Date: Tue, 16 Feb 2021 11:48:29 -0800
From: Rich H <rlhsanclemente@gmail.com>
Subject: When the World Changed, Part 35

Here's the latest chapter of the story.  As always, it's fictional.  As
always, it might contain depictions of sexuality among teemagers, so if
that's illegal where you live or not something you like, please leave
now.  Thanks as always to the readers who've been kind enough to send me
notes, both complimentary and critical, and of course to Nifty, for
providing a forum for fiction like this.  If you don't contribute to
support the site yet, you should start.
I'll also plug (again) my other Nifty story, "Seal Rocks," in the HS
section here but completed way back in April 2011.  If you enjoy this
story, you might enjoy it as well.

Thanks again.

When the World Changed, Part 35

      On New Year's Eve, Brady sat with Hal and his mother and watched the
ball drop in a frigid Times Square.  His mother sighed a minute or two
later and quietly excused herself.  "I hope this year is a good one - all
quiet and peaceful."

      "Sure Mom," Hal answered.  "This is going to be a real easy year.
1968."

      After she went upstairs, Hal looked at Brady.  "So, you want a beer
to celebrate?"

      Brady was surprised, but eager.  "Uh, sure!  Sure, that'd be great,
thanks."

      Hal tossed him a Schmidt's and a can opener.  "They're behind the
times.  The big guys are starting to use pop tops now."

      "Yeah," Brady said as he wedged the opener under the can rim, "Coke
has them on all their cans now."

      Brady had no experience opening beer cans, of course, and in his
eagerness popped the can too quickly.  His reward was a generous spray of
foam onto his face and shirt.

      Hal doubled over laughing.  "I knew you were gonna do that!"  He took
the opener from Brady.  "Here, this helps," he suggested.  "You tap the top
of the can a few times.  It breaks up the bubbles in the carbonation a
little - or it's supposed to, anyway.  I don't know if it really works, but
it can't hurt, right?"  He rapped the top of the can lightly several times
with the flat side of the opener, then slowly pressed the sharp tip into
the top.  Though the small puncture he made hissed loudly, no foam or
liquid escaped, and after a couple of seconds, he completed opening the
main hole without incident.  "Vistory!" he shouted, and Brady couldn't help
grinning with admiration as Hal spun the can to make a small air hole in
the opposite side.  He held his can aloft, smiling warmly.  "Happy New
Year, little brother."

      Brady toasted him.  "Happy New Year."  He paused.  "I love you, Hal."

      Hal smiled, leaned in, and ruffled Brady's hair.  "Love you too,
kiddo."  They drank.

      Brady grimaced as he swallowed.  "Ugh!  How can it be watery and
bitter at the same time?"

      Hal shrugged.  "What d'you expect, it's Schmidt's!  Cheap piss beer
from Philly."  He took another long swig and stared at the can
contemplatively.  "You know, Dad always liked Ortlieb better."

      Brady looked down, feeling suddenly guilty for reason he couldn't pin
down. "Did, um, did Dad drink beer a lot?"

      "No, not at all.  Maybe a can or whatever on the weekend when he did
yard work.  He wasn't a lush or anything."

      Brady nodded.  He couldn't bring himself to say the next thing that
came to his mind: Not like Mom.

      Hal recognized the unspoken.  "And, you know, Mom didn't drink much
either.  Before, that is.  It just . . . . she hurts every day, Brady, you
know that.  The hurt'll never go away."

      Brady swallowed some more bad beer.  "But - but you hurt, too.  And
Trent."

      "Course we do.  All the time.  Trent nearly beat the shit out of a
bunch of people right afterwards - people trying to say how sorry they
were.  That was just his reaction.  It was rage.  Mom had to really talk
hard to him, to get him to control it."  He sighed deeply.  "But yeah, I
always think of him - his voice, his smile, how much he loved all of us.
Especially you, Brady.  God, you were his little angel."

      Brady couldn't meet his brother's gaze.  He blinked rapidly.  "I - I
don't remember his voice.  I don't remember his face."  He breathed
raggedly and drank some more.  "I -I ought to remember that stuff.  I ought
to remember him."  He passed a hand across his eyes miserably.

      Hal moved next to Brady on the floor, how arm around Brady's
shoulder.  "You remember him," he said quietly.  "I know you do - because
of how you feel right now.  You might not remember specific things, but you
remember the love.  His love for you, and yours for him.  And that's what
counts."  He pulled Brady into a sidelong embrace.  "He'd be so proud of
you."

      Brady remembered his dream, and what he imagined his father's voice.
What you're doing is unnatural, it had said.  He bolted to his feet and
strode into the kitchen, alarming Grouch in his corner bed next to the
water heater.  "He wouldn't be proud of me.  He'd be ashamed."

      Hal came after him.  "What'd you say?"

      "I said - sorry, I said I - I haven't done anything to be proud of.
Not yet, anyway."  The shame had to stay inside, hidden forever.  He would
know, Dad would know, but no one else.  Even David had no idea of the
extent of his shame.

      "Bullshit, Brady.  You're incredible, don't you see that?  You're
damn near a genius, you're going to this great damn school.  We're all so
amazingly proud of you."

      Brady shook his head.  "You're supposed to say stuff like that -
you're my brother."

      "Damn right I am.  And I'm proud of that, too."  He hugged Brady
again, a hand in his hair.  "It's OK to be modest and all, but don't beat
yourself up like this.  You're a good kid, OK?"

      "OK."  He finished off the can and set it on the sink.  "I - I'm
gonna go brush my teeth and get the taste of that stuff out of my mouth."
In truth, he already felt a little lightheaded; his experience with alcohol
was limited to the Southern Comfort Fieldstone had fed him, and this beer.
"Gotta sleep, getting picked up in the morning."

      "I forgot."  Hal laughed a bit.  "Farm work doesn't take holidays,
right?"

      Brady smiled, trying to go with the clichˇd joke.  "Never."  He
patted Hal on the shoulder and went upstairs.

      After he got cleaned up, he sat on the edge of his bed, swaying just
slightly.  He could hear the TV downstairs; Hal was watching some old thing
on Million Dollar Movie.  He breathed deeply, and took out the letter Trent
had sent him for his birthday, to read again.  The things Hal had told him
about how the situation in Viet Nam was worsening - things he never heard
on the news - had been gnawing at him.

      Trent's letter was apparently innocuous enough: "Happy Birthday to my
LITTLE brother!" it began.  "This is No. 1 brother saying I love you, and
don't you forget the No. 1 part!!!"  Brady had to laugh at that every time
he read it.  He could never forget where Trent was in the pecking order.
"Looking forward to celebrating your next birthday with you in person.
Sorry I can't be there this year. But remember, I'm always there with you,
birthdays and every day. You've done amazing things, and I know you'll grow
up to be a fine and upstanding man.  Our dad would be proud of you, like I
am.  Never forget how much I love you, or how proud I am of you."

      A chilling thought now came to Brady.  Was Trent saying goodbye, in
case he got killed?  Was that why he wrote it that way?  The idea that
Trent might be killed was always there, but it was somehow abstract,
conceptual.  Only a couple of times had the possibility become visceral,
and this was one - the most intense by far.  He suddenly imagined the
funeral, his mother utterly broken, Hal inconsolable.  And how did he feel?
He couldn't feel grief, or sorrow, just wrenching fear.  It couldn't
happen, it mustn't.  He read and re-read the letter, trying analyze each
punctuation mark, smudging the writing on the bluish onion skin Air Mail
paper.  The beer had gone to his head, and he fell back onto his bed,
rubbing his eyes, trying to breathe normally.  He's saying goodbye, he
doesn't think he'll make it.  He has to make it.  The fear and the guilt
and the shame rolled over him, and the sleep that finally came gave him
little rest.  Hal had to shake him awake the next morning.

      The last three days of break passed in a dull blur.  Brady remained
consumed with his dark thoughts, spoke little, ate less.  He stayed home
except for work at the stables.  Each night he re-read Trent's letter,
trying to divine all its hidden meanings.  It was a relief to get back to
Wilson again on Thursday.

      Hal drove him back, early Thursday morning.  His mother had to work,
and since Hal was staying on for another week, their parting wasn't as
wrenching as it had been in September.  Brady also felt that it was
becoming more of a routine - an accepted part of their lives.  The pain was
being scabbed over, like so much else had been.  That notion didn't make
him feel better, either.

      The whole dorm was freezing cold.  Apparently the only heat that had
been left on over break was for the Masters in their apartments.  A note on
the door indicated that they'd start heating the place at noon.  No one
else seemed to be around on his hall, not even Billips, so he wandered over
to the canteen.  Closed.  He stood on the worn steps for a minute, his
breath condensing around him in huge clouds, and pondered where else he
might go.  The day was damp and cold, just above freezing, with a slight
misty sleet falling.

      He decided to try the gym.  It too, was deserted, but at least it was
warm.  Johnny was sitting in a chair in the lobby, leaning back against the
wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips.  "Mr. Con-o-verrr!"  he shouted
with a grin.  "What you doin' this semester?"

      Brady smiled and leaned against the wall across from him, soaking in
the warmth.  "Dunno, Johnny.  Maybe basketball, maybe winter track."  The
cigarette smell was familiar from home.

      "You play basketball before?"

      "Not really.  Maybe shot a couple of times at a rim back home.
Nothing, like, organized."

      Johnny took a long drag, looking Brady over appraisingly.  "Tough
call.  You're a fast one, that's fer sure.  That works for either one.  You
gonna have a lot o' catchin' up to do in basketball, though.  Lotsa these
boys already played a lot o' organized stuff - leagues and all."

      "Well, I don't mind learning," Brady said with a shrug.  "It's not
like I expect to be the big star or anything."

      Johnny took his cigarette out for a moment, let his chair fall
forward to the floor, and smiled.  "You don't, do ya?  I seen that all
fall.  You just happy t' play, ain't you?"

      Brady shrugged again.  "Well, you gotta try, right?"  He decided in
that moment to play basketball, even if it meant not being with Doug so
much.  Maybe that'd be for the best, anyway.  Not like there was any hope
there.

      "So," Brady said, "Mr. Sorkiss is the freshman basketball coach?"

      "That he is," Johnny answered, leaning back again to the wall and
puffing away.  "His second year here.  Fresh outta college, someplace down
in Carolina.  Seems like a smart enough fella."

      Brady grinned.  "He better be if he's a teacher."

      "You'd be surprised," Johnny replied with a grin of his own.  His
teeth were badly discolored from the tobacco.  "Some fellas come in here,
ain't got a lick o' common sense.  Coupla years ago, faculty fella was
runnin' a ski trip for some boys up to Camelback, put the boys to bed, went
out and got t' drinkin', and crashed the school van goin' back to the
hotel.  Big hoo-haa over that one."  He chuckled at the memory.

      Yike," Brady said - the only reply he could think of.

      "Well, varsity's practicing at two, if you wanna watch and see for
yourself," Johnny said,, blowing out one last plums of smoke and stuffing
the cigarette butt into a soda can at his side.  "They played 'bout six
games over break - coupla tournaments and such.  Got another one comin' up
Sunday."

      "OK," Brady said.  He still wasn't entirely certain of his decision.
"Can't hurt, right?"

      "Never does.  Always discoverin' new things, that's what keeps ya
fresh an' young.  Like bein' round you boys.  Keeps the piss an' vinegar
goin' in me."  He laughed, slammed his chair down on the concrete floor,
stood and sauntered off to the equipment cage, lighting another cigarette
as he went.

      Brady wandered out onto the gym floor, now emptied of all the desks
from exams, and looked around.  One wall at the far end could be folded
back to provide spectator seating for the pool, during swim meets.
Backboards hung around the perimeter, marking off three short courts and
the main larger one running perpendicularly to the short ones.  A ball
rested against a folded up set of bleachers to his right.  Brady picked it
up, dribbled awkwardly with his left hand, and threw up a halfhearted
layup.  It rolled around and fell off.  He retrieved the ball and tried
again.  Another miss.  Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all, he
thought, suddenly fearing that he'd be embarrassed , looking so hapless.
He tried again.  As the ball slid through the netting, a voice rang out
behind him.

      "Do you play, Conover?"

      He turned, startled, and found Mr. Lenihan, a science teacher for
upperclassmen and the varsity coach, watching him.  He was probably 6'5",
still lean as if he could play himself.  His hands were very large.

      "Um, no, Sir, Never have.  Just goofing around a little here."

      Mr. Lenihan nodded.  "Shoot a free throw."

      Brady stepped to the line.  "Both feet on the line, son.  A little
wider.  Good.  Now, use your legs."  Brady crouched.  "Not that much!' Mr
Lenihan laughed, and Brady felt a flush.  "It's OK, just relax, Bend your
knees a little, and let the shot come up through your body.  Don't just
throw it at the rim with your arms."

      Brady did so, and solely uncoiled as he let the shot go.  It grazed
the front of the rim and bounced away.  "That's OK, you're still pretty
stiff.  A bit nervous?"  Brady nodded.  "Don't worry, I'm not going to
throw you out of the gym or anything.  Let's try it again."  The
reassurance helped Brady feel less self conscious as he retrieved the ball
and stepped back to the line.  This time, the shot hit the right side of
the rim and ricocheted to Mr. Lenihan.  "Here," he said, firing a chest
pass at Brady, who caught it as much with his stomach as with his hands.
"Pass it back, like I did."  Brady did so, and almost immediately got the
ball passed back.  "Again, harder.  Lazy passes get stolen."  He snapped
this one back to Mr. Lenihan, who regarded him for a moment.  "Why don't
you go change.  We've got an hour before lunch."

      The rest of the morning, Mr. Lenihan put Brady through a number of
drills.  Brady was awkward and uncertain, but determined not to complain or
let his frustration show.  He learned shooting form for a jump shot, some
dribbling basics ("Need to work on the right hand, son.  You have to be
able to use your off hand," Mr. Lenihan admonished), some layup drills.  He
soon found himself surprisingly sweaty.  "Let's see the vertical, now."  He
handed Brady a tennis ball.  "Start at the foul line, just run and try to
dunk it."  Brady did so, leaped, and found he could throw the ball down
through the basket.  "Again."  He did three more, finding it easier as he
got used to it.  Mr. Lenihan left the court for a moment, and returned with
a softball.  "Dunk this."  Brady did so, but scraped the ball a little
against the rim.  "OK, now try it with the real ball."

      Now Brady was nervous.  "Can you palm it?"  Mr. Linehan asked.  He
could, but just barely.  After a few seconds the ball would slip from his
grip. "That's fine, you don't have to hold it for long.  Just relax and
jump."  Brady did, but the ball jammed against the side of the rim.  "Try
again.  Relax."  On the fifth attempt, Brady let the ball slip upward on
his fingers, away from his palm, and managed to sneak it over the rim,
barely flicking it downwards with his fingertips.

      He was grinning as he landed.  "Wow," he said.

      Mr Linehan laughed.  "wow, indeed, young man.  How old are you?"

      "14."

      "When did you turn 14?"

      "Right after Halloween."

      "So two months past 14 and enough vertical to dunk.  Has Mr,. Sorkiss
worked with you?"

      "No Sir, I haven't been sure I was going to play, or do winter
track."

      "I see."  He frowned a bit.  "Well, I'm biased, of course, but I
don't think you'd like running outside in the snow in a track uniform.  It
gets cold."  He grinned.

      "I thought they ran indoors."

      "Some places.  But some just have wood tracks set up outdoors.
Delbarton is like that.  Forty year straightaway and then a banked turn.
You run a forty yard dash there, no way you hold that turn, even with the
bank.  You're off the edge into the snowdrifts, if there are any.  And up
in Morristown, there's a lot more snow than here."

      "Right," Brady said.  He decided to risk a slight needle.  "But like
you said, you're biased."

      Mr. Linehan laughed.  "Damn straight!  Tell you what, come back at
one and let Mr. Sorkiss work with you a bit.  I can spare him this
afternoon.  I'll need to get used to not relying on him to help with my
boys anyway, now that the frosh team is going to start up.  Sound good?"

      "Sure, Sir, Thanks."  He slipped off to shower ("Johnny, why is the
shower room so freaking cold??!!" he bellowed, waiting for the hot water to
reach him), and tramped through the snow to the dining hall.

      Lunch was a sort of buffet: Some plates of cold cuts with some rolls
and types of bread, a plate of hamburgers that looked like they'd been
cooked the previous decade, Jell-o of indeterminate color, and large urns
of coffee.  Brady saw no other freshman, which disappointed him.  Brandan
McCracken waved to him, but he wasn't about to presume to sit with the
seniors, so he plunked down at a table alone and chewed the rubbery burger
as best he could.  He recognized several of the Varsity basketball players
- Parmenter, who was reputed to be a shot hungry guard; Green, a burly post
player who was several inches taller than Brady; Tate, a rangy forward with
an Afro that Brady knew wouldn't survive Dean Storman's first glance (and
one of only five Negro students at Wilson that year); a few others whose
names he couldn't remember.  They all had the easy camaraderie of
teammates, and Brady watched their interactions with a touch of envy.
Things had been like that with his team, too.  He missed that.

      He was about to leave when Jack Spencer plopped down next to him.
"Hey Brady! What's got you back here early?  You playing basketball?"

      Brady grinned at Jack - it was hard not to grin at Jack, who never
seemed out of sorts in any situation.  "Not really sure yet.  I think so.
But I'm like a total spazz at it, never played before."

      "You'll catch on, don't worry.  I heard you dunked this morning!"  he
grinned.

      How the hell does he know that already, Brady wondered.  "Well, yeah,
sort of.  But just running from the foul line, not like dribbling or like
in a game or anything."

      "That's major hops, Brady!  On a freshman team, you're gonna be a
beast inside jumping like that!"

      Brady blushed and shrugged.  "Ah, I dunno.  I got no idea what I'm
doing."  But it felt good to hear that, especially from Jack.  Everyone
knew Jack was the biggest and best athlete in his class.

      He felt really self conscious when he stepped back into the gym a bit
later, as the varsity team ran a layup drill.  Jack saw him and waved.
Mr. Linehan nodded at him, indicating he should sit in the one set of
bleachers that was partially rolled out.  Mr. Sorkiss nodded as well, but
spent the next half hour working with guards on dribbling and defensive
footwork.  He was hard nosed with them.

      He was watching Jack work with Mr. Linehan on boxing out for
rebounding when a ball bounced close to his feet.  He started, and turned
to see Mr. Sorkiss grinning at him.  "There, got your attention.  Come on
over to the far end, let's play around a bit."

      After some basic dribble and shot work. Mr. Sorkiss walked toward the
basket and tossed the ball to Brady, who was standing at the top of the
free throw circle.  "Ok," he said.  "One on one.  Score on me."

      As Brady picked up the ball, Mr. Sorkiss was suddenly pressed up
against him, arms wide and waving. Legs far wider than Brady's stance.
Brady flinched back.  "Don't move the pivot foot, that's traveling."

       Brady turned his back, holding the ball as far away from
Mr. Sorkiss' probing arms as he could.  "What the hell am I supposed to
do?"

      "Do something or I'm gonna steal that."  And he poked the ball from
Brady's hand.  Brady managed to reach it before Mr, Sorkiss, and held it
again, facing him now.  Why not, he thought, and with a shoulder fake to
the right, he powered down the land left handed, using all his speed.  He
gathered himself, leaped toward the rim, and shot.  From nowhere
Mr. Sorkiss' hand appeared above the ball and slapped it away.  "That was a
good first step, you had me beat.  But you held the ball out for me - 'Take
it! Take it' you might as well have said.  Try again."

      They continued at this for about ten minutes, with Brady unable to
get a basket.  He was getting angry.  This time, as he drove, he felt
Mr. Sorkiss' chest against his back.  He slowed, pushed back, and worked
Mr. Sorkiss closer to the basket.  As he turned, his body pushed
Mr. Sorkiss aside, and he had an easy jump shot for a basket.

      Mr. Sorkiss laughed.  "So you've found out you can muscle inside!"
He heard a couple of the varsity players hoot.  Jack Spencer, who
apparently has been watching, was clapping.  "Good.  Now you defend."

      Mr. Sorkiss held the ball as Brady assumed the defensive position
he'd just been taught.  It was similar to a ready position he'd been taught
for football, so it felt reasonably comfortable to him.  Mr. Sorkiss looked
into his eyes, then to the rim. He twitched upward as if to take a jump
shot, and Brady leaped skyward.  But there was no jump shot.  Instead,
Mr. Sorkiss dribbled past him as he hung in the air, scoring a layup.  "Got
to be ready for the shot fake."  They lined up again.  Mr. Sorkiss again
flinched upward.  Brady stayed firmly on the ground - so firmly that, when
Mr. Sorkiss in fact rose up to take a smooth, long armed jump shot, Brady
had little to do but watch as the ball swished through the net.  "But you
also have to watch the shot itself.  You have to be ready for both."

      Brady was embarrassed, and angry.  Why are you showing me up in front
of Jack and all these upperclassmen?  They readied themselves again.  When
Mr.  Sorkiss drove after a fake, Brady moved laterally with him.  As he
rose to shoot, Brady leaped with him.  The ball and Brady's hand met at the
apex of their respective jumps, and Brady pushed it back down as hard as he
could.  The follow through pushed Mr. Sorkiss backwards, and he fell on his
butt, the ball skittering away.  More of the varsity players hooted.

      "OK," Mr. Sorkiss said with a laugh.  "Good block, but you fouled me
by following through into my body on the way down.  You don't need to
flatten somebody in this sport, just block the shot.  As a basketball
player, right now you're a good football player," he grinned.  Brady had to
laugh at that line.  "You're doing fine, don't get frustrated or upset.  I
can see how much you want to do it right.  It takes a lot of practice, OK?"

      Brady spent the next hour dribbling a weaving course around a number
of small traffic cones Mr. Sorkiss set up, first with his left hand, then
(far more slowly) with his right.  He was surprised how much his right arm
and hand began to ache.

      He decided to stop.  Shaking his right arm out, he again became
conscious of the varsity players working on the main court.  They were now
playing an aggressive five on five game, shirts vs. skins.  He was suddenly
conscious of how attractive the guys without shirts were, their smooth
bodies glistening with perspiration, their long subtle muscles flexing as
they moved with balletic grace.  He turned quickly to avert his eyes.  Had
anyone noticed?

      He took a long, hot shower, alone.  He resisted the urge to jerk off,
despite the fresh memory of the Varsity biys shirtless in his head.  As he
walked back toward Linsley, he felt the dampness in his hair freeze in the
windy air.  By the time he pushed through the front door, it felt like dry
straw.

      He pulled up short.  Ian McShane was standing outside the door to
what had been his room.  They stared at each other for a long moment.  Ian
seemed embarrassed to see Brady, or indeed to even be there, back in the
dorm.  At the scene of his crime.  His cheeks flushed visibly as he stared
at Brady (whose own cheeks were so flushed from the walk in the cold that
his own blush was impossible to notice).

      McShane seemed unable to look Brady in the eye.  "Hello, Conover.
You're, uh, you're back early."

      Brady had to reach for something to say.  "Um, yeah.  I am.  I - not
much else to do at home, right?  And - and the - the teams, and all -"

      "Yeah, I get that."  Ian seemed even more crestfallen at the mention
of the teams.  "They, uh, they're not gonna let me be in sports this
semester."

      Brady blinked.  He realized at once how much that meant to Ian.  "Oh.
I, um, I'm sorry."

      "Yeah.  Well, I guess I'm lucky.  I mean I get to come back, right?"

      "Sure."  So many question whirled through Brady's head that he
couldn't think which one to ask first - or if he dared to ask any of them.
"So, how're you doing?" he finally managed.

      Ian snorted - a pale version of his previous contemptuous self, but
this time visibly self directed.  "Oh, I'm great, Conover.  I'm just
fucking wonderful."

      A slender blond kid emerged from Ian's room at this point.  "Hullo,"
he said in a distinct British accent.  "One of your mates, then, Ian?"

      Ian glanced sideways at the boy.  "Um, yeah.  This is Brady.  Brady
Conover.  This is Adrian Barrett.  He's my roommate this semester."

      Adrian stepped forward, grinned - revealing a decidedly uneven set of
teeth - and shook Brady's hand vigorously.  "Very happy to know you, Brady.
I'm here for the rest of term, on exchange from Ipswich.  That's in
Somerset, if you don't know, Eastern England, on the River Orwell.  Not
named for George, of course."  He seemed to find this amusing.

      Ian stood back, looking a bit morose.

      "Glad to know, you, Adrian," Brady answered, putting on his best
smile.  "I'm sure Ian will, uh, get you all like acquainted with stuff
really fast.  Right, Ian?"

      "I'm sure.  What form are you then?"

      "Form?"

      "He wants to know what year you are, Conover," McShane said with no
small level of irritation.  Exactly who or what he was irritated at, Brady
couldn't be sure.

      "Oh.  I'm a freshman.  We're all freshman in this dorm - except the
Prefects."

      Adrian nodded.  "Right, should have sussed that out myself.  Sorry.
Not many fellows round yet, are there?"

      "Um, I guess not.  I just got back a little while ago, was over at
the gym."  He felt a momentary pang of regret for mentioning that in front
of Ian.  "I, uh, I haven't really checked around to see if anyone else is
back yet."  He looked at Ian.  "Jack is, he's uh, practicing," and again he
felt embarrassed.  "But that's all I know."

      "Right," Adrian chirped, seeming quite pleased with just about
everything.  "Well, someone's here up above.  I heard "Disraeli Gears" in
the stairwell a bit ago.  Nice to know fellows are abreast of things here.
I managed to see Cream a couple of months ago down in Colchester.  Quite
the experience."

      "Yeah I can imagine - wait, where'd you hear that from?"

      "I think Hennessey's back," Ian said.  His voice had an odd monotone
to it.

      If Dunc was back, maybe Doug was too!  Brady bolted for the stairs.
"Gotta go!  Great to meet you Adrian!"  He paused.  "And, um, glad to see
you, Ian."

      "No you're not."

      They stared at each other for a second, before Ian turned back into
his room, Adrian following, looking perplexed.

      Brady stood alone in the hall for a moment before he exhaled.  He
took the stairs very slowly.

      His room, and indeed the entire hall, still was empty, and chilly.
He kept his coat on and trudged up to the third floor.  Dunc was definitely
back - He had music blasting loud enough for Brady to make out lyrics from
a floor below - but he somehow wasn't interested in saying hi just then.
He felt Doug wasn't back yet - he just knew, as he bounded up the stairs,
that the quest was in vain.  He trotted back down, closed himself in his
room, sat down, and stared at the empty side across from him.  David's
side.  Only when the music ceased, and he realized the time, did he rouse
and hurry off for dinner.

      The sidewalks weren't well shoveled; his feet got wet on the way to
Geiger and the dining hall.  The lamps along the slushy sidewalks gave only
faint light through the freezing mist.  The hall was again mostly empty.
Many of those who had returned hadn't finished their respective practices -
they'd be along in another half hour or so. Dinner was again buffet style
in light of the sparse attendance.  Brady idly grabbed some sandwich
material and sat, lost ion his thoughts.  "Did you see him?"  Dunc slammed
a tray down next to Brady, his hair tousled, his eyes wide.  "He's fucking
back!  I don't believe it."

      Brady chewed on whatever meat was inside the sandwich.  It was stale,
a bit stiff.  "Yeah," he breathed after he finally got the mess swallowed.
"I saw him."  He took another breath.  "He - he has a roommate now, I
guess."

      "I mean what the actual fuck, Brady???  How can they let that asshole
come back here after everything?"  At that moment Brady saw Ian walking
slowly into the dining hall, alone, and looking very small.  Conversation
faded as the boys who were there (and seemingly the kitchen staff as well)
stopped to stare at him.  He took a small plate of food and sat far in a
corner, alone.

      Dunc snorted and returned to his food, shoveling mouthfuls angrily
and too fast, so that he spilled food onto his plate and shirt.  After
about three swallows, he began hiccupping rapidly.  "Fucking dammit," he
gasped between spasms.  He grabbed a glass of water, drank deeply, and
promptly choked on that as well.  Brady managed to dodge the resulting
spray.  "Christ!!!"  Dunc shouted furiously.

      "That will be enough of that, Mr. Hennessey," Dean Storeman's voice
cut through the laughter at Dunc that had started to rise among the boys.
"I suggest you maintain your manners a bit better."

      "Sorry, Sir," Dunc muttered.  The hiccups weren't quite gone yet.

      Dean Storeman sat at their table, handing Dunc a dish towel.  "Better
clean this up, son.  Not fair to have the kitchen staff do it, correct?"

      "Yes, Sir.  I mean no Sir.  Of course."  Dunc, looking miserable,
wiped down the table, gathered the tray and his utensils, and moped off to
hand them in for washing.

      Dean Storeman glanced about.  They were quite a distance from anyone
else.  "I suppose I caught you a bit too late, Mr. Conover," he said
quietly.

      "For what, Sir?"  But he knew damn well for what.

      "Mr. McShane's return, of course.  No need for us to be coy about any
of this."

      "Yes, Sir.  I was - I was surprised, I guess you could say."

      "I can imagine.  I assume Mr. Tanner isn't back yet?"

      "No, Sir.  I - does he know - "

      "Yes.  I had a long discussion by telephone with him and his father
late last week, when this was being finalized.  You can imagine his
reaction."

      Brady dropped his head.  "Yes, Sir.  I sure can."

      Dean Storeman nodded, looking about again to be sure they weren't
being overheard.  "And I'm sure you're having much the same reaction.  Now,
I want you to hear me out.  Ian -" he nodded slightly towards McShane, who
was still by himself in a far corner of the dining hall "- has been through
quite a lot since he left here.  His parents are divorcing, and from all I
can tell his mother is in a real fight on just about every subject with his
father."

      "That I can imagine," Brady whispered.

      Dean Storemen nodded.  "And then, of course, Ian himself has been in
therapy. "  That got Brady's attention.  "What he endured was - well, it
was criminal.  Literally so.  In fact, that's the major leverage that his
mother has in all the arguments that have sprung up with Ian's father, as I
understand things - the fact that she might take matters to the
authorities.  My point, son, is that I truly don't believe Ian is the same
boy you knew in the fall. I hope that he's changed, and for the better.
But he's going to need help in changing.  And in having the other boys
accept that change.  He's still very fragile, on many levels."  The notion
that Ian McShane could be "fragile" struck Brady as the most extreme
bullshit he'd ever heard.  "This is not going to be easy for him - coming
back here, facing all of you again -"

      Brady's voice rose.  "Then why do it?  His family can get him into
any school they want.  Mom, dad, whatever.  Look how Douggie got into
Dunston so fast!  Why does he have to come back here?"  Storeman waved a
hand, shushing him.  "I mean, David - "

      "Ian insisted.  He apparently had, er, quite the argument, with his
mother and his doctors.  I'm not privy to all of the details, but he was
very insistent.  You should know," he continued, shifting closer to Brady,
"that Dr. Leeds, Dr. Larrimore, and I all had several long conversations
with Mrs. McShane, and with Ian, before Dr. Leeds decided to agree to his
return.  This was not a casual decision.  Nor," raising his hand as Brady
started to object, "was this decision motivated by any financial
considerations.  I know a lot of boys will think that, but it wasn't.  I
frankly doubt that Mrs. McShane will be in a position to do anything much
beyond paying tuition for a year or more, while all the legal issues of her
divorce are straightened out.  As I said, the proceedings appear to be,
well, contentious."  He laid a hand on Brady's forearm.  "I want you to
know all this, son, because I know how directly this impacts you.  I've
told all this, and perhaps a bit more, to Mr. Tanner and his family as
well.  And to David, of course.  I've asked them, and I'll ask you, to keep
it all to yourself.  There's going to be quite enough conversation, and
gossip, about this whole thing as it is.  For everyone's sake - and
especially for Ian's - I think the less said the better."

      And I should care about doing anything for Ian's sake, Brady thought
for a moment.  "I understand, Sir," he finally managed to say.  "I won't
say anything."

      Dean Storeman patted Brady's forearm and stood up.  "I felt you'd
understand.  That's why I decided to take you into my confidence on this.
I'm sure you won't let me down," he added, looking very intently at Brady
for a second, then relaxed into his characteristic alarming skull-like
smile. "So what sport are you going to grace us with this semester?"

      "I guess, basketball, Sir.  I've never really played before, though.
I'd kind of like to try track, too, but I guess I can't be in both."

      "Well, talk to the coaches.  Perhaps you can run in some meets on
days when they don't conflict with basketball, and vice versa.  If you're
only on freshman teams, I'm sure something can be arranged."  He turned to
leave.  "Enjoy your semester, Mr. Conover.  You've earned that."  He stood,
and paused a moment.  "And congratulations on your grades last semester."

	"Thank you, Sir."

      As Brady finished his now cold food, Dunc returned to the table, with
Jack Spencer close behind.  "So what'd Storeman say?  Did he talk about
McShane?  What'd he say?"  They both leaned forward eagerly.

      Brady shifted uncomfortably.  "Just - that he's back.  I mean,
obviously, right?"  He glanced across the hall, and saw McShane watching
him steadily, poker faced.  Their eyes locked for several seconds, before
Ian dropped his head back to the food he had apparently only picked at.

      "C'mon, Brady, what the fuck is going on?"  Dunc insisted.

      "I wish I knew.  I really do, Dunc."  Brady sighed, rubbing his face.
"I know Ian's got a roommate now - an exchange kid from England.  Met him
when I got to the dorm.  Adrian, something, I think.  I - I dunno."  He
shook his head, staring at the winter blackness outside the dining hall
windows.  "I don't know about any of it."