Kurt

 

 

 

Life in The Village, through the eyes of a student at the remote school.
(This is a parallel story to "Schoolie", but through different eyes.)

This is an original work of pure fiction (just an expression of a fantasy)
by Robert A. Armstrong (a pseudonym)

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:

 

Then, Little stands bolt upright, dripping, thigh-deep in the swirling water, still staring. Peering almost. Suddenly, looking shocked, he dives back towards the waterfall and disappears.

Mr Grant asks, "What..., I mean who, was that?" He looks more surprised than shocked, but, then, who wouldn't be at what he has just seen?

"Little Willie!" everybody shouts out.

Chapter 2 – My Christmas Wish

Mr Grant stares at the water where Little dove in, and begins to look worried.

When Jake assures him that Little Willie will be OK because of the space behind the waterfall, Mr Grant tells us that he should be getting back to the school, so that he can have a look around inside. I can see him mentally checking off the kids' names in his mind. His brilliant blue eyes seem to lock onto mine and, indicating with his finger without actually pointing, he mouths, `Kurt'. I imitate his actions and mouth back, `Mr Grant' as if I needed to try to remember his name. As if! I like him.

He grins.

The kids all resume their previous fun while I linger and watch our new teacher walk back towards the school. I am mesmerised by his movements, his every step. Yes, he's perfect!

It's too hot to stay out of the water, so I head back down to find Little, Jake and Karl.

The guys are all sitting together, where I thought they'd be, behind the waterfall. I brush the dripping hair out of my eyes and off my face and I join them on the beam.

I must have missed their obvious discussion of the new Schoolie, because they are already onto where they want to sit in class. I join in, "That would be up to Mr Grant, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe, we should just tell him where we all sit now," Karl suggests. "but it will be exactly where we actually want to sit."

"You'll never get away with that!" I put to him. "David will be the first to say, `He's telling fibs, Mr Grant.' Then you'll be in big trouble.

"And, if David doesn't, my sister will." Jake adds. "You can count on it. She'd do it just to piss me off."

My Mum would have washed out my mouth with her smelly washing soap if she'd heard me said that! Or `bum' or `shit', or any of the other words that I've heard Jake use when no grownups were around. And if I had ever used the f*** word in our house, things might have become painful when my Dad got home. I might not have been able to sit down for soap-tasting dinner, if I was given any at all.

Between you and me, I can't imagine Jake saying words like that in front of his parents, either.

I think.

I know Jane, and suggest to Jake, "Why don't you ask her where she'd like to sit, and how she would like to arrange everyone? Then, if it's what we like, it wouldn't be our idea, would it?"

"What about David?" Karl asks.

"Leave him to me," Jake smirks back. "No problem. Tubby loves chocolates!" I taste bribery in the air.

Little is unusually quiet. It almost seems as though his mind is elsewhere. Something else. Or someone else.

"What's up?" I ask him. "I know you. You're being too quiet. What's going on upstairs?" I tap his forehead.

"He's gonna find out!" Little answers.

"But then it would be Jane's idea, not ours. What's the problem?" Jake puts to him.

"Not about that. About me. He's gonna find out that I don't read too good, and he'll call me `stupid' like Old Grumpy Bum used to."

"Hey, maybe he'll help you to read better." I try to be positive. "He's a teacher, you know! That's what teachers do – teach you to learn stuff, like reading."

"Well Grumpy Bum didn't. He hated me. He used to tell me that somebody as old as me who couldn't read must be really stupid and that I should be out working somewhere instead of making his life difficult and miserable."

"Well, if he couldn't teach you to read, he must have been a really shit teacher," Jake suggests.

"Hell! We all know that!" Karl says, emphatically.

That lightens the mood.

Jake tells us that it's probably time to go and that his dad might be waiting near the school to drive them home.

"If your dad was waiting, then someone would have come and told you," Karl suggests.

"Yeah, but the girls know that they're not allowed in here if the guys are here. Especially my sister! Anyway, I'd better go. See you all on Tuesday – in our new seats." Jake finishes, grinning. He slips off the beam and ducks out under the waterfall.

"Come on," I say to Karl. "We'd better go and see what time it is too. Maybe it's time to start dinner, and it's your turn to do the onions! You coming, Little Willie?"

"Yeah. Come and play," Karl tells him. "We can have some fun while Kurt cries about peeling the onions!"

"Rat!" I yell at him. I thump him on the thigh, and then make a hasty exit, under the waterfall.

Without looking behind me, I scramble up the bank, which is mud-slippery from all of the wet feet.

Jake and Jane are helping all of the little kids into the back of their Dad's old Land Rover. Then they hop in themselves. Mr O'Brien starts it. It's really noisy. You can always hear it coming, long before you see it. Everybody in The Village recognises it's `unique voice'.

Mr Grant is walking to the front of the verandah. As Mr O'Brien's Land Rover passes the school, everybody in the car waves. Mr Grant waves back. Karl has caught up to me. Little isn't with him. I position myself on the other side of young David and little Eric to avoid receiving the payback that Karl's eyes and pouted lips are threatening. He wouldn't do it in front of Mr Grant! The four of us wave as we walk in the direction of the pub.

When we are sufficiently past the school, Karl makes his move, but I am faster, anticipating what he's going to do. I start sprinting, round the first corner (avoiding a car which probably belongs to Mr Grant), then the second corner and I head for our house.

This time, it is me leaning against the bedroom door, holding it shut, instead of Little.

"You've gotta come out some time," Karl says, banging on the door. "And I'll bet you know what's waiting for you!"

I think back to the ball scrunching that we had planned for Little way back on the first day that we wrestled naked, and I picture Karl's fingers tightening. He would do It, too!

"Truce! I bargain with him. "If you let me go, I'll do the onions!" There is silence for a while. What's he scheming?

"OK," I hear. "But you'd better hope that I fall asleep before you do tonight!"

I think, `That'll do! He'd never do anything while Dad was around. He's bluffing.'

I open the door slowly, but he's not there. Just as I go to step out, he jumps in front of me and yells, "Yaaarrgh!"

My heart almost stops, I reckon. But I recover and walk past his cackling laughter to the kitchen. I'm tempted to thump him again. To change the focus off me, I ask him, "What happened to Little? Is he coming to play, or not?"

"Nah," Karl replies. "He said that he wanted to stay a bit longer." Then he adds, seriously, "Did you, umm, notice anything strange about Mr Grant?"

"What do you mean?" I ask. But I know exactly what he means! I saw it straight away. I'm sure that everyone else did too.

"Do you think that Mr Grant looks like... somebody we know?" is his cautious reply.

"Who?" I ask, toying with him. I know who.

"C'mon, Kurt. Think about it. Curly brown hair. Blue eyes. Same size. Don't tell me you didn't notice!"

I can't string him along any longer. "Oh, like Little, you mean?"

"Yes, not just like Little!" he declares. "Exactly like Little! They look exactly the same, well, only a bit different."

"Sort of like you and me?" I ask him. "Mr Grant is older than Little, you know!"

"Obviously! But, apart from their ages, what do you think?"

"I think he could be Little's twin brother, only better! Like me and you, again." I add, smirking, and waiting to see what Karl makes of my comment.

I can see the wheels crunching in his head, working out whether or not he was just insulted. I'm sure he's tossing up who's the better one, but then he lets it pass.

`Thank you, God, or whoever!' I think to myself. `I know he's exactly what I wished for at Christmas. But I really wanted it to be someone that I could play with, not the new school teacher!' Did I forget to include that bit in my wish? Happy, but disappointed! So nearly, yet so impossibly!

We do the vegetables. My Dad told me yesterday that if I peel the onions under water, the chemical stuff that comes out won't get to my eyes and make me cry. So far, so good!

I'm at the sink, looking out of the window that faces the river, and the toilet. Karl is to my left, peeling potatoes on the bench top. On the other side of the front door, in the living area, there are windows that face the street and, on the other wall, some on each side of the fireplace that let us see the pub and as far up as the old church. Dad's room has a window that also faces the pub, but in my room, the window faces the school.

Suddenly, Karl says, "Hey! There's Little. Look at him go!" I follow his outstretched arm and finger and I see Little run past the pub opposite the end of our street and down the track towards his home.

"Why is he running, do you think?" I ask.

"Dunno," Karl replies. Then, a couple of minutes later, "Hey, there's Mr Grant getting into his car. He's leaving too."

"Do you think Mr Grant spoke to Little as he went past?" I continue questioning.

"Dunno," Karl says, again. "Maybe Little was running because he didn't want to talk to Mr Grant. But I'm sure we'll find out if he comes over later."

 

He doesn't.

 

Carrots, beans, potatoes and onions are ready to cook. We leave the lamb chops in the fridge.

Karl and I settle down to a serious game of gin-rummy. I'm good at numbers and cards. I'm about to win my second out of three long games, when Karl looks at the clock and says that it's time to start the cooking. Dad should be home soon. A convenient time to put the cards away and set the table! Very convenient for him!

"I was gonna win," I tell him. "So, you have to wash up tonight."

"We'll see!" Karl replies. "Besides, you didn't win."

"But I was going to," I throw back at him. "You only stopped playing because I was going to win!"

"But you didn't win. We'll get Dad to decide."

I mutter a rude description of him under my breath.

Right on time, Dad arrives, comments on the `nice smell' as he comes in, then gives us a hug and asks whether we've been good today.

"Yes, Dad," Karl and I reply together. I tell him about meeting our new teacher, Mr Grant. And about the card game.

Karl ends up washing the dishes! Thanks, Dad.

Dad reads another chapter of Treasure Island and then it's lights out.

My fantasy of having a Little #2 playing with me has been shattered. I dream, instead, of Little #1 teaming up with me and beating Karl at wrestling for once (total fiction). I also dream about whether `Long John Silver' has a `long' one. Weird!

 

It's Saturday morning. With school going back on Tuesday, our Dad has decided to let the barber in Big Town cut our hair. Dad normally does it himself, but he suggested last night that, "It's time for a professional to fix up all of my mistakes." I thought that my Dad was a pretty good barber! Karl's blond hair didn't look too bad, and if his didn't, then mine probably didn't either. Oh, well, I suppose there's nothing wrong with looking `professional' for Mr Grant.

Mr Grant's car is at the school when we are ready to leave. Dad is impressed with that. He uses the word `professional' for a second time.

In Big Town, after our haircuts, we run into Marty, Little's cousin, who says that he is on a huge `shopping expedition' because he has a `house guest'. He and Dad start to talk about the new schoolie. Dad stops and gives us five dollars each then tells us to go to the General Store and buy an ice cream each and anything else that we like. Excitement!

A few minutes later, as we stroll back, ice cream in one hand and bag of lollies in the other, I wonder how either of them could possibly know so much about Mr Grant, seeing that he only arrived in The Village yesterday, and I know that Dad hasn't even met him yet.

Mum always taught us that it's not polite to listen in on grown-up conversations, so Karl and I stand against the shop window while Dad and Mr Grant are nearer to the road. Can I help it if I have good hearing? Especially when I concentrate! I don't mean to listen in (actually, I do) and I learn that Mr Grant is going to live at Marty's place. (Mr Grumpy stayed at the pub.) Marty says that Mr Grant is very pleasant, funny, good looking (as Jane wished for), can't hold his liquor (whatever that means) and comes from the Gold Coast. (Does that mean he is rich? Well, he does have a nice, new-looking car.)

Marty turns and includes us in his conversation, making a comment about how handsome we look with our new haircuts and that all of the girls will be after us this year. Karl and I both give him the wrinkled-nose and `Ewww' response.

Dad comments, "Yeah, I've already noticed some of the pretty girls here in town giving them the eye!"

"Dad!" Karl says, raising his voice and pushing Dad in disgust at his attempt to embarrass us. Karl and I are together on that!

However, the only girl at school over nine years old is Jane, and I can't imagine her saying anything nice to us, especially since she practices her meanness on Jake at home. Well, that's what he's told us! Anyway, Jane seems happy to look after the little kids, and she leaves us `big boys' alone most of the time.

We have lunch at the Acropolis Café then head home. Hamburgers and a milk shake are a real treat; my favourite when we're in Big Town.

While we are carrying our groceries into the house, we see Little `take off' out of his place and head down the road towards Marty's. "He doesn't look happy." Dad says, "I'll go over to talk to Lilly in a minute to see if everything's OK."

Dad is gone for a long time.

Karl and I see Mr Grant's car parked outside of the school gate. So, while Dad's away, we decide to walk over to the school and say hello. But he's not around. So, we go swimming instead. It's only another 75m to the weir. We have been enjoying the freedom of swimming and playing naked lately, especially on days when Little and `Big' are here with us. He's not here today. We strip everything off and dive in.

Much fun later, and with the sun beginning to go down behind the trees, we decide to head home. Mr Grant's car is gone. I can't imagine where he was when we looked for him.

We walk into the house and Dad's in a really good mood.

He already has dinner on the stove. He gets Karl to take over cooking the fish, and I keep watch over the chips. Dad makes the salad.

Over dinner, nothing is said about Little or Aunt Lilly, but there is a swapping of information, between Dad and us, about Mr Grant. By the time we're finished dessert, the three of us know all that there is to know about him, even the similarity in appearance between him and Little. However, neither Karl nor Dad hears about my partially-answered Christmas wish!

After another chapter of our bedtime story, Karl and I lie in the dark and talk about Little and Mr Grant and our desired seating positions in class.

Sweet dreams. My brain transforms Willie #2 from being our teacher into being another one of us students, and we all have fun in the weir - #2 and me, #1 and Karl. Naked. Grabbing and feeling games.

 

I wake up with wet pyjama pants.

 

(to be continued)

 

The parallel version to this story, is told through the eyes of Tom Grant, the `Schoolie'.
Find it at https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/schoolie

For a full picture of their lives and thoughts, you should read both concurrently.

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rob.zz@hotmail.com

I try to reply to everyone.

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