Schoolie

Life in The Village, through the eyes of Tom Grant, the only teacher at the remote school.

This is an original work of pure fiction (just an expression of a fantasy)
by Robert A. Armstrong (a pseudonym)
(re-written from my 2013 version)

The resemblance of the characters by action, name, location or description to any real person is purely coincidental.

If it is illegal, or offensive, for you to read stories involving interactions of a sexual nature between adults and youths, what are you doing here?

 

From Chapter 1:

"What...? Or who... was that?" I ask hesitantly.

"Little Willie!" jubilantly choruses everyone around me. Then I feel, and observe, every pair of eyes focus on me, as if anticipating some reaction.

I stand transfixed, staring at the spot where the unexpectedly-man-sized body disappeared, replaying in my mind, in slow motion, the few seconds of action that I have just witnessed.

The hair. The eyes. The stare. The gush of water. The body. The turn. The dive.

Slowly: The eyes. The stare. The body. The dive.

Slower: The stare. The body. The dive.

Pause: The body.

"That," I ponder silently, after multiple in-head replays with zoom function, "was definitely not a little willie!"

 

Chapter 2 - The O'Briens

When Little Willie does not re-emerge from under the 3-metre spill-over from the weir, my agitation and face must convey the worry that I feel because Jake begins to reassure me that there is an air space between the cascading water and the weir wall where they often sit on a really hot day, and it's one of their favourite hiding places when people are looking for them.

I decide to head back to the school to fulfil my original intention of familiarising myself with it and of seeing what needs to be done before school resumes on Tuesday. I have this afternoon plus the weekend and Monday to get everything ready.

I shake everyone's hand and ask them to repeat their names and tell me their ages. I had already committed four to memory - Jane (who tells me she is actually 15) & Jake, aka `Tarzan' (14), Eric (5) and the `Little Willie'. Karl and Kurt look directly into my eyes, give me broad smiles, shake my hand and enthusiastically tell me they are indeed twins, about to have their thirteenth birthday next week. I definitely won't forget these guys (and not just for their friendliness and manners). Even though they appear very similar, I've detected that Karl has a small but noticeable upturn at the outer end of his right eyebrow which will help me distinguish between the otherwise-identical duo. The little girls with the braided hair are sisters Rose-Marie (7) and Susanna (5). David (8) is little Eric's big brother, with the same unmistakeable hair and freckles. There's a couple of others, but my short-term memory is not working well today; maybe it is somewhat distracted by `Little Willie' who, Jane tells me, is 16. I wonder why he is still in school when most boys his age in a remote country area would already be at work.

And I must confirm what they have all been staring at! If necessary, I should go back to my car and use one of its mirrors!

Back at the school gate, I pick up my keys, insert the new key into the padlock and turn it. An audible click acts like a hypnotist bringing me out of a light trance. I take a deep breath then push the gate open. I walk up the short, concreted path, take the one step up onto the verandah and continue along to the door which is about the middle of the long side of the building which faces the river. The large door key appears to be a bit of an antique - a long shaft with a decorative bow through which my key ring is threaded. I insert the bit at the other end into the equally old lock and turn it first one way and then the other until it goes right around and I hear and feel the heavy mechanism retract. The door swings inwards almost silently and my senses are engulfed by the cool mustiness of the 6-week-old, confined air as it escapes past me into the heat.

I'm standing in a small ante room surrounded by three more doors. All pale blue. The door to the right and the one to the left are open. The one directly ahead of me is closed. I take the one to the left and find myself in a large area that appears to have been used for arts and craft and general storage of sports equipment and the like. `I'll come back to this,' I tell myself then I turn around and go the other way, entering the main classroom. It's spacious, tidy and neatly laid out. My first task is to raise the pull-down blinds and open the windows. Even though this will allow the outside heat to enter, the smell of gum trees will be preferable to the thick, almost-dusty staleness of the holiday period.

I work my way anticlockwise from the door. The windows on this northern side, facing the river, have the verandah for protection from direct sunlight. (Southern hemisphere!) The western wall has windows overlooking the road, protected from afternoon heat by a continuation of the wide verandah. The windows on the shaded south side (towards the church) will enable some cross-ventilation. There is a door through which I can see the other room. As I walk through, I observe to my left a storage area for books, stationery and other small items. I note the reverse side of the only closed door - permanently sealed by the multiple levels of shelving that have been constructed across it in a full horseshoe around the small room. I must check out all of the supplies during the next day or two to see what exactly is here, and whether anything that I might need is in short supply. I enter the `Craft' room, which has windows on the south side, none on the east wall on which hang multiple display boards, obviously emptied before the previous school term ended, and then there are the windows that, again, look out across the northern verandah towards the river.

I end up back at the front door and step out onto the verandah. The children are dispersing. A noisy old Land Rover has a few of the younger ones in the back with Jake and Jane inside, but I can't make out the driver who is on the farthest side from me. David and Eric are walking along the road with Karl and Kurt in the direction of the crossroads. Perhaps their parents are in the pub cooling down by a different means while the children were taking a dip. I count ten children in all. They all wave as they pass the gate, and I wave back. There is no sign of the mysterious Little Willie. I head back inside.

My teacher's desk is in that corner of the classroom which is most distant from the door, set at an angle that will provide not only full supervision of the class, but also a clear view of the gate and the road leading to the river. I walk around to it and sit down.

The wooden chair is not made for comfort, but I'm sure that a cushion would soften the teacher/seat interface. The desk itself is a magnificent piece of far-from-plain wooden craftsmanship. It's almost 2 metres long and the top is inlaid with well-worn, dark green leather, better preserved towards the corners. The top is supported by an ornate pedestal on either side allowing space in the middle for my legs. Each pedestal contains a cupboard at the bottom with a drawer above it, all with locks. The small handles are of the hanging type and appear to be of decorative cast iron or similar. There is also a shallow drawer in the middle above the leg space. I slide it open and find some stationery, a small key and the Attendance Register which I take out and place on the desk top. Before I peruse the attendance history, I use the key to unlock the other drawers and the cupboards. I discover a set of Student Record Cards which I also set upon the desk. These should tell me a lot about my students. I am anxious to find out about one in particular.

From the Attendance Register I note that a number of children have the same surname, "O'Brien". Even though they cannot all be siblings, it's a safe bet that there are cousins among them. I don't expect to see "Little Willie", but there is one William - William O'Brien.

The name "Andersen" for Karl and Kurt, together with their blond hair and blue eyes, hints at possible Scandinavian descent, which I think is strange for this area of the country.

There are some others, but not a "Hatfield" nor "McCoy" among them - allaying my appointment-letter-day apprehensions. Names are listed by grade, with dates of birth and addresses all complete. I will have to add any new enrolments on Tuesday - perhaps the couple of 5-year olds that I have met, and maybe some as-yet unknowns. Turning through the pages from previous years, I note that Mr William O'Brien has a 100% attendance record from the beginning of this particular register, 10 years ago. I am now even more intrigued.

I spread out the Student Record Cards on the desk, sort them by grade, and mentally note where I think each student will sit in the classroom. I reach for Mr William O'Brien's card and I am about to commence reading when my concentration is disturbed by a loud knocking at the door. I think, "How did anybody get so close without me seeing or hearing them?"

I mechanically say, "Come in" while squinting somewhat at the silhouette in the bright doorway. Expecting that it is one of the parents come to pay his or her respects to the new schoolie, I rise and walk across the room, only to be met half way by a very familiar figure. The hair, the eyes, the body.

I extend my hand and introduce myself, "Hi. I'm Mr Grant". He grasps my hand firmly and replies in a surprisingly mature baritone voice, "Little Willie".

He stares at me, and I at him. Neither of us releases our handshake. He looks me up and down but fixes his gaze on my face. His eyes narrow slightly, as if searching for something, perhaps an explanation. I look from his curly brown hair to his blue eyes, to his chiselled torso and then continue downwards.

He is wearing only a tight pair of fawn-coloured, thin cotton shorts, the wetness of which makes them almost transparent. When I saw him at the river, I actually thought he could be naked. It's obvious that he has nothing on underneath and the detail of his ample package, extending predominantly down the right side, is clearly discernible, as too is the curliness of the broad dark patch above it.

I dwell on this part of him a moment too long. He follows my gaze then, raising only his eyes to look directly into mine, I see a broad grin spread across his face. But he says nothing.

I feel my face redden, release his hand and retreat to my chair. He follows and sits on the desk directly in front of me.

"William O'Brien?" I ask. He nods.

"Well, I don't think I'll be calling you `William' because it sounds a bit too formal. And I don't want to call you `Billy', because it sounds like a name for a little kid. And `Bill' sounds too old," I say, as I think it is more relevant to an older family member, like a grandfather.

"Everyone just calls me `Little Willie'", he sighs slowly, as if being resigned to it.

"Yes, well, I don't think that's appropriate either," I say smiling, with a-not-so-quick look towards the front of his shorts. He smirks knowingly (I think) back at me. I ask, "Would you mind if I called you `Will'?"

He appears to weigh up my suggestion for a few moments then as a beaming smile grows across his face he says, "Yes sir. That's good. Thank you, sir." I notice his eyes sparkle with pleasure but after a period of perceived contemplation they unexpectedly begin to fill with tears.

He suddenly says, "I've gotta go," and he jumps up from his position on the desk and heads for the door. Just as he is about to leave, he stops, turns and, with his eyes firmly fixed on my own, asks in a measured and subdued voice, "Mr Grant, how come you and me look like each other?"

Then he is gone.

I need to find a mirror; to confirm what I knew as soon as Will walked in. I'm a slightly older version of him.

Jane and Jake and the others all saw the striking resemblance immediately. Did Will notice it from the river while pretending to be an alligator and just come to check me out more closely after everyone had left? How could we look so alike? We could easily pass for another pair of the town's siblings - almost a second set of twins. Even the five-year age gap seems to make very little difference, with his maturity and my youthful countenance. I am confused too. I'm certain that my parents have never been to this part of the state, and I wouldn't mind betting that very few people around here would ever have travelled far beyond The Village pub or perhaps the Big Town Post Office.

I look out of the western windows and see him running past the pub in the direction of the shack at the end of the street. I glance away pensively to the wet desk where he was sitting, recalling first his moments of joy and then his tears, but when I turn back to the window he is nowhere to be seen.

A host of other questions flash through my mind. Why do none of the other O'Briens have Will's blue eyes? Why is his hair almost identical in colour to mine? It's even cut in a similar style. How can his body be as athletic as mine, when I'm sure that he wouldn't have been to a gym, or done the surfing or wrestling, or played the football or participated in the gymnastics, or competed in the long distance runs that I have in the city and at university? Why did he seem so elated at me calling him `Will' instead of `Little Willie'? Why had he grinned so broadly when he caught me checking out his shorts? And why did he start to cry?

Does he plan to `out' me to the rest of The Village folk even before school has started? My dad warned me that new gossip is a valued commodity in small towns, and that I should resist any urge to spread it, but, above all, avoid being the subject of it. `Just ask your Uncle,' dad used to say, the implication of which I was never told, although I had developed my own hunches about him and his `girlfriends' as I grew up.

Shit. What have I just done? Is my teaching career about to be over before it even begins? The words, `The new schoolie is one of those queer, city pervs,' run through my head, on repeat mode.

I try to make myself busy by shuffling the desks and chairs, browsing through the store room and checking out the equipment in the craft room, but questions keep pulsing through my head, and I can no longer concentrate on doing anything that I came in here to do. I decide to lock up, head back down the road and locate my new accommodation, meet the landlord, as arranged, and see what fate has in store for me there. I suddenly feel depressed. My initial joy at meeting my first-ever set of cherubs has turned to almost uncontrollable misery and anxiety, all of my own careless making.

As I snap the padlock shut on the gate, I rebuke my own stupidity at bothering to do so.

My head is throbbing to my highly elevated heart beat as I kick dirt on the way back to the car. The intense heat makes me feel worse. I start the engine and wait for the aircon to kick in before closing the door - no sense in baking my already-tormented brain in an oven! I do a U-turn and, resisting the strong desire to continue towards the shack in search of Will, I ignore the pub, turn left and retrace the road that I had travelled earlier.

After only about three minutes I spot the previously-noted turn-off marker to the property ahead and wonder why the trip was so short. I glance at the speedometer and see the shocking answer. I jump off the accelerator, put my foot on the brake and mechanically hit the turn indicator. Am I stupid? Using an indicator? There's probably not another car on this strip of dirt for the next 150 km!

I turn off the dusty road and follow a set of tyre tracks that meander through trees and scrubby wasteland, circumventing tree stumps, old car bodies and rusted farm artefacts. It travels parallel to the river for another 5 minutes. I can't get up any speed here beyond a walking pace lest the unevenness of the land with its bumps and depressions potentially render my car unusable. The seat belt holds me securely in my seat.

I come to a fork. One track veers to the left; the other continues straight ahead. On a whim, I choose not to turn and soon arrive at a medium-sized building in the style of shearers' quarters. My arrival is announced by a couple of fiercely barking dogs that rush from under the building and strain at the end of their tethers. They, too, are staring at me and gnashing their teeth, which I picture unrestrained townsfolk might be doing soon.

A guy comes out to investigate. He's a few years older than me - looking about 25 or so. He's wearing only a pair of faded denim jeans raggedly cut-off above mid-thigh height. In the bright sunshine his tanned, muscular body is shiny with perspiration and he has a small thatch of curly hair in the middle of his chest. He strides up to the car as I open the door, sticks out his hand and says, "G'day. You must be Tom Grant." I manage a `yep' and he adds, "Martin O'Brien. Call me `Marty'. Fancy a drink to cool off? Hey you look sort of familiar. Have we met before?" I hardly get out a `No' which I think he ignores anyway as he says, "Leave your gear for a while, and I'll show you through. It's not a holiday resort, but it's private and quiet, except when the dogs hear visitors coming. I like it that way, but I do enjoy some intelligent company. Not much of that around here, though! I got sick of mum's incessant idiotic jabbering so I moved down here nine months ago from the big house up yonder," indicating with a raised arm towards where the other fork would have taken me, I guess. "I told the last schoolie to let it be known that my place would be available for boarders - a bit more private than the pub and the other empty cottage just next to Mum's. I've knocked out a couple of walls inside so the rooms are bigger here than they were originally. Welcome."

I think that is when he actually takes a breath.

Well, that explains the Education Department's letter with suggested accommodation. Marty's place or the pub were the only two options listed. I think that I've made the right choice - just far enough out of town to be away from my students. I need some privacy too, and Marty seems to be friendly enough. My real need right now is to hide away.

"C'mon," He says. I'm impressed by the obvious muscle tone in his back and his legs as he leads the way. "Shut up!" he screams at the dogs and they cower back under the building which is on piers, about a metre off the ground. I'm probably more startled they are.

We walk across to the building and take the four steps up to the doorway. We enter a long corridor and I can see an open door at its other end. All of the rooms seem to run off to the right, on the river side. Many of the internal doors are open too. I follow him.

"This one's where I sleep," Marty says, indicating the first room. "A bit untidy at the moment. At least I don't have mum nagging me to put things away. This next room I use as a storeroom - gun locker, guitar, some expensive car parts and other stuff. Then this large open space is the kitchen and living area. This next one's the bathroom. I've installed a flushing toilet and water heater, so you can have a hot shower when you want it. I sometimes need a cold one." He winks and I think I catch the drift of his innuendo. He steps past the bathroom and a board creaks. It reminds me of my `parent and little sister alarm' on the stairs to my attic room at home. I don't think that they even realise it, just as the noise doesn't seem to register with Marty either. "And this is where you'll be - away from my snoring and other occasional night noises." Another wink. "You're next to the bathroom - convenient for taking care of any personal needs." He looks at me as if to see if there is a verbal or any other obvious response. I don't give him any, just a nod and a polite smile. He smirks.

As we enter `my' room I see two single beds slightly wider and longer than normal. `King singles' I think they're called. There is a large wardrobe behind the door on the wall backing against the corridor. Each bed is pushed against a wall with a double set of windows in between - an indication that two originally much smaller rooms have now become one larger one. Below the windows, and between the beds, is a chest of drawers, topped by a lamp. There is a large cow hide covering a good part of the bare boards between the beds, and there are photos of horses on the wall, one above each bed. There are sheets, blankets, pillow cases and a towel on each bed, together with a couple of pillows.

"Pick whichever bed you like, but I'd suggest the one on the left. It's not next to the bathroom. Little Willie won't mind either way."

"What?" I say, sounding a little more surprised than I intended at hearing a familiar name.

"Little Willie's my cousin. Great kid. One of your students. Not too bright, but you'll like him when you meet him. He often comes to stay - especially when his mum's in a bloody awful mood, or if she's entertaining a male visitor." Marty makes quotation marks with his fingers when he says `entertaining'. His meaning is not lost on me. "That won't be a problem, will it?"

`Shit!' I think. Will and Marty are cousins. What if Will outs me as a perv to him? But, if I'm still around when he does come to stay, and sleep in the same room, I suspect that I'm the one who might need a cold shower.

"No, not at all, I guess, if he doesn't mind sharing," I try to say with confidence. I don't let on that Will and I have already met. I don't want to answer any questions about our encounter, or what was said, or done, or how I made him cry and run away. I'm still uncertain why that happened. If Marty hasn't heard anything yet then the legendary `bush telegraph' is a bit tardy today, thank God. He will probably find out the truth about the new schoolie soon enough anyway. Too soon! Then he'll kick me out. Hell! Life just got seriously more complicated, and this is still day one.

"Let me help you with your stuff and we can sit down and have a good chat over a couple of beers." I have the feeling that I'll be hearing a lot of small-town gossip in the next couple of hours.

I choose the suggested bed, make it up quickly, not worrying about a blanket, given this heat, nor about smoothing out the wrinkles in the sheets, and Marty helps me unload the car. We dump everything onto the other bed and head for the large living area - a combination of kitchen, dining and lounge rooms all in one. Apart from the glimpse that I saw of Marty's bedroom, the place seems very tidy and clean for a bachelor pad. Marty takes two cans from the fridge, opens them, hands me one and slumps into one of the two arm chairs in the corner of the room that backs against the store room and under a window that looks west towards the river. I take the other. Set between us, in the very corner, is a small table with a stack of about a dozen magazines which I make a mental note to check out later. You can tell a lot about a person by what he reads.

Marty taps my can with his, says "Cheers", takes a long swig, swallows and launches right in to a monologue.

"I'm Martin Charles O'Brien, 24, third child of four. My two older brothers, Sean 30 and Chad 26 left home about seven years ago to find work in Big Town. At least that's what they told Mum. There were other reasons. You'll understand soon enough. They sometimes come out here to visit on a Sunday, when they're not busy. My dad died in a tractor accident about ten years ago. My little sister, Anna, who is 18, still lives in the big house with Mum. She has the hots for Little Willie, but he can't stand her and he hides whenever she's around. Incessant talking must be a woman thing."

`Or an O'Brien thing!' I smile to myself, but don't say it out loud.

Marty continues, "You'd better look out for Anna! Next to Little Willie, you're now the next male closest to her age around here, and she'll be all over you if you give her half a chance." He looks at me and waits for a response, which I don't give him. Then he cuts straight to the chase: "You have a girlfriend back home?"

"Maybe," I answer hesitantly, hoping he doesn't ask for a name, but I've got one ready just in case.

"Hmmm. You could probably keep a couple of `em pretty busy, I'd reckon, looking at you." He grins and winks; again, he gets no self-divulging response from me beyond a returned wink. Two can play that game. I already like this guy - Mr Grinny, Winky, Smirky, Raunchy!

He continues, "I work as a general hand for a couple of properties around here. Not much work going at the moment though. That's why it's great to have a paying guest. You are a God-send, to tell you the truth. I was thrilled when your letter said that you were coming. When I'm not working for someone else, I do stuff around here or at Mum's big house, and I usually get Little Willie to help. He's a strong little bugger and appreciates the bit of money that I give him. He gets very little from his mother, Lilly. Even though her male visitors give her extra on top of her various Social Security payments, she drinks and smokes most of it away."

"Oh well, you might as well hear the sordid details from me before you're subjected to other fanciful versions. Some handsome young city slicker knocked Lilly up over 17 years ago. She was only 18 and he was in town for only the one night. Story goes, she started flirting with him at the pub and they soon wandered off together. Little Willie was the result, but there were complications so she can't have any more kids. Lilly at least remembered the guy's name as William and she loved telling all the other women about his big willie. We reckon that's how Little Willie got his name. Father and son - big willie and `Little Willie'. His birth certificate says `William', same as his father, but to everyone, he's always been just `Little Willie'. Lilly can't resist a man and she still makes a real fool of herself over any new men in town. She's screwed just about every male in the district. You'd better be on your guard when she's around too. Although, if you ever need a root, you won't have to search too hard!"

I think, `I've hardly shaken the dust off my boots, and I've already got two women after my body, and I haven't met either of them yet.'

I am really tempted to ask Marty the obvious - whether he'd also `got it on' with his now 36-year-old (by my calculations) Aunt Lilly, but I refrain. Far too personal at the moment. When we know each other better, perhaps?

"Then, there's Mum." Marty continues. "Mum is just `Mum'. Mrs Bossy Boots. Mrs Nosey Parker. Mrs Control Freak. Mrs Loudmouth. You get the idea, and when you do meet her it will be much too soon, believe me! That's the real reason Sean and Chad left. They couldn't even look at a girl and Mum practically had everyone in town invited to a wedding. Oh, she'll probably be as sweet as her pumpkin pie to you while she tries to pump you for information so she can boast that she knew it before anyone else did. My advice: eat her food, listen carefully for her tricky questions, nod a lot, smile even more, but tell her as little as possible. And, hey, you might want to know a bit more about Little Willie before you end up sharing a room with him sooner or later."

Is my not saying anything about already meeting Will the same as telling a lie? I hope that Marty will see the humour of it when he finds out.

"Personally, I would classify Little Willie as `neglected'. His mother, my Aunt Lilly, treats him like a trophy to show off to her drunken `companions' when it suits her, then ignores him the rest of the time, until she wants him out of the way for a few hours, or for the night. He cops a fair bit of abuse from her as well, especially when she's drunk. And I'm not telling tales out of school - ha ha, that's funny - school, schoolie! Oh well! It's all common knowledge around town. So, he's just as liable to turn up here any time of the day or night, but more likely on a weekend when there are lots of men in town. That's why there's always a bed ready. As I said, he's not smart, as far as books are concerned, but is talented nevertheless. You should see all of his drawings. And some of his horse paintings look almost lifelike - like the two in your room."

Paintings? I thought they were photos, softened a little by some clever computer software.

"His art stuff is all in the store room. Ask him to show you next time he's here. He only paints and draws at school and when he's here. It's his passion - or one of them. He doesn't do it at home anymore because Lilly thinks it's `not a manly thing' to be doing; she destroyed some of his work when she was in one of her moods. He was absolutely devastated. His whole attitude to his mother changed that day. He came down here and cried for almost a full day. Apart from having access to the basics at school, he buys all his materials out of the money he earns working with me, and whatever little he can badger out of Lilly. And even though he's turned 16, he's still at school, because firstly, he gets to draw; secondly, if he leaves school, Lilly's parenting payment stops, and thirdly, there is no work around for someone so inexperienced, and also, he can be a bit clumsy – probably just the adolescent thing. I try to teach him whatever skills I can and give him an opportunity to use them. He enjoys studying pictures in books and magazines, but he doesn't read too well. The best thing you can do for him, Tom, is to concentrate on that, reading. He'll be frustrated and frustrating, but he'll really show his appreciation for any help and encouragement that you can give him."

Now my heart is truly heavy for causing that poor unfortunate and semi-literate lad to be upset. He seems to have enough problems without me adding to them. I feel a lump in my throat and tears forming in my own eyes. I avoid looking at Marty.

Little could I imagine how my life is about to change because of Marty's young cousin.

"The O'Brien's? There's lots of us... You'll meet the kids and get to know the parents soon enough."

And so, the almost one-sided `conversation' goes on, interspersed with quick personal questions about my life in the city and with `have another' can of beer - I accept far too many more than my usual one or two.

Big mistake!

 

I hear the sound of a couple of roosters, almost unknown in the city (apart from the barbecued variety), and strain to open my eyes, but they resist. I try harder and struggle to comprehend where I am. My throbbing brain painfully reassembles the snippets of my memory and I realise that it's morning... and I'm in a different bed... at Marty's place. Suddenly, as my recollection continues to catch up with my eyes, I am overcome by two serious urges - to pee and to throw up. My feet locate the floor. My head isn't fully cooperating. I have difficulty in standing, let alone walking. However, using the walls for support, my legs urgently direct me to the toilet in the adjacent bathroom where throwing up comes first. I flush to get rid of the smell and the evidence of food that I don't remember eating, then stand up to relieve my aching bladder.

Only then does it register that I am totally naked. I don't remember stripping off before getting into bed last night. Actually, I don't even remember going to bed last night!

After the longest and most relieving pee that I can ever remember, I squeeze and shake to ensure that there are no late drips, then I flush.

Still struggling to maintain equilibrium, I decide that a shower might help. It's nothing fancy, unlike the one at home. Just an old-fashioned metal shower head - sort of like the oversized end of a large watering can, except with a lot more holes - mounted over a bathtub. No shower curtain, and a drain in the middle of the floor to channel away any sprayed excess water. I step in and mechanically reach for, and turn, the taps on the wall. Big mistake! Aaargh! A freezing cold stream hits me. Everything instantly contracts - my pecs, my abs and my family jewels. Maximum shrinkage! I jump aside. Hello world! I'm awake!

I wait for the `hot' water to come through and adjust the temperature balance until the stream reaches at least body temperature, then ease myself back under, continuing to increase the heat gradually until I am very comfortable. I submerse my head and enjoy the sensation of the hot water running the full length of my body. I run my fingers back and forth through my curly hair. I look for some shampoo, but finding only a well-worn cake of soap, I decide that this will do the job just as well. I close my eyes and start with the hair, giving myself a slow stress-relieving scalp massage and work my way downwards - soaping, massaging and rinsing as I go.

Having reached the other extremity, I close my eyes again and work my way back up to my crotch and luxuriate in repeatedly soaping everything both front and back. Ultra clean! And I can feel that the shrinkage has now well and truly abated.

Feeling good, I allow my eyes to open and then it dawns on me that in my bodily urgency I didn't close the bathroom door, and I'm facing it, facing Marty who is leaning on the door frame, watching me with that cheesy grin of his. He's naked and appears to be half boned up.

"Hey, Tom, mind if I take a pee while you're showering?" He doesn't wait for an answer before entering. He stands facing me while directing a powerful stream at the bowl, while appearing to check me out. When he's finished, he flushes, gives his hands a quick wash at the hand basin and, turning to leave he says, "Breakfast will be ready in five minutes. OK?"

Hmmm... my eyes are automatically drawn to his powerful glutes as he disappears. I manage a loud "Nice! Thanks." It's my turn to smirk, then I finish rinsing off and turn off the water. I step out of the bath and grab a towel to dry myself. Then it crosses my mind, "He could have just peed outside. Isn't that what country guys do? Why didn't he?"

My nose soon identifies bacon being cooked.

Back in my room I notice that my boots, socks, jeans, Calvin Kleins and shirt are scattered around the floor at the end of my bed. That's not how I leave things when I ready myself for dreamland! The realisation comes quickly that I definitely didn't undress myself last night. So, not only have I seen Marty's body, he's seen, and possibly felt, all of mine! My final memory of him last night was thrusting yet another can of beer at me despite my protests that I had already had too many.

I haven't unpacked my clean stuff yet, so I retrieve the CKs and jeans and figure that these will suffice for breakfast with Marty. I head out to the kitchen and living area and am shocked to see the large number of empty cans on the corner table and floor around the chairs. Intercepting my gaze, Marty says, "Don't worry. We'll recycle those," as he puts two big plates of bacon, scrambled eggs, tomatoes and toast on the dining table which is against the wall nearest the bathroom. I'm hungry, but not sure if my stomach will keep this lot down. He's wearing only his cut-offs and has only half zipped up without fastening the top button. So, not only does he sleep naked at night but he goes commando during the day! I force myself to focus on the food instead of his all-too-obvious bush and bulge. Phew! What's his game? My dad's words haunt me, "...avoid being the subject of gossip..." How long can I hold out before I say or do something I'll regret? Then I painfully recall my encounter with Will yesterday. Maybe avoidance is already too late!

"How are you feeling now?" Marty asks me in an upbeat tone and with an almost playful smirk. Does he mean `now' after throwing up, or `now' after the sobering shower, or seeing greasy food in front of me, or `now' after waking up naked? Perhaps `now' after something that I don't remember.

Simply nodding, I fill my mouth with food, allowing myself some thinking time before answering. After chewing for longer than is usual for me to test my body's potential rejection of the bacon and eggs, I commence with a non-committal, "I think I drank too much last night."

"Yeah, sorry about that. My fault: I didn't know your limit. I think I've got your measure now though." Marty smirks again. I could read an awful lot into that last statement, but I let it pass - for now."

"I hope I didn't say or do anything to embarrass myself," I add, as more of a question than a statement.

"Nope. You didn't talk much - good practice for when you meet Mum. You were only semi-conscious though when I helped you back into your room. It was hilarious watching your uncoordinated attempts to undress, so I kinda helped out a bit." Wink.

"Yeah. And more than just a bit! Thanks for giving me a hand," I utter with intended friendly sarcasm, and maybe a hint of innuendo. Marty just grins at me. It's becoming difficult to imagine this guy without a grin or smirk on his face!

At least when he's talking, I know what he's thinking! He finishes his food, takes his plate to the sink and asks if I want a coffee. He makes two then sits back down and watches me eat.

"Tom, I'd like you to feel at home here. Just act like this place is your own. Believe me, I won't be offended by anything that you might say or do. There's only one house rule that I want to mention right up front." I raise my eyes and look directly at him, completely blank as to what the rule might be. "As I've told Little Willie, `What happens in the house, stays in the house!' Whatever we see, or say or do here is no business of anyone else. This town is full of gossips, especially Mum and Aunt Lilly. They're like bloodhounds trying to sniff out some juicy morsel. Then, if they find anything, they'll spread it faster than soft butter on hot toast. This is my private haven from the world. And Little Willie's. And yours, hopefully. What do you say? Gentlemen's agreement?"

I feel a huge knot untwist in my gut and I let out an audible sigh of relief as I stick out my hand to shake on the deal. "Thanks Marty. You have no idea how much that means to me. I'm 100% on board! What about your cousin, will he be OK with having his teacher in the same room as him?"

In my own mind I'm not so sure he will be, and especially after he caught me checking out his body bits yesterday. Does the `house rule' apply to Marty hearing that the school teacher has `acted inappropriately' to his young cousin?

"Little Willie? Hell Yeah. He'll be totally OK. I can tell. He and I share a bit of `secret' stuff. You two will be fine!"

I hope so. That smirk again! I'm determined to find out the reason for it, and I already have a couple of yet-to-be-tested suspicions. Yet, the `house rule' offers me some confidence that I didn't feel yesterday afternoon. The mental fog is lifting. The depression seems to have faded.

A haven! I'm on top of the world. Almost. I'm still uncertain about Will's state of mind and how he'll react to me at school on Tuesday.

Marty adds, "Little Willie might seem a bit simple sometimes, but he's got a heart of gold and tight lips. I love him for that. I think, after talking with you last night that you two will get along great with one another. And, when I saw you in the shower, that's when it hit me. You two look very much alike. No wonder I thought you seemed familiar yesterday. That's fucking hilarious. It won't take others long to twig to the resemblance either. It will cause some serious tongue wagging around The Village - you can bet on that."

Marty slaps his knee and laughs a sort-of forced belly laugh and I can see that he is going to enjoy the inevitable show, as people fabricate their own answers to that mystery and then spread them as absolute fact to all eager ears. To be honest, I'm actually looking forward to hearing every last one of their theories. One of them might even reveal the truth of this look-alike mystery. I could have some real fun with them too. My wicked sense of humour makes me do the smirking for once!

Hang on. Back up a bit, brain! What does Marty mean, `...when I saw you in the shower... you two are very much alike'? This is becoming like putting a jigsaw puzzle together without seeing the picture on the box. I could be reading everything wrongly, but Marty's indications and smirks and innuendos are stimulating something deep within me. I can't tell if it's excitement or concern. Then again, I do feel the promised safety net of the `house rule' taking the edge off my anxieties and a few possible indiscretions. I hope that he's true to his word.

"What are you planning on doing this morning, Tom? I usually head in to Big Town on Saturday to get some supplies. Now there's two of us, the food will disappear faster than usual." A smile with a message.

I retrieve my wallet which is still in the back pocket of my jeans and give Marty some cash. "Four weeks in advance. That should help."

"Thanks, Tom. I'm so glad to have you staying here, mate! You have no idea!"

Nobody has called me `mate' for so long that I allow the words to linger in my head. Not sure if he really meant it or whether country guys call everybody else `mate', but I smile a very contented smile. Although, I'm guilty of using it when I can't remember somebody's name! I tell him, "I want to go up to the school and do an inventory of what's in the store room and the craft room, and start some preparations for Tuesday and the rest of the week."

"Why don't you unpack all your gear and I'll clear up the breakfast stuff, and the evidence from last night," Marty says nodding towards the collection of cans. "And I'll catch up with you in a few of hours."

I hear Marty fussing about in the kitchen and then the bathroom. He soon calls out "Heading off," from the other end of the house, then soon hear the sound of a well-tuned car engine slowly fading away up the track. I finish stowing my gear in the behind-the-door wardrobe and utilise some of the drawers in the chest under the windows for smaller and `personal' items, leaving the topmost drawer empty for any potential overnight visitor. I use the toilet then, heading out, note what a great job Marty has done of cleaning up. All the beer cans have gone and all the breakfast dishes have been put away.

I catch sight of the magazines again and decide to quickly look at the titles. Quite an assortment: Shooting, Horse Racing, Farming, Home Handyman, Cars, Body Building. But the one on the bottom of the pile catches my attention most. Wow! I flip the pages and see not just the usual `girlie' pictures, but naked men and women, both separately and together, in all possible combinations. Most of the fantastic-bodied guys and girls look to be late teens to early twenties. Their various poses and activities leave nothing, and I do mean absolutely nothing, to the imagination. I've never seen a mag like this one before - anyone, whether straight, bi, gay or lesbian, could use it as a sex manual. My slow Saturday-morning brain then registers the title, `LUSTY'. Very appropriate! Another piece of the puzzle? I put it back, for now, before I get boned up too far to ignore, and tidy the stack as I found it. `Later!' I think. And I must check out whether some pages are more well-worn than others. Aha, Martin Charles O'Brien! Thomas `Sherlock Holmes' Grant is on the case!

I head out, and recoil as the dogs suddenly rush out and bark at me. Massive adrenaline rush! Thank God for the tethers. "Shut up!" I scream at them. It doesn't produce quite the same cowering effect as Marty's, but at least they stop and just stare at me, tilting their heads to the side in expressions of puppy-like curiosity. I experience a sense of accomplishment.

I'm beginning to feel at home.

I navigate the bumpy track to the road, turn left and drive leisurely through The Village to the school.

The only sign of early Saturday morning life comes from the territorial laughing of the kookaburras in the gum trees up and down the river. I deal with the two locks and re-open the blinds and windows. There is a lingering staleness, but nowhere nearly as bad as yesterday. I defer reading the Student Record Cards in favour of checking out all of the supplies in the store room.

Once I get the drift of how everything has been sorted and stored, I see that my predecessor has done a great job in keeping up the numbers of everything that is needed. I'm sure that at least a few of the children will know where everything is. That's part of how I understand small schools function: the older children follow and monitor the well-established routines, exercise their delegations with responsibility and pride, and willingly help the little ones with their lessons, and all of the routines are well established. That reminds me, I must find out the existing routines from somebody before Tuesday, if I get the chance.

I take a pen and a note book and start into a full stock take so that I can understand exactly what is here, and in what quantities.

 

I'm almost at the end of noting, counting and putting everything back where it came from, where the children will know where to find it, when I hear Marty's voice. "You there, Tom?" I can't believe the time has flown so fast. It's already well past noon.

"Come in Marty. I'm in the store room." He appears at the door and performs his door-post lean and grin. He's dressed in polished brown riding boots, tight blue denim jeans topped by a leather belt with a big long-horn buckle. His blue dark-on-pale small-check shirt, which is neatly tucked in to his jeans, looks one size too small and the top few buttons are open. This accentuates both his generous pecs and tight abs. I know the saying, `If you've got it, flaunt it'. Well, he's got so much to flaunt - both above and below the waist! His hair is parted and brushed back. I give him a teasing wolf whistle, without comment. He smirks, of course! I wonder whether he was meeting somebody in town, and whether he got a bit more than what was on his grocery list. I allow myself a moment of envious fantasy.

"Among other people, I ran into Aunty Di and Uncle Reg in town earlier," he says. "They have invited you and me to lunch at their place. They live about 15 km that way (indicating to the east). I'll drive. You can pick up your car on the way back. We're due there by 1:00, so are you OK to close up shortly?"

I decide to leave everything else spread out on the desks. Marty helps me lock the windows and pull down the blinds. He does the craft room and I do the classroom. We walk out and I lock the door but leave the front gate unlocked. I give myself a mental smiley stamp `for improvement in intelligence'!

I get into Marty's SUV. It's clean and has a strangely sweet scent - it must be some air freshener. I should tell him to change it. It smells somewhere between a man's deodorant and a woman's perfume. Aha again, Marty! Not what I had thought that a country man's set of wheels should smell like!

He heads back past the church, turns left and heads due east, mostly parallel to the tree line of the river, which recedes progressively from the road.

The countryside seems dead flat with little obvious vegetation apart from the diminishing vision of the river gums and the waist-high, silver-grey saltbush clumps that mostly cover the red landscape. As he drives, and having already dropped everything at home on his way past, Marty rattles off a list of the things that he has bought to stock the pantry and fridge and says that he hopes that it all suits me. I decide to turn the tables on him and reply with a playful, "Mate, there's not much that my taste buds and body don't enjoy."

He turns his head to see if my expression is hiding, or revealing, something. I give him back one of his annoying cheesy smirks, and leave him to struggle with my meaning. Haha! He's quiet for a while, then makes a quick jiggling adjustment to the front of his jeans. I exercise huge self-control in not making a smart-alec comment about him possibly outgrowing them.

He changes the subject. "Oh, just so you know, Aunty Di's as deaf as a door post in her left ear, so you'll have to speak up when you're talking to her. If you face her when you speak, what she doesn't hear with her good ear, she'll read from your lips."

I see the line of river gums heading back towards us, then a large clump of trees surrounding a house. Marty slows and turns in. No indicator. Country smart! The house is not far from the road. I hear welcoming dogs sounding off. As Marty kills the ignition and a man and woman appear, about the same age as my parents, maybe a little older, followed by two teenagers, a girl and a boy.

Marty introduces me to Reg, Di, Jane and Jake individually. I exchange pleasantries with Reg and Di, and thank them for inviting us. I shake hands with `Tarzan' and Jane, pretending that it's our first meeting. They look at each other and then at me as if I have a super-awful memory. I give them a wink and nod towards Marty, and they understand that I'm playing some sort of game. "Very pleased to meet you, Mr Grant, Sir" they say, slightly over-acting, which is more for Marty's benefit than for mine.

We go inside and I can see that a magnificent feast is prepared and already laid out on the table. Reg insists that I sit at the end of the table with my back to the kitchen, while he takes the seat at the other end. Di is to my left with her good ear next to me and Jane to my right; both of them close to the kitchen, I suppose. Marty is next to Di. Jake is next to Jane and opposite Marty. Reg offers a quick word of thanks for the food and the company then everybody starts transferring food from the middle of the table to their own plates. Di and Jane, from each side, delight in heaping food onto my plate. They must think that I haven't eaten in a week. Country hospitality!

Reg starts the conversation, in a loud voice which, I expect, is primarily for Di's benefit, "Didn't you kids tell me you met Mr Grant yesterday?" Jane and Jake both look at me.

I raise an eyebrow and give them a smile, eliciting one back from each of them.

"Yes, Dad," Jane replies, somewhat sheepishly.

"Then what was all that `pleased to meet you' stuff outside?" he grumbles. I can see that Reg is a no-nonsense man who doesn't mince his words. They both turn their faces from their dad to me again, looking a little more anxious this time, seeing that the role play was my idea.

I chime in to save them. "Reg, yesterday when I turned up at the school Jane and Jake strolled over to say hello. It was all pretty casual, so I guess that we were all being a little more formal and polite just now." With his mouth full, Reg also seems to chew over my answer and nods his concurrence.

The teenagers noticeably relax and both have contented glows on their faces. While eating, they steal approving glances in my direction. I think some sort of bond was just forged between them and me.

Marty stops chewing, swallows and stares me squarely in the eye. Gesturing with his knife from me to them and back to me, says, "You didn't tell me that you'd already met the kids!"

I emulate one of his cheeky grins, summon up my school-teacherish tone and hit him with, "What happens at school stays at school."

He coughs, in a choking fashion, for the parody of his house rule and gives me one of his smirks then a wink of endorsement. Then I intercept a sudden knowing look across the table from Jake to Marty, who responds with an almost imperceptible shake of the head and a silent half frown as if to say, `Shut up Jake.' The subtle body language might have escaped everyone else at the table, but not me.

I immediately know that Jake, too, has been introduced to Marty's house rule of sworn secrecy. Why? Another piece of puzzle? My imagination runs wild. Marty? And Will? And me? And Jake?

I feel the beginnings of a stirring deep in my loins as I remember the magazine on the corner table and allow erotic thoughts to intrude into my head. Shit, Tom, No! No way!

I feel that my professionalism and whole fledgling career is under threat here. I fork another large piece of beef sausage into my mouth and can't stop myself from wondering, `What?' and `Who else?'

Di and Jane play the perfect hostesses. Better service than at many city restaurants! The most marvellous meal is topped off with one huge serving of Di's `famous' apple pie, complete with home-made duck-egg custard and freshly-whipped cream.

`I'm going to have to find something to compensate for not going to the gym,' my conscience intrudes on my pleasure. Maybe an early morning jog from the house to the road and back would be a good start. It's strange that no other boy or man that I've seen around here looks to be carrying extra weight. And I certainly don't want to become the first!

Di is a still very attractive lady for her age, and I can tell that she has `fixed herself up' for the occasion. Her pronunciation is a little indistinct, as one might expect of a person who suffered a hearing disability in her formative years. Nothing is said about her medical condition, and it would be rude of me to ask. I guess that somebody, possibly Marty's `Mum', would let me know sure enough if I drop a hint of interest. Over lunch there is the expected chit-chat and questions. I realise that I could be fuelling the gossip fires, however, remembering Marty's advice, and aware that I have two of my students in front of me, I keep my answers all pretty simple to the questions about me, my sport, my family, my little sister who is about Jake's age. "You'd like her." I tease Jake. He blushes and screws up his nose. Jane nudges him with her elbow. Everybody laughs.

Reg is of the O'Brien clan, a younger brother of Marty's deceased father, older brother to Will's mum and some others whom, I am sure, I will meet soon enough. I have the opportunity to study Jake and Jane more closely. The two attractive children have inherited most of their features from Reg's side of the family, including the dark hair and eyes. Jake has a less-pronounced version of his father's square and clearly dimpled chin, similar to Marty's. Jane, as a girl, has only a trace of it, fortunately, I think. They both have their mother's long, attractive eyelashes. They both speak loudly, as I lamented yesterday. Only now, I appreciate the reason for it.

The brother and sister at the lunch table are very different to the pair that I met yesterday. Jane is a perfect little lady in deportment and speech - a far cry from her `little buggers' outburst and running wild at the weir. Jake is the little gentleman. Is this play acting in front of their dad? Are they both scared of him? I wonder why, and I also ask myself, `Which are the real people – Jane, or is it Calamity Jane? Jake, or is it Tarzan?'

 

It's an uneventful ride back into town. Marty and I talk about the food and the hospitality. I ask him why everybody is so slim, given that they eat so well. As I again survey the landscape, he tells me that Di prepared a meal specially to impress me and they don't eat like that most of the time. It was a unique treat for everybody. "Anyway, there are always ways of working off the extra calories", he adds. I hope he's not grinning or smirking - I don't even want to look!

Before I allow myself to become angry with him, I must find out about Jake's knowledge of the House Rule, and what family secrets are being concealed in this remote outback village.

At my suggestion, Marty drops me at the church and I walk the short distance to the school.

There's not much of the stocktake to finish; mainly just checking that I have recorded everything and putting things back in their usual places. I move to the craft room, and busy myself with a similar exercise. Different media, paper, a variety of craft materials including a large bag of wool and collection of knitting needles - Hmmm! I hope that's not something I'm expected to teach!

I come across a large A1-sized folder with tape ties. I undo the bow and discover a large variety of sketches and paintings in pencil, crayon, charcoal, water colours and a few media that I don't recognise. They are superb. Landscapes, portraits and horses. I recognise the artist immediately, even before I note the `LW' signature in the lower left corner of each one. I am absolutely astounded by the likenesses of his portraits to the school children whom I met at the weir. This boy is something else! I just look from one piece to the next and wonder where his eye for detail and this amazing talent come from. The quality of his work makes me a little emotional that he has never had the opportunities, or exposure, or encouragement of city children in specialist art classes. How good might he have been? Possibly, not too much better than he is already!

But, on top of deprivation caused by isolation and his mother, I contemplate that he must now also overcome the additional burden of a teacher who ogled and upset him at our very first meeting, without even an opportunity to establish a friendly classroom rapport.

Satisfied that there is nothing left to do, except some lesson preparation for which I still have two more days, I lock up and head for home.

The sunset behind the river gums is stunning. Suddenly, for a third time in two days I experience a strong familiarity. This time it's a powerful déjà vu. Eerie!

"Shut up!" I yell at the dogs. "Hi Marty," I call. "It's only me." I walk through the door and into the living area.

I freeze in my tracks. Will is here, sitting exactly where I was last night. He looks up. His eyes are red and puffy - he's been crying. My heart starts to pound with compassion and guilt and fear. I'm dead now, for sure.

"Little Willie, say hello to Mr Grant, the new schoolie. Tom, this is Little Willie. He'll be staying the night."

"Hello Mr Grant, Sir." he says with as much stoicism as he can muster, standing up.

"Hi there, young man," I reply as politely as I can, then step over and shake his offered hand. "Sorry. Gotta use the bathroom." I hurry and close the door.

Why would Marty introduce me to Will, if his cousin had already spilled the beans on me? Perhaps he hasn't... yet.

I pace back and forth in the bathroom, wondering and worrying what Will has already told Marty, and what I am going to say when he confronts me.

I stay long enough to have taken a long dump, so I can't put things off any longer. I flush the toilet, even though I didn't use it, then wash my hands, both predominantly for the sound effect.

Heading back into the living area, I notice that Marty is alone. "Everything OK?" I ask hesitantly. He tells me that Will's mum has been on one of her drunken rants, and started throwing things, so Will just ran out, with the usual abuse about his no-good father ringing in his ears.

That's some relief for me, but bad for Will. More pain upon pain and he is now, visibly, in a distressed state.

"He's in the bedroom," Marty indicates with a nod.

I'm more upset for him than for myself now. Shit! All this today on top of what he experienced from me yesterday. Poor kid.

I decide to go and face him.

I knock on the open door as a courtesy to let him know I'm there. I don't expect a response. I leave the door open, go in and sit on my bed opposite him. He has his face in his hands. My natural instinct is to give him a comforting hug, but I consider that close physical contact may not be the best thing to do right now, under the circumstances.

He doesn't say anything, so I open up. "Will, I just want to say that I'm sorry for upsetting you yesterday at the school."

He looks up. "Yesterday? Yeah, I was upset yesterday. Really upset. I just lost it. It was all about you, and me." He gets teary again.

`Here it comes,' I think. `Now I'm gonna cop it, first from him and next from Marty!'

"Will, I'm so sorry for what I did and said. Really! Please forgive me. Please. I think you're a great kid and I would never intentionally do anything to hurt you."

He looks up at me and utters, "Huh?" I recite my confession and apology for checking him out and then for making inappropriate comments about his not-little willie, and I again ask his forgiveness.

He looks at me strangely. Then he stuns me. I hear totally the opposite of what I am expecting.

"Mr Grant, Sir, I wasn't concerned at anything you said or did, and I enjoyed watching your face while you `checked me out'. But I did get emotional because of you. When I saw you, you looked just like me, just like my brother would, if I had one. You know, I never had a brother. I always wanted one, but my mum couldn't have any more kids after me and she's forever blaming me for that. I considered that you might easily have been my brother. When I thought about it, we both could have grown up together and done things and had a heap of fun like Karl and Kurt do. I was so happy."

"And then you asked if you could call me `Will' instead of `Little Willie', That's the first time that anyone around here has thought of me as anything more that the `Little Willie' who was born because of my father's big willie. Everyone calls me `Little Willie'. When I was younger it didn't matter. But now, it just upsets me. I finally got called a real name... `Will'. And the way you said it sounded just like a big brother would have. I played it over and over in my head... `Will', not `Little Willie'... `Will'. He called me `Will'."

"Then it hit me right in the gut that, despite my daydream, you were not actually my brother, and that I really don't have one, and that I never can or ever will have one to have fun with. Thank you, Sir, for being so kind." He starts to cry, sobbing deeply, and I have great difficulty in preventing myself from doing the same, even though my eyes are filling with tears.

I can't stand it any longer. I get up and take a step towards him. "Will, would you like a hug?" He doesn't hesitate to answer, and almost throws himself at me, wrapping his arms around my neck and the sobs are very heavy. I place my hands on his sides, and absorb the waves of his emotion.

As he clings to me, a thought crosses my mind, and I voice it aloud. "Will, if you like you can just call me `Sir' when we're at school. If you're talking about me to anyone, you can refer to me as `Mr Grant'. But I'd like you to feel a little more relaxed when we're here together at Marty's. I'll call you `Will', and you can call me either `Tom' or `Mr G', if you can feel comfortable with that. What do you say? House rule?" I wrap my arms around his body.

In an almost-whisper he says, "That's so great. Thank you!" And he tightens his hug, letting out one huge sigh.

I look up and see Marty in the doorway. "Well, I see it didn't take you two long to get to know each other," he says with obvious smart-arse sarcasm.

Will pulls back from me a little and snaps at his cousin, "Fuck off Marty!" Then he looks at me with a face full of guilt and whispers, "Sorry... Mr Grant!"

"It's not what it looks like, Marty, or whatever you might be thinking," I say with a touch of both embarrassment and anger. I nod towards the living area, hinting that Marty should leave us alone and go somewhere else, and I say, "Give us a few minutes, will you?" I draw Will back towards me.

Marty shrugs and walks off. Will holds me tighter, and presses his chest and stomach and hips as close to me as he can muster. I can now feel a lot more of his body than his strong heart beat and his heavy breathing, especially down below! I feel his warm tears soaking through my shirt and wetting my shoulder. I just hold him and delight in the warmth of his body, and in his trust. He might be physically mature, but emotionally it seems that he's still a fragile little boy.

"It's OK, Will. I was gonna tell him exactly the same thing, but you just beat me to it!" That brings a weak smile back to his face, then he does something totally unexpected. He kisses me on the cheek, just like how my grandma does. He gives me an extra tight hug, holds on for a while, savouring the moment as I rub his back, then he breaks away.

"Don't' tell. House rule!" he smirks, then heaves a couple of heavy sighs and dries his eyes on his shirt sleeve.

Oh, no, not another smirker!

"Well, it looks like I might have got myself the little brother that I always wanted," I say to his now-beaming face. "Let's go and see what Marty's up to." Will shakes my hand but turns it into a `secret handshake' - palm clutch, thumb grasp, shoulder knock and fist bump as we separate. I repeat it to make sure I've got it right. He giggles, about an octave higher than his normal, mature voice, sounding more like my little sister than a male pretend-sibling.

Marty looks at us as we enter the living area. It's obvious that he can see the dramatic positive change in Will's face and attitude. He pulls an uncomprehending face, shrugs then gives me a thumbs-up. "So, you two lovebirds ready to eat?" he asks sarcastically and grinning broadly.

Will and I look at each other, nod, then turn to Marty and say in unison, "Fuck off Marty!" then laugh at our new-found camaraderie.

 

(to be continued)

 

There is a parallel version to this story, told through the eyes of Kurt.
Find it at https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/kurt-series/

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