.  He thought of Tara and her Nana
and what her family must be going through.  The Packers had a pre-season
game on the road Saturday night.  Maybe he should invite her over to watch
the game.  He could bake a home made pizza.  In fact, it would probably be
a good time to invite a few others over and put the new house to good use
by hosting his first get-together in New Allsted.  `I could whip up three
or four pizzas, I suppose.'  He wondered if Jim and Helen Daley had morning
sex, and thought of the few times he'd heard Big Scott and Suzanne going at
it when he was in middle and high school.  He wondered if Zach was still a
virgin.  Michael Jacoby had mentioned the girlfriend, but Zach had the
bearing of an upright and proper young man.  A seventeen year old right and
proper young man with Hollywood good looks and, Scott was certain, a very
attentive cock.  He wondered if Marty was up yet, struggling with the kids
to get them ready for their day ahead.  He wondered if Jill's dad, Jack,
was treating Marty any better these days, and whether he was really going
to sell the newspapers.  What would that mean for Marty?  Marty hadn't
called all week.  But, he hadn't picked up the phone to call Rockford,
either.  He thought of Abby Svendsen, his feisty old colleague on the Board
of Regents.  `I need to give the old gal a call one of these days, or maybe
drop her a card just to say Hi and let her know I'm doin' okay and that I'm
thinking of her.  She's great.  He wondered if Abby and her partner,
Sharon, were still going at it at their age.  He wondered if Greg and Nick
were having `The Breakfast of Champions' right then, the two of them
between the sheets up in Mankato. Would it be slow and tender or hard and
frenzied?  The former, Scott decided.  Once upon a time, it was Greg who
liked to languish in the morning while they'd explored, again, the
wonderful sensations and the familiar smells and tastes left over from the
previous night's wrestling match.
      Maureen McCarthy's face popped on the screen and distracted him from
the random musing. He grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.  Katie
talked over a taped press conference with the attorneys general from
Illinois, Iowa and Minnesota.  They were trumpeting their offices'
cooperative efforts to stomp out the rapidly expanding meth trade that was
ravaging the upper Midwest.  Scott wondered how Maureen's niece, Kelly, was
doing in grad school and how her wedding plans were going.
      He tried to picture Andy Faber's wife, Faith, and assumed she had to
be knock-out gorgeous in order to land a hunk like her husband.  Once again
he tried to picture his colleague in the buff.  It was a wonderful image
that stirred the folds of the robe between Scott's thighs.
      He shifted his weight and turned down the volume of the TV, and
wondered if Jonathan Bedford was gay.  Scott had never mulled over the
whole gaydar thing with much gravity, but he did know that he found the
southerner extremely attractive and had felt a certain connection there
from the instant they'd met.  He undressed Jonathan in his mind,
again. Smooth chest?  Light spray of chestnut hair spanning the defined
pecs?  He hadn't decided.  Abs of steel?  Well, maybe not steel, but
impressive nonetheless, he'd already concluded.  Top?  Bottom?  Both?  Good
kisser?  Most definitely.
      Brett had finished his breakfast and was sitting in front of the
recliner chewing on his tug rope.  Scott stood and stretched again,
reaching inside the robe to scratch his chest.  "No Kiwanis today,
Brett. Alan the hunky repair dude failed me yesterday.  Nice ass he had,
but he needs to stock the right parts in his van so he doesn't leave me
hanging like this."  He scoffed as he headed for the bathroom.  "Need to
have a word with ol' Alan about leaving the horny social studies teachers
at NAHS hanging.  There oughta be a rule or something."  He grinned an evil
grin as he hung his robe on the bathroom door.  "Maybe I could sick Millie
on him."
      Scott's morning masturbatory fantasies had consisted, for the most
part, of very satisfying actual memories.  They were not, usually, made up
whole cloth out of his libidinous imagination run happily amok.  To be
sure, he had the faculties to conjure up wildly erotic play dates in his
mind with, say, the Xerox guy or, as he'd proven as recently as yesterday,
an attorney with a cute southern drawl who liked getting fucked while still
wearing a club necktie for Scott to grasp like the reigns of a bucking
stallion.  And, in Scott's recent forays into solo shower sex, he found
that if he closed his eyes and kept the vision alive through his tingling
post-orgasmic bliss, Andy Faber's cum tasted remarkably like his own.
      But these playful pieces of make believe were the exception rather
than the rule.  Usually, Scott scratched this morning itch while recalling,
for instance, a certain night in Florida.  He and Greg were naked, in the
screened-in sunroom of the house they'd borrowed for the week.  Greg was on
his back, legs spread and the flats of his feet facing the ceiling light
fixture.  Scott had been oblivious to a pair of matching rug burns being
inflicted on his knees as they carried his weight up and down, in and out
of Greg on the coarse indoor outdoor carpeting.  Greg's eyes had stared
straight up, sometimes boring into Scott's, and sometimes fixed but not
quite focused toward some random spot on the ceiling, maybe the slowly
turning fan that hung above them.  His glistening lips were agape, but
they'd dispensed nothing more discernable than a throaty whimper of
delight.
      Or he'd recall the first time he had sex with Marty, just a little
more than a week after they`d met.  As Scott slowly pushed his hips
forward, forcing the head of his soaped cock into the clenched fingers of
his right fist, he closed his eyes and envisioned Marty impaling himself on
his turgid and tingling pole.  He found that he could fondle, stroke and
pinch his lathered pecs and nipples and credibly imagine Greg's or Marty's
hands or lips or tongue taking a playful tour across his chest.  The
enjoyment of lavish wet kisses in the shower all alone was impossible to
replicate, but a wet finger or two teasing his scrotum and finding their
way to his perineum could be Zach's tongue.
      `Zach's?  Whoa!  Hold on!  Out of bounds!.'  He froze under the
steaming spray for most of a minute.  Acting purely on instinct, his right
hand went back to work to finish the job.  He quickly tensed and bucked his
thighs and hips, physically willing a rapid fire orgasm, spewing his seed
onto the white tiles at the back of the shower.
      With the water shut off and the shower curtain slid to the side, he
completed the ritual by draping the towel over his head.  He stood in the
tub, dripping, while he buffed his brown hair into a tangled mop.  With his
head rocking between his hands, he weighed that last vision in his mind.
"It's just fantasy, Scotty, not pay-per-view.  You can't order it up to
meet your upstanding sensibilities."  He stepped over the edge of the tub
and propped his left foot on the lid of the toilet, wiping himself from his
hip to his knee to his foot.  "The kid...ha!  The young man...is fucking
hot, even on crutches, and you saw that the first time you met him in the
office."  He replaced the left foot with the right and repeated the
motions.  "And he didn't grow fat and homely just because he became your
student, dummy."  He draped the towel across his back diagonally from
shoulder to hip, leaning forward a tad to push out the small of his back
and buffed, sliding the cloth down to his ass.  "Of course, learning that
he has an agile mind, a great personality and a sharp sense of humor has
only made him that much sexier."  He massaged his pubes, cock and balls dry
and then finished with a quick back and forth between his legs and up into
his ass crack, as though he was shining his crotch with a shoe shammy.  He
grabbed a corner of the towel and painted a clear swath across the fogged
mirror, finally waving a finger at himself.  "You know the rules.  You know
you can look; even lust a little bit.  Don't even think about touching.
You're too smart for that.  Zach Jacoby is a happy bonus to your job...your
daily dose of eye candy...and you and he could get great things done
together this year.  You're the grownup here.  Don't fuck it up."



      Later that morning, third period government class was just finishing
up.  Scott stood in the center of the room and clapped his hands once.
"Okay, gang.  That's about it.  You now know, more or less, what's going to
be on that test tomorrow.  That is, unless I decide tonight to throw you a
real screwball."  Scott wiggled his eyebrows and a few kids giggled.
Others rolled their eyes.  "If you don't know what to expect, then you
haven't been paying attention.  No surprises coming from me.  Now, why
don't you all surprise me and kick the livin' daylights out if it?"  Right
on time, the bell rang and they all stood and started streaming toward the
door.  "Chris, could I see you for a second?"
      Chris slid his government text into his backpack along with his
notebook and set it on the top of his desk.
      Once everybody was out of the room, Scott motioned him to the side of
his desk.  Chris sat in the chair on the left side.  "Somethin' the matter
Mr. T?
      Scott cleared his throat.  "Chris, this is a major test tomorrow.
Now, I've had the chance to talk with Ms. Ronzani, and..."
      The young man scowled and rolled his eyes.  "Awwww...not you too!
Not this again!"
      Scott held up a hand and nodded.  "Yes, me.  Yes, this. And, please,
don't interrupt.  It's rude."
      Chris started to stand.  "I'm sorry, Mr. T., but look, I gotta go get
Zach to his next class."
      Scott raised the hand a bit higher, and then slowly lowered it,
directing Chris to return to the chair.  "That's all taken care of,
`Topher.  Sam Alphonse probably already has him settled in.  They have
anatomy together and I talked to the two of them after AP this morning."
      Chris sat back down, folded his muscular arms and flopped his head
back to stare at the ceiling.
      "Now, I know you really don't like this," Scott began.  He smiled
gently and nodded.  "In fact, Ms. Ronzani made it very clear that you
really hate this."  Chris maintained his steadfast gaze at the wide white
panels directly above him.  Scott leaned forward and propped his chin into
the palm of his hand.  "You know, `Topher, she's got your back covered
pretty well when it comes to helping the two of us, you and me.  We just
want to make sure that you'll be able to really show me what you know."  He
sat back in his chair and turned his palms toward the ceiling.  "I can't
get you to say diddly squat in class unless we're shootin' the breeze about
something other than the course material.  And, besides, the homework that
you've done...well, you've done just okay on it...and it's hard for me to
tell if you're learning very much."
      Chris sat up and finally looked Scott in the eye.  "Remember?  That
first time me an' Zach came in here?  I told you I hate this stuff.
Nothin' against you Mr. T.  You're explaining it pretty good, and I get it
when I listen.  Really I do.  You tell some pretty cool stories.  I just
don't get it as good as everybody else does and don't want to say something
stupid."
      "Look, Chris.  Hating this government stuff is okay.  I wish it
wasn't so, but it is.  I get that.  A lot of good people hate this stuff."
He snickered sarcastically and added, as an aside, "Happily, most of `em,
don't vote.  They leave it to smart guys like me and Mr. Daley."  Chris
finally grinned and he scoffed.  "Anyway...you not wanting to participate
in class discussion is alright with me too.  Again, I wish it were
different, but it's not going to affect your grade.  But the stuff that
will affect you...that's pretty simple."  He ticked them off on his
fingers.  "One: the class is required for a diploma.  Two: you have a
learning disability that's going to make it hard—but not
impossible—to earn all the credit I suspect you deserve.  Three:
Ms. Ronzani... she's your best safety net and we both want to help you."
      Chris shook his head and raised his voice a decibel.  "She's a
meddler and a busy-body.  I don't need her and I don't want her help, and I
don't want to be treated any different by her or you or by anybody else!"
      Scott folded his arms and leaned back.  "Good for you.  Not on the
meddler or the busy-body part, `cuz she's a very nice woman who cares a
helluva lot about you, and who's just doing her job.  But the part about
wanting to do it on your own gets five gold stars in my book."
      The young man grinned a sly grin.  "I know what she's trying to
do...and you too."  The grin dissolved into a face that was almost
desperate.  "But, Mr. Turner, I ain't disabled.  I hate that crap!"
      Scott sighed.  "Chris.  You're a senior.  Time to live up to the
reality that you do have a learning disability.  You can deny it all day
long, but it won't change facts.  You get the gold stars from me for
wanting to go it alone.  But the plain fact is that you just don't read or
write with the same speed and the same comprehension right off the bat as
other folks your age.  It's not a crime, it's not a shame and it's not your
fault.  I've read your work.  Even I can tell, and I'm not the specialist
that Ms. Ronzani is."  Chris looked at the floor and shrugged.  "Now, what
are we going to do about that test tomorrow?  It's the first major exam of
the year and it's going to leave a big mark on your eventual grade."
      Chris looked up.  "I'll take the test just like everybody else.  I'm
getting this stuff pretty good."
      "You're holding your own on the vocabulary, and Ms. Ronzani's right
when she says that when you get something you really get something.  And
that's great.  But half the test score is going to be based on two big
essay questions.  Frankly, I don't think you'll finish it in time."
      Chris huffed.  "Will too!  I'll hand it in at the end of the hour
just like everybody else."
      "And that's just fine.  But I'm going to look at it and if I think it
needs more work I'm going to send it to Ms. Ronzani and you can go to her
room during your study hall and take another run at it."
      "I hate going to her room!  It's full of freaks, goofballs and
retards most of the time.  Besides, I always go to the choir room during my
study hall period."
      Scott's nostrils flared.  "HEY!  Hang on, Chris!  You are NOT going
to talk that way about Ms. Ronzani's other students!  Not in my room,
anyway, and not with me!  Ever!  You got that?"  Chris' eyes bugged and he
sucked in a mouthful of air and nodded.  "Those are my students, too, and I
happen to know that there are some great young people who need to use the
extra time and help available in her room.  Those are some of the finest
and hardest working guys and gals I've ever met."  Chris stared at the wall
sullenly.  "Besides, the musical's almost a month down the road.  This test
is tomorrow.  First things first."
      "But I hate going to Ronzani's room!"
      "We've established that.  And I hate driving the speed limit, paying
taxes and going to the dentist.  And if I refuse to go along with them,
then I get to live with the logical consequences."
      The youngster shook his head.  "Save it, Mr. T.  I've heard it all
before.  I'm a senior, remember?  This is nothin' new, and I'm not gonna do
it.  I know what's in my damned IEP and I know that I can take the extra
help that's out there.  I also know that I can decide not to take the extra
help.  Besides, I'm gonna be eighteen in December and then I'm calling my
own IEP meeting and gonna get me outa' this program for dummies.  I can do
that you know!"
      Scott nodded sadly.  "And you can shoot yourself in the foot, or beat
your head against a brick wall or jump off a cliff, but we both know that
the results wouldn't be pretty."
      There was a full minute of silence disrupted only by the ticking of
the clock above the classroom door.  Finally, Scott tapped the desk and
inhaled deeply.  "Alright, Christopher.  You're going to take that test in
class with everybody else, just as I would expect.  Then, I'm going to pull
your test and give it to Ms. Ronzani.  I'll advise you,
`Mr. Senior-Almost-Eighteen,' to ignore the choir room tomorrow, go to
Ms. Ronzani's room and finish the test right.  You're a smart guy, I think,
and I know you can do well on the questions on the exam, but you need the
extra time.  But...you're right.  You can decide to walk away from the
chance to show me all that you know.  But, Chris, I'm also going to talk
with Mr. Abernathy and tell him you might not be in the choir room seventh
hour."
      Chris' eyes glowed red.  "You can't do that!  This is none of his
fu...this is none of his business.  Mr. Abernathy shouldn't give a damn
what I'm getting in this stupid government class.  It's my schedule and my
school day."
      Scott held up a hand again.  "Chris, I can do that and I'm going to
do that.  I'm sure that Mr. Abernathy will understand.  You have choices to
make and we all have jobs to do.  Right now, our job is to help you to be
successful all the way around, and to get you to graduation day on time and
in one piece."
      Chris slammed his open hand with a fist.  "This sucks!"
      Scott ignored him and continued.  "At the end of the day tomorrow,
I'll get the exam back from Ms. Ronzani and grade it straight up."  Chris
just stared ahead.  Scott gestured to his open grade book.  "And right now,
even though it's early in the year, you're carrying a C in this class, and
it's a very low C at that.  If you bomb this test, it'll easily fall to a
D, and could go even lower."  He paused.  "Now, the football season will be
over by the time first quarter grades are posted, but you might want to
think about your GPA before wrestling starts.  Pull a failing grade in a
required course, and the coach is going to be looking for another
165-pounder."
      Chris sneered.  "Aw, hell, Mr. Turner!  I live with that threat every
year."  He raised his left hand and hit Scott's desktop with a loud
`whack.'  Scott stiffened in his chair with a jolt.  Chris' eyes widened
and he leaned forward, almost shouting.  "Do you think you're the first one
to ever throw this crap at me?  Just `cuz you're new here doesn't mean
you're bringing me any new information.  Jesus!"  His voice creaked.
"Mr. Turner...you just don't get it!  I've had this shit rubbed in my face
all my life!  Kids giggling at me when we had to spell words out loud in
elementary school.  Gettin' pulled out of class to go see the friggin'
reading specialist.  I swear I was the only kid in the seventh grade who
wasn't readin' and talkin' about Harry Potter when it was cool.  And,
everybody askin' why I got three days to write a letter to a hero for our
English class, when they all only got one day.  Doin' book reports in
eighth grade about books that Zach read in friggin' third grade."  The
young man's lower lids welled. He tried in vain to make the tears evaporate
with a set of rapid-fire blinks.  He sniffed a long, stuttered inhale.
"And now...you.  You're here feelin' sorry for me too, wanting to single me
out for special treatment.  I just want to be done with it, Mr. T!  I want
to be done not fitting in.  I need to be through being different from
everybody else.  I...I...I just want to be normal!  And right now, I just
need you to get it!"
      Scott leaned over and propped his forearms on his knees.  He tilted
his head up and peered from under his brows, speaking just above a whisper.
"I do get it, Chris.  Really I do."
      Chris coughed out a sharp scoff and he rolled his eyes.
      Scott's voice was still low and slow.  "It ain't shit we're rubbing
in your face, Chris, but I do believe you that it really, really stinks.  I
wouldn't trade places with you for the world.  School always came pretty
easy for me, so I can't sit here and tell you that I know exactly all about
what it is you're dealing with."
      A warped, tired grin emerged on Chris' lips and he pointed at his
teacher.  "See what I mean!?"
      Scott took a deep breath and held it for several seconds, sat up
straight and looked his student squarely in the eyes as he exhaled.
"But...Chris...please don't think that I'm clueless when I say that I
really do know what it is to want to just fit in all the time, to be just
like everybody else.  Even if it does have to be by their rules and on
their terms...just so long as you feel normal and fit in.  You're just
going to have to take my word for it, but I really do get that, Chris.
Really."
      Sad recognition and resignation clouded Scott's face. "But...and I
know this is a kick in the butt...it just doesn't always work that way.
This isn't about being able to make everything be just the way you want it
to be.  It practically never is.  This is really about how you're going to
handle the fact that some things are just never going to be the way you
want them to be.  Never.  This isn't so much about what you want, Chris.
It's about what is.  It is what it is.  And you an' me can deal with it.
If I had a magic wand, Chris..."
      Scott stopped and grinned sheepishly.  "Aw hell, `Topher!  Now I'm
just talkin' stupid.  There isn't any magic wand out there.  If I had one,
I'd be makin' billions and wouldn't have to put up with the likes of you."
He sat back up and breathed a friendly sigh to answer the grin that had
started crawling across Chris' face.  He slapped his knees.  "Well, all I
can do is tell you is that I'm ready, willing and able to help you, when
you're ready and willing to accept the help..."  He sat back up and sighed.
"But, you're a big boy and can make your own decisions.  You'll take the
test in the morning, and then it will be in Ms. Ronzani's room seventh hour
tomorrow.  You do what you think is best for you."  Chris just stared at
the floor, suddenly uncomfortable once again.  Scott widened his smile.
"So, how are rehearsal's going?"
      In an instant, the room brightened and the temperature rose several
degrees.  Chris lit up.  "Oh, Mr. T, it's great!"
      "It's a fun musical.  I'm looking forward to seeing it."
      The kid smiled and his eyes grew wider.  "You gonna come and see it?"
      "Probably twice.  I already signed up with Mrs. Prinsen to work the
door taking tickets and handing out programs on opening night, and then I'm
going to get tickets to be in the audience that Saturday.  I invited my
parents to come down for a weekend visit and promised them I'd take `em to
a Broadway show."
      Chris huffed and swept a hand, now in command of the conversation.
"Opening night is usually kind of a drag.  We always open on a Thursday
night, so there's not that big of a crowd.  But that way, if we screw
something up, there aren't so many people to see it and there's still time
to fix it."  Then he nodded.  "But the Friday and Saturday night shows are
usually packed."
      Scott laughed.  "You sound like an old pro."
      Chris shrugged.  "Been doin' these for a while.  I was the little kid
with the lisp when they did `The Music Man' about seven or eight years ago.
They called a bunch of us up from the elementary school `cuz they needed a
mess of us little twerps to fill the cast.  And I've been in the last three
since I've been in high school."
      "And now you're Joseph."
      "Yeah," he rolled his eyes.  "And I've had to double my time in the
weight room, too.  Do you know how often I'm gonna be out there without a
shirt on?  Or with that doggone colored coat opened to show my bare chest
and gut?"  He patted his tummy.  "Needed to lose a pinch or two down here.
Zach's been tottering along to the weight room and verbally kicking my
butt."
      Scott laughed.  "When we first met it was you dragging him to the
workouts for football practice."
      "Yeah.  Now he hobbles around and keeps razzing me, saying he doesn't
want his best bud goin' out there half naked lookin' all flabby."
      Scott arched his brows.  "You're hardly flabby, Chris.  You're solid
as a rock.  And you've been doing some real damage to your opponents on the
field."
      He shrugged and flipped a hand.  "Aaaaahh, but I'm shorter'n most of
`em, and after I snap the ball I just blow ahead and can usually hit `em
low and knock `em on their asses."  He grinned sheepishly.  "When I'm not
falling on my face, that is."
      Scott cocked his head and shot Chris a wary glance.  "I thought that
was old news.  Behind us, right?"
      Chris offered a tentative nod. "Yeah.  Don't tell Zach I mentioned
it, huh?"
      Scott laughed again.  "You couldn't make this up.  A big-time jock,
center on the football team and a varsity wrestler, who acts and sings like
a professional and can draw or paint the most amazing things, and is
starring in `Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.'"
      Chris blushed.
      "And just a few minutes ago you referred to yourself as a dummy.  You
need to quit doing that, Chris.  In many, many ways you're really very
gifted.  You know that, don't you?  Do you have any idea what most of the
folks around here would give to have your talents, me included?"
      The bell rang, surprising both that they'd spent the entire class
period talking.  Chris shrugged and blushed and looked at his shoes again.
"Well..."
      There was a knock on the door before it opened.  "Hey numb nuts!  You
coming to lunch or what?  Sam's off with his girl someplace, so you gotta
carry the trays.  I'm starving!"  Zach smiled and gave Scott a two-finger
salute from the forehead.  "Hey, Mr. Turner."
      "Mr. Jacoby.  Sorry to delay your buddy here.  We were just shootin'
the breeze.  He says you're kicking his butt in the weight room these
days."
      Zach scoffed.  "And he calls me the lazy pussy."  He let go of the
right crutch handle and pointed at his friend.  "This nimrod needs to buff
up if he's gonna be out on that stage in a few weeks.  I'm not gonna put up
with folks talkin' trash because my buddy was out there looking more like
Chris Farley than Chris Propst."
      Chris grinned and gave Zach a `hold on' signal with the back of his
hand.  "We done, Mr. T?"
      Scott nodded.  "As done as we're going to be, for now, I guess.  I'll
count on you to do what's best for you.  And I'll clear the absence with
Mr. Gregor for the math class you just missed.  But you'll have to stop and
see him for any makeup work you might owe him."
      Chris nodded.  "And you'll let Mr. Cox know that the absence is
excused?  He's a mutt on the attendance thing.  I'll be marked absent for
this period and I don't need that dork thinking I was truant."
      "Got it.  You deal with Mr. Gregor.  I'll deal with Mr. Cox.  Now go
get your patient some lunch.  He's looking a little pale."



      First thing Friday morning, Bruce Rasmussen caught up with Scott
while he was still at his mailbox.  "Hey, Scott.  Check out the new student
sheet in your mailbox."  Bruce was a tall, thin man about fifteen years
Scott's senior.  Still, his receding hairline looked premature to Scott, as
he had a round, boyish face and twinkling eyes that seemed to never stop
dancing.  They'd formed a quick and friendly professional bond right off
the bat, mostly out of their common interest in Zach Jacoby's current
academics and his sudden change in post-high school plans.  On top of that,
Bruce had been a special education teacher for ten years before going into
counseling, and Judy Ronzani had been singing Scott's praises with the
school's two counselors because of his willingness to work with her and the
rest of her department on behalf of the school's disabled students.
      "A new student two weeks into the year?"
      Bruce nodded.  "You're gonna thank me.  Young Mason Willingantz is
transferring in, starting today.  He's a real powerhouse." Scott scanned
the sheet.
      "A junior, in the AP class, huh?  And a late addition to this course?
That could be a tough row to hoe for a kid."
      Bruce looked through the office window and waved at a girl passing in
the hallway.  His face shot back to Scott with wide eyes.  "Not for this
one.  The class is about half juniors already, and this one you're gonna
love.  You should see his transcript.  I met Mason and his mom just
yesterday when they came in to enroll him.  Transferring from somewhere in
western Iowa.  Melody...that's the mom...is just divorced, and has full
custody.  She's got family in the area and just now got relocated over
here.  But the kid is practically bionic!  And, he's got a younger brother
and sister coming up in a couple years.  Mason's been in advanced and
honors courses since his old district started labeling kids "gifted and
talented" back in the first grade.  They jumped him from fifth to seventh
grade, skipping sixth altogether.  You can throw anything you want at this
one and he'll soak it up like a dry sponge."
      Having teased Bruce before about being a Hawkeye who hailed from
Ames, Scott couldn't resist.  "You mean they actually have the seventh
grade in Iowa?  I thought they considered elementary school the end of the
line over there, about as far as any kid could get."
      A wry grin curled across the counselor's face and he shook his head.
"Don't start."
      He looked past Bruce and caught Matt Egelseer finishing a quick sip
from the office water fountain.  "Hey, Matt, what does Iowa stand for
again?"
      Matt wiped his lips and grinned.  "Idiots Out Wandering Around."
      "And what's the smartest thing coming out of Iowa?"
      Matt didn't miss a beat.  "Highway 51."
      Millie strode through the small group of teachers on her way to Kim's
office.  "Millie, what do you call a carful of good lookin' girls driving
around in Iowa City?"
      She didn't miss a step.  "I'm sure I wouldn't know."
      "Tourists."
      He had a million of `em.
      Rasmussen sniffed and took the ribbing in stride.  "You through?"
      "For now, I suppose."  Scott paused and smirked.  "Actually, I think
the AP class has been getting a bit complacent anyway.  It'll be a good
thing to inject a little competition from outside and rattle a few of their
ego cages."
      Bruce patted Scott's shoulder.  "You're gonna thank me for this one."
      "After you moved that Fornier kid into my afternoon history section,
you owe me.  The little shit is practically a full time job."
      "You can thank medical science for Ritalin, Prozac and Depakote for
keeping him in school at all.  I knew you could handle him."
      Scott was standing at the classroom door after the bell had rung to
begin class second hour.  He'd just instructed the kids to pair up on their
own and said they were going to spend a couple days preparing a debate.  He
heard Zach's aluminum crutches hitting the floor and glanced out.  "Get a
move on Jacoby!  We got some work to do here, and I think you're gonna like
it."  Chris just handed off Zach's books without comment and went on his
way.
      Zach was settling into his seat and stowing his crutches out of the
way when a new face appeared in the doorway.  Scott turned and smiled.
"Mr. Willingantz, I presume."
      The young man smiled meekly and nodded.  "Yes, sir.  Mason
Willingantz.  I'm..."
      "The new guy!  Well, Mason Willingantz, that puts you and me pretty
much on the same footing.  I'm the new guy here too."  He waved an arm.
"Come on in!"  Scott's gaze swept across the room at Mason's new
classmates, all of whom were sizing up the stranger with curious eyes.  He
could feel Mason's awkward discomfort, and he spoke loudly enough for
everyone to hear.  "The big difference between you and me, Mason, is that I
have the grade book and I own all the grades."  Some kids grinned, others
just rolled their eyes.  Scott put a tempered hand on Mason's shoulder.
"Ladies and gents, say `hi' to Mason Willingantz, our new addition from
somewhere in Iowa, but we're not going to hold that against him."  A light
snicker rippled through the room and Mason gave up a gentle blush.  "I've
already heard wonderful things about him, and so the pressure is on him
starting today."  Scott looked around the room again.  "It would appear,
Mason, that the only one without a partner to work with today is Zach
Jacoby.  He's the tall one there with the hardware on his leg.  Not a bad
guy at first glance, but then you get to know him and the view will
probably change."  Zach grinned and shook his head through his classmates'
chuckling.  Scott tapped the new student's shoulder, lightly nudging him in
Zach's direction.  "Zach can get you up to speed on where we've been these
first couple of weeks.  I'll get your book, the syllabus and this unit's
outline in just a second.  If you have a few minutes after class, or later
in the day, we should sit down to discuss what I think you might need to
make up because of what you've missed."
      Mason was a slight young man, maybe five eight Scott guessed.  He
wore his blond hair short, spiked stylishly on top and in front.  He had a
long sleeved tee advertising some charity marathon, untucked, with the
sleeves pushed up almost to the elbow.  He had on stylishly faded jeans
over what looked like a new pair of Nike's.  A thin silver chain hung
around his neck and over the shirt.  Scott thought he looked more like a
freshman than a junior, and then remembered that Mason had skipped a grade.
His face gave no hint of any whisker, and he had a countenance bordering
angelic, Scott thought, if angels wore round wire rimmed glasses.
      Scott pointed at the desk that Zach had moved around to face his own.
Mason sauntered over and accepted Zach's handshake as Scott moved back to
the front of the room.  "Okay, troops.  Yesterday we spent the day looking
at Hamilton's financial plan for the new country under the new
Constitution.  Then we looked at Mr. Jefferson's exceptions to the same.
Now, on Monday, we're going to do a little role playing.  We will stage a
cabinet meeting that would have been presided over by President Washington.
Anybody wanna guess who's been cast in the leading role?"  A collective
groan rose as Scott jabbed his chest with both thumbs.  "Now, half of you
need to be able to give me the best, most logical and the most historically
accurate arguments for the pro-Hamilton position on the issues of the day.
The other half will have to try to knock them down with Jefferson's point
of view."  The pairs of students were already glancing and whispering who
would be whom in the debate. "So take a minute and decide which of you
would like to wear Hamilton's hat and which one is on Jefferson's side."
While the students discussed it, Scott grabbed Mason's class materials and
dropped them on his desk.  "Okay, everybody decided who's who in this
contest of ideas?"  Everyone nodded.  "Raise your hand if you're more
pro-Hamilton."  Half of the hands went up, including Zach's.  Scott
grinned.  "Okay, here's the thing.  You eight will come in on Monday with
the best Jeffersonian arguments that you can muster."
      Everybody groaned.  Sam Alphonse held up a hand.  "You mean the
Republicans have to make the Federalist case, and vice versa?"
      "Yep."  He put a hand on each of Zach's shoulders.  "For instance,
you all heard Mr. Jacoby go on and on yesterday about what a brilliant
pro-commerce, big-federal-government plan Mr. Hamilton had devised for this
nation's economic future.  On Monday, you will be dazzled by his razor
sharp arguments in support of Jefferson's agrarian, small-government point
of view."
      Zach looked up with a grimace.  "Aw, Mr. Turner.  Why do we have to
switch sides?"
      "Because, Zachary, one of the best ways to know that you're right is
to be able to identify precisely why the other guy is wrong.  And the best
way to show why the other guy is wrong is to know his positions inside and
out.  The same can be said for every disagreement.  Even today, in most
public debates, both sides just shout their own point of view.  Then, in
the face of opposing ideas, they just shout the same stuff louder, add a
little name-calling and call it persuasion.  But, if you show me that you
can state your opponent's point of view sincerely and intelligently, then
I'm more likely to believe you when you try to convince me how and why the
other guy is wrong."  Zach thought it over and a slow, if reluctant, nod
commenced.  Scott grinned.  Plus, it makes you work a little harder."  He
winked and stepped back.  "Okay, gang, go to work."



      A half hour after the day ended, Scott heard the signature clicks and
thuds of Zach heading toward his open classroom door.  His head tilted up
and his brow knitted down at the sound of an unfamiliar voice.  Rather than
Zach and Chris exchanging verbal jabs, it was a girl's voice.  "God, I
remember having Mr. Cox in this room last year! I thought it'd never end."
      "It's Mr. Turner's room now.  You gotta meet him.  He's so cool!"
Zach ambled into the doorway.  "Hey, Mr. Turner.  Somebody here I want you
to meet."  He glanced over his shoulder and nodded into the room before
gliding his way across the threshold.
      Scott stood and admired the grace with which Zach was negotiating the
cumbersome crutches.  He craned his neck to try and look around Zach and
found a demure grin on a much shorter brunette girl who was only a half
step behind him.  Zach paused and motioned her to come out from behind him.
"Kayla, this is Mr. Turner.  Mr. Turner, this is my girlfriend, Kayla
Heubner.  She graduated from here last spring."
      Scott reached out his hand.  "Kayla.  Nice to meet you.  We don't
know each other yet, but I'm surprised that you haven't traded up yet since
you started at...Marquette is it?"  He waved them both to seats near his
desk, pushing a chair over for Zach to plop into.
      Kayla smiled and nodded but furrowed her brows.  "Traded up?"
      Scott grinned sarcastically. "C'mon, Kayla.  Marquette's a good-sized
university in a fairly big city."  He pointed at Zach with a thumb.  "You
must be able to do better than this mug in Milwaukee."  Kayla giggled
nervously while Zach shrugged and took the ribbing.  "So, did you come home
to play nurse-maid for the weekend to give his folks a break?"
      Zach scoffed.  "I wish!  Her cousin's getting' married this weekend."
      Kayla smiled and looked up beaming.  "And Zach, crutches and all, is
going to brave the mob that's my family and come with me."
      Scott cocked his head and grinned.  "Always the gentleman, Zach,
risking life and limb and all that."
      Zach shrugged and casually cocked his head.  "It'll be okay.  She's
got three older brothers who got my back covered.  They won't let anybody
come near me."
      Just then Chris rounded the corner.  "Hey numb..."  He stopped short.
"Oh, hey Kayla."  He looked at the floor.  "I didn't know you were home
this weekend."  He looked back up without even the hint of a welcoming
grin.
      Kayla's insincere smile met Chris' sharp gaze.  "Hello, `Topher," she
chirped.
      Zach piped in.  "Yeah, `Topher, I told you.  This weekend's her
cousin's wedding."
      The room's temperature dropped five degrees, it seemed.  Chris
finally looked up at Zach.  "I was just gonna see if you were ready to go.
If you need a ride, we gotta hurry `cuz I gotta get back to suit up for the
game tonight."
      Zach waved him off. "Nope.  You're off the hook, bud.  Kayla's
bringing me home.  We're coming back for the game tonight, though, and then
probably going out for pizza after."
      Kayla's plastic smile hadn't faded. "Yeah, Chris.  You can come along
with us...if you want to."
      There was a rap on the door behind Chris.  Everybody turned to see
the small blond with the wire rimmed glasses.  Zach smiled and waved.
Mason waved back as he craned his neck to make eye contact with Scott.
"Uhm, Mr. Turner?  Sorry to interrupt..."
      "Not at all, Mason, come on in and join the party."
      Mason stepped in somewhat tentatively and set down his book bag.  "I
have the rest of that makeup work you wanted.  I thought I'd drop it off
before I left."
      Scott arched his brows and his eyes bulged a bit.  "Wow!  That was
quick work!  I'm impressed.  That is, I might be impressed once I've read
it."  Mason grinned as he fished through a folder. "Mason, you know
Zach...and this is his girlfriend, Kayla."  The two exchanged nods.  "And
the sturdy young man on your left over there is Chris Propst.  He's another
senior in my government class."
      The two exchanged a handshake and Mason smiled.  "You're in my study
hall, too.  I saw you there today."
      Chris' face lightened a bit. "I'm usually in the choir room during
study hall..." his grin quickly disappeared.  "...uhm, but I had some other
stuff to do today, so I just stayed put."
      Scott put down the pencil he'd been holding to avoid snapping it in
two.  He wanted to come up out of his chair.  `You little bastard,' he
thought.  `Managed to slide past both Judy and Ollie...and me...by just
staying put in study hall.'  He made a mental note.  `Need to find out who
he has for study hall and get them in the loop on this, too.'
      Scott shelved his ire for the time being and pointed toward Chris.
"Uhm...in addition to centering on the football team, Mason, Chris is
starring in the title role of this year's fall musical."
      Mason smiled and nodded.  "Cool!  I like that show.  I was talking to
Ms. Moylan about the pit orchestra for the show today. She said she needed
another trumpet."
      Scott smiled.  "Aaahhh.  A musician too, Mason?"
      Mason's smile slid into a shy grin, still looking at Chris.
"Trumpet, piano and guitar."  He looked at Scott abruptly.  "So, here's
this work you wanted, Mr. Turner. I better get going.  I need to call my
uncle for a ride home."
      Chris started to open his mouth, but he stopped himself short.
      Zach delayed Mason's exit a second when he spoke.  "We're going to
the game tonight, Mason.  You ought to come too." He glanced down at the
leg and crutches.  "I get to sit in the handicapped seats, so there ought
to be plenty of room if you want to sit with us and the few old-timers who
sit there."
      Mason cleared his throat.  "Thanks, but I can't tonight.  We're
having my little brother's birthday party.  Maybe some other time."  He
looked at Kayla.  "But it was nice to meet you Kayla."  He looked to his
left and smiled.  "And you too, Chris.  I'll see you around."  Finally he
glanced back at Zach.  "And I s'pose I'll see you in class on Monday."
Zach gave him a silent `bye' with a raised chin and a grin.
      After Mason had cleared the doorway, Zach blew out a short breath.
"That is one smart dude, there.  We worked together today in AP, and he
just about ran circles around me."  He looked at Scott.  "Mr. Turner, if
you can make this mock trial thing go, you ought to talk to Mason about
joining.  He'd be great."
      Scott nodded.  "I had the same thought myself earlier today."
      Chris shrugged and mumbled with a weak wave.  "I better get goin'
too.  My dad took off work tonight so he could come to the game.  We're
gonna eat early so I can get back. See you all later."
      Scott was still doing a slow boil, but this was clearly neither the
time nor the place to excoriate Chris.  `I'll skin the little shit on
Monday,' he decided as Chris disappeared into the hall.
      Zach looked over.  "You gonna be there tonight, Mr. Turner?"
      Scott looked at the clock.  I do believe I am.  But I'll have to kick
you two lovebirds out of here.  I need to run a few errands, head home to
take care of the pets and grab a bite to eat myself.  Then, I think I'll be
back."
	Fifteen minutes later, Scott pulled up in front of the Hallmark
shop a block off of Plover Avenue.  Big Scott and Suzanne's anniversary was
coming up in less than a week and he wouldn't be able to make it home, so
he wanted to look for a card and a picture frame.  He had a picture of the
three of them in a canoe during an outing with family and friends the
previous summer.  It was a great picture.  He'd had it blown up to
five-by-seven and wanted to find just the right frame.  They were nearly
impossible to buy anything for and were at an age where the sentimental
stuff worked best for them.  For him, too.
      He spent nearly a half hour digging through the assorted greetings,
well-wishes and double entendre jokes.  As was his habit, he gathered four
other greeting cards for other occasions, `just in case.'  He had a desk
drawer full of `just in case' cards at home, but, somehow, that never
seemed to matter.  Finally, he found the right one for his parents.  The
sales woman showed him a beautifully simple pewter picture frame that was
just the right size and he added that to his small bundle.
      "Aren't you the new history teacher at the high school?" the woman
asked as she scanned the cards.
      "Yes, ma'am.  Scott Turner."
      She smiled and gently took a pair twenties from him.  "I thought so.
I saw the article on all the new teachers, and your pictures, just this
afternoon." She held up the latest copy of "The Gazette.'  "And Emmy
Mortenson is my niece.  She thinks you're just great.  And this is a very
nice article."
      Scott grinned.  "I'll have to pick up a copy.  But, yeah, Emmy's in
my AP class.  She's a very sharp young lady," and then he added with a
wink, "and obviously a pretty good judge of character."
      The woman giggled.  "You're her favorite teacher."
      Scott took his change and picked up the bag.  "Well, professional
discretion and courtesy won't allow me to have a favorite student, but if I
did..." he finished the sentence with a raise of his brows and a nod.
      She smiled again and nodded back.  "Understood, Mr. Turner.  Welcome
to New Allsted, and I hope you'll stop back."
      He left the shop with a grin and shook his head.  `Teaching in a
small town.  Ain't it great?'
      He passed the café next to the card shop and opened the passenger
door to his car, dropping the brightly colored bag onto the seat.  He
slammed the door shut and checked his hair in the reflection of the
windshield before buttoning his top button and fiddling with the knot of
his tie.  He walked around the car and paused for traffic to pass.  Once
clear, he strode ahead, admiring the fine etching on the smoked glass in
the office door across the street.  "Jonathan Bedford, J.D., Esq. Attorney
at Law."




Author's Note: As always, this installment is made possible by the diligent
efforts of Kory, Scott and Ted.  I'll also doff my cap to Tim Mead.  I
stole the idea of having a main character reading stories at Nifty from his
latest posted work, "Flyleaf."  It's an outstanding story, by the way, as
is everything that Tim writes.

One of my very alert readers pointed out to me in an e-mail a couple weeks
ago that I'm coming up on an anniversary as a wanna-be writer.  It was
three years ago that I started posting "Strange Bedfellows."  (first posted
on 2/21/06) If you've found the stories worth reading, I hope you'll
consider helping me to celebrate the anniversary by sending a donation to
Nifty.

A few other e-mails tell me that some of you are coming late to the party,
which is great, and that you're unaware of this tale's two prequels.  If
that's you, and you want to take the time and retrace Scott and Company's
steps prior to this story, you can find them at:

/nifty/gay/college/strange-bedfellows/

/nifty/gay/college/fork-in-the-road/

However, February 23 is a more significant date in my book.  My good friend
in Baltimore is observing a much more important mark on Monday.  Here's to
wishing him another 16 years, and 16 after that, and...

Be Well,
-S.T.