This story is fiction, so please don't go looking for yourself or someone you know in it. If you're underaged or it's not legal for you to be reading stories involving adolescent sexuality, don't read this. All rights to this story are mine alone (except for the license to Nifty as per its use agreement, of course), so don't be a jerk and try to steal it, OK? If you like this, please read my other Nofty story, "Seal Rocks," which is complete as of this past April and also here in the High School section. I apologize in advance for any typos - I'm a poor typist, and a poorer proofreader. I'd welcome anyonme who'd like to help me out with ediring etc. (hint hint). I welcome all comments, positive and negative (well, I welcome the positive ones more, of course). I hope you'll feel free to let me know what you think of this. Thanks for reading.
Brady's right cheek glowed with the morning sun that poured in the passenger window of his mother's car. His hair, bleached from his summer working outside, shone like spun gold. He sat very quietly, feeling the car trundling along with its heavy cargo of his clothes, bedsheets, a couple of lamps he'd salvaged from the junkpile at Larry's Hardware and rewired, and an old overstuffed chair that had been his grandfather's. His mother, driving, wore sunglasses against the glare, and also to hide her quickly reddening eyes. They hadn't spoken to each other the entire drive, since she had asked, in as even a voice as she could muster, "All set?"
"Yeah," Brady replied. He had been standing just outside their back door, near the car. He glanced down toward the lake, then at Grouch. He walked over to the dog, hugged hum tightly around the neck for a few seconds, took a deep breath, then strode to the car and seated himself. Grouch whimpered quietly, knowingly.
Brady stared straight ahead as they drove north on Main Street and out of town, toward Summerton.
The fields they passed were mostly bare. A few had cows idly grazing, but most had already been harvested and plowed under. The air was surprisingly crisp and cool for so early in September. Off to the right, the woods of the Boward's farm already showed a few trees turning color. He'd worked the cornfields over that way three weeks before. He could see someone off past the woods harrowing the stubble under. They'd do winter wheat in a couple of weeks. The change of season was coming early this year. Brady could smell it, but it only registered subconsciously with him. He was focused on the day ahead, and the ones after that.\
As they turned one wide curve around a hill, with a creek running next to the road, Brady's mother glanced at her son, and her heart momentarily froze. His stare was composed, intent, emotionless. She had seen it before. Ten years earlier, Brady had been left at a friend's house with a babysitter during his father's funeral and interment. The procession, however, had passed by the house on its way to the cemetery, and contrary to her instructions, the babysitter had been outside playing with Brady. The boy had stopped playing as the hearse and following black cars had passed, and he watched, with the same quiet and stoic face he wore now. His mother had seen him through the tinted window of the lead car. Is that what he thinks, she wondered as she tried to keep her breathing steady - that he's going to a funeral? She wanted to say something then, to comfort him, to reassure him, to make sure he had some dim comprehension of how utterly she loved him. Nothing came to mind, nothing could come out. She gripped the wheel harder, and they dropped and rose one last time over the hills and slowed to begin the drive into Summerton.
A minute or so later, they made a ceremonious right turn into a long lane lined on either side with huge Norway maples, and drove up to the main building of the Wilson School. At the entrance, large curved brick walls cupped the lane on either side, with "THE WILSON SCHOOL 1846" etched into an inset marble plaque in the center of each. Each had an ornate Colonial style lamp at its top, front edge. The lane turned sharply to the left after about fifty sixty yards,and opened up before the front of Geiger Hall, a massive five story Civil War era building with a mansard roof and white trimmed narrow windows set in a fa‡ade of aged red brick. A sign directed them to park at the building's far, northern end. Brady stepped out of the car wordlessly, and followed still more signs to the low ceilinged central foyer of the hall. There, two small tables had been set up, labeled "Returning Boys" and "New Boys," respectively (though no one was sitting behind the "Returning Boys" table). Brady glanced at his mother, who hung back, and got in the New Boy line.
There was one kid in front of him, talking agitatedly to a skinny old woman with white- silver hair tied in a tight bun. "That's not possible ma'am," he said forcefully. "My father spoke to Dr. Leeds personally and had his assurance that I'd be rooming near my brother in Hornberger. I am not to live in Linsley."
"Hornberger is a junior dormitory, you're a freshman," the women replied in a calm but clipped voice. "All freshmen live in either Linsley or Beekford, or in one of the house dormitories. Depending on last minute dropouts or additions, we might be able to shift you among that set, but those are your only options. For now, you have your assignment. Speak to your Hall Master if you want to make any changes." She handed him a card and dropped her head, clearly finished with the discussion.
The boy, however, just as clearly wasn't finished. "This is not acceptable! I and my father have specific assurances - "
"If you want to discuss this with Dr. Leeds, you and your father are free to. Until you do, and until Dr. Leeds directs me to do something else, I'm not going to make any changes to room assignments. That," she added with some ironic relish, "wouldn't be my place, would it?" She looked behind the boy to Brady, her eyes flashing a bit as she saw Brady's suppressed amusement. "Who's next, please?" She waved the front boy out of the way disdainfully. The boy turned to leave, staring challengingly at Brady as if he were somehow to blame. He had lank reddish hair, an unnaturally rouged complexion, and watery eyes. He was shorter than Brady, but strongly built. The two made eye contact for a moment, then the boy sniffed angrily and strode off, brushing a bit harder past Brady as he did so than he probably needed to.
Brady stepped forward. "Name, please?"
"Conover, ma'am. Brady Conover."
She flipped smartly to the third sheet of a set of mimeographed papers; the smell of the ink rose intoxicatingly. Brad loved the sickly aroma of mimeograph ink, it even smelled purple somehow. "Oh, yes, Mr. Conover, our Bevans Scholarship recipient."
Brady frowned. "Ma'am?"
"The scholarship you won - it's named for a boy named Edgar Bevans. Didn't you know that?"
Brady felt slightly embarrassed. "Uh, no, ma'am."
"Well, you'd better read up, you of all the New Boys will have to know all about him." She handed him an index card. "Linsley 213. Go over to the Fireplace Room," she pointed behind them, "and they'll issue you a campus map and handbook, and there'll be some forms to fill out. Are your parents here?"
"My, uh, my mom, is here. Ma'am." Brady was trying his hardest to be polite, especially after that jerky kid.
The woman eyed him levelly for a moment. "Well, you'll have to send copies of the forms to your father if you want him to have permission to take you out of school as well."
"Um, they're not, um divorced, or anything, ma'am. My dad died when I was 3."
She paused a moment. This wasn't the response she'd expected. It was, however, exactly the sort of reaction that Brady had long since come to know and anticipate. Nobody expects your dad to be dead, if he's not around you must be from a broken home and all that bad stuff. "I'm sorry, my mistake," she said with a slight clearing of her throat once that awkward second had passed.
The Fireplace Room, in contract to the foyer, was high ceilinged, with an entire back wall of French doors letting in the sunlight. The view outside, the doors, however, was hardly inspiring - a concrete area with a slightly sloping roof to some underground structure protruding about three feet above the concrete, painted a dull dark grey with asphalt seals along the joints of the sheet metal roofing material. To the left, a large color television stood on a pedestal, denoting its importance as the only TV available to students on campus - unless their Hall masters were kind enough to let them into their rooms to watch. The remaining three walls were wood paneled and covered with names carved into the wood - the captains of every sports team in School history. Brady glanced at them. The football list began with Schuyler Riggenbocker, Class of 1885. The incised letters had been dabbed with gold paint, so they stood out against the dark varnished wood.
To the right, another series of tables was laid out, with more old women behind them who handed out student handbooks, medical and parental release permission forms, laundry instructions, and a schedule of events for the following five days. Brady examined the last one with special interest, whole his mother fussed over the rest. Today, it seemed was New Boy check-in, though returning boys were also allowed to arrive. The rest of the returning boys would arrive tomorrow. Meals would begin with dinner at 6:00 P.M. that night; the New Boys were expected to be in coat and tie for the meal. An assembly in the Fredricks Theatre (whatever that was) at 2:00 P.M. would provide further instructions.
Brady felt his excitement growing: it was really happening. The room was growing crowded with other boys and their parents, and noisy and warm. Brady looked around, and saw a small plaque in a corner behind one of the tables that caught his eye. He slipped around the table to read it.
"EDGAR DeVRIES BEVANS, CLASS OF 1913 Scholar, Athlete, and Gentleman. Football Captain 1912. Baseball Captain 1913. Summa Cum Laude. Lieutenant, 1st Battalion, Fifth Marines, AEF. Killed at Belleau Wood, 7 June 1918 Silver Star for Bravery Navy Cross for Bravery. In Grateful Memory Plenus annis abiit, Plenus honoribus."
The plaque bore a bas-relief profile portrait of a grim faced young man with hair slicked carefully back from a high forehead, a slightly receding chin, and a prominent nose. His gaze was suitably resolute, and his collar was unmistakably military. Brady regarded Edgar Bevans for a long minute, trying to memorize his story, searching for some meaning in the rendering. Searching inanimate dead faces for meaning, after all, was something he was used to. One of the women at the nearest table cleared her throat. "Mr. Conover, I'm sure you want to learn all you can about Mr. Bevans, given that his endowment pays your scholarship, but you really don't belong on this side of the table."
Brady blushed. "Sorry - sorry ma'am," he stuttered as he quickly backed away.
"No matter," the woman said in a kinder voice. She stepped toward Brady. "I should tell you, my older sister Evelyn had quite a crush on him! He was very dashing. We lived across Elm Street there -" she waved vaguely out the windows " -when I was a girl, and she flirted quite a lot with the Wilson boys." She looked at the plaque, and her face softened. "Yes, he was very handsome, that doesn't really do him justice. But that was a long time ago, now." She looked at Brady. "My name is Miss Harder, I work for Dean Storeman. If you're good, you won't have to see much of me," she said with a warm smile. "Not to mention Clara out in the foyer - she's not nearly as good natured about the boys as I am."
Brady was unsure how to reply - he instinctively liked Miss Harder, and certainly understood what she'd said about Clara (he was also pretty sure he better find out Clara's last name) - he'd seen how she'd treated the kid in front of him. "Yes, ma'am," was all he could muster, though he returned her smile.
Miss Harder turned back to her table. "Read up on Edgar, Mr. Conover. You of all people better know him chapter and verse."
The rest of the morning was a blur. He received a class schedule - Spanish II (which stunned him - how did they think he knew anything about Spanish from the rote memorization he'd done in junior high?), English I, Math I, Earth Sciences, and Religion I. He got a schedule for organizational team meetings for fall athletics (he quickly noted the football one was at 3:30 at Dyllan Gymnasium, whose location he again had no idea of), for Work Program (again, no idea what that was), for a meeting of scholarship students tomorrow morning, for various school clubs and activities, an academic schedule for the year, handouts on deportment, dress codes, hall prefects, Hall Masters, many other things whose contents and significance flashed past him in a maze of increasing activity. It took him a good half hour to get everything accomplished, before he found his mother sitting quietly in the foyer, and they walked back to the car to drive down the side lane that led to Linsley Hall.
They passed back in front of Geiger and the entrance drive, and curved slightly right, around a senior dormitory (so he was told when given directions), onto a narrow gravel path that ran behind the dormitories lining the west side of the center campus. Linsley was the third building down, a three story Georgian brick building with little adornment. Several cars were parked by the back entrance (Brady noticed how new and fancy they were - Cadillacs, Lincolns, one Mercedes Benz - the first one he'd ever seen). Brady's mother maneuvered to a space somewhat past the others. Brady now felt extremely nervous, as he eyed his new home. His mother smiled at him, her eyes hidden still by her sunglasses. "Here we are, baby doll." He smiled back, though he felt almost like crying, and they got out, hoisted a suitcase each, and entered.
It was noisy and echoey inside. People - kids, parents - were milling about, shouting to make themselves heard. A short man, youngish but with an alarmingly receding dome of kinky black hair, stepped in front of him. "Card? "
Brady had no clue. "Huh?"
"Your room assignment card."
"Oh, sorry." He fished it out of his back pocket, where he had stuffed it as soon as he had received it from Clara. The man glanced at it. "Up the stairs, to the right. Center campus side. Mr. Tanner's already here."
"Who?" Brady asked, but the man had already moved on, brusquely handing him back the card in his haste. Brady glanced at it and noticed for the first time that it contained not just his name and the room number, but the name "David R. J. Tanner III." So that's my roommate, he thought, as he hauled his suitcase to the stairwell. The two way traffic and bustle made climbing the stairs a slow process, he glanced behind him several times to make sure his mother was doing OK.
The second floor hallway was no less noisy than the first floor had been. A few very young children were dashing up and down, shrieking and clearly enjoying the way the noise bounced off the hard polished walls. Room 213 was on his left, nearly at the far end of the hallway. He pushed the door open, and found himself looking not at the bare room he'd imagined, but at what looked like a fashionably furnished studio apartment, something from TV. There was a thick Persian rug with tasseled edges on the hardwood floor, three brass floor lamps with ornate finials and wide creamy shades, two large framed paintings (or perhaps reproductions) on the walls. A woman with her back to the door was hanging thick burgundy curtains over one of the windows. A man - her husband, Brady supposed - was keeping her steady atop a desk chair.
And sitting on a desk against the left hand wall, legs not even close to reaching the floor, was an impossibly thin, small boy. His hands gripped the desk edge, just outside his legs. He wore a dress shirt with the collar unbuttoned, and dark slacks. He had mousy brown hair cut in an indeterminate bowl shape, deep set eyes, pouty lips, and color on his high babyish cheeks. He looked vaguely distressed.
No one had noticed Brady's arrival, and for a second or two he stood awkwardly in the door, unsure what to do. He finally cleared his throat, and as all three heads swiveled, he managed to croak out a nervous "Um, hi."
The boy looked at Brady appraisingly for a second, then resumed staring blankly into space. The man, however, turned to Brady effusively. ""Hey, David, here's your roommate!" He took Brady's hand and shook it vigorously. "Dave Tanner, son, how are ya? Big day today, eh? Here, let me help you with that," as he pushed past Brady to take the suitcase from his mother. "That's David over there moping, of course. David, you need to say hello to your roommate - you two are going to be thick as thieves here this year, after all! And this is my wife Erma." Erma added her hello, obviously occupied with hanging the curtains while not falling over. Brady's mother quickly stepped over to help her out, and the two fell into a conversation Brady couldn't make out.
"So, uh, hi." Brady hadn't noticed David approach him, but now realized David was standing next to him, easily a head shorter, and extending a thin and very delicate hand. Brady shook it carefully and smiled, a little forcedly.
"Yeah, hi." They both felt very uncomfortable. "So," Brady finally said, "um, you and your folks have really been fixing the room up. That, that's great." He felt vaguely embarrassed - he hadn't thought to bring a rug, or curtains. He had two desk lamps and an old chair that smelled vaguely of his grandfather's pipe tobacco and the mothballs it had been covered with in the garage since his death.
David rolled his eyes. "Yeah, they think of everything, right?" He stepped back toward the desk, and Brady felt impelled to follow him.
David's father followed them, clapping both boys on the back. "Davey, why don't you help . . . ."
"Brady."
"Right, Brady - why don't you go help Brady with the rest of his things. No need to put his mother to the trouble. And you should say hello to his dad, I'm sure he'll be along any time now."
Brady glanced at the man. Not the time, he decided. The two boys stepped out of the room and descended the stair wordlessly.
It felt good to be back outside. The dorm, Brady only now realized, was stiflingly hot. The breeze lifted his forelocks idly. He was conscious of David watching him. "So, um, how you doing? Big day and all, I guess?"
David's lips tightened a bit. "It's OK. I started last year."
"Oh, you were here for eighth grade? That - that's cool. That's kind of a small group, isn't it?"
"There were twelve of us," David replied tersely. "The guy I was going to room with decided not to come back - or his parents decided, anyway."
Brady felt mildly guilty for that. "Sorry."
David shrugged. "Not your problem. No offense, I just wish they hadn't put me with a New Boy."
"Why? What's all this New Boy stuff, anyway? I've heard a couple of people talk about it."
"You don't know about New Boy Rules?" David asked, raising an eyebrow. Brady shook his head, feeling a little more nervous. David nodded. "Well, you'll find out soon enough. It's sort of how they introduce you to the School and all." Th ey reached Brady's mother's car. "Is this your car?" David asked, a little incredulously.
"Um, yeah - well, my mom's. You know." Brady felt himself blush. The car was a green and white 1956 Pontiac, slightly dented here and there. He'd never been conscious of it being shabby or less than a good car before, though he knew his mother was having increasing trouble keeping it running.
David smiled slightly. "Your dad ought to get her something newer."
Brady nodded. "Um, actually, my dad died when I was 3. So it's just my mom - and my older brothers."
David absorbed this news calmly. "Got it, sorry. Did your brothers go here?"
Brady almost laughed at the idea of Trent or Hal at Wilson. "No, they, um, they went to high school at home. I'm just from Cullingstown, south of here."
David nodded. "OK, yeah, I biked there last spring on an open weekend. Hell, you're hardly even away from home." The statement seemed vaguely accusatory.
Yeah ,well, it's close, yeah. But it's not like I'm expecting my mom to show up every night or anything. I'm here, y'know?" He wanted to change the subject. As he opened the back door, he asked, "So where are you from?"
"Port Chester. Know it?" Brady shook his head. "It's north of New York City, on the Connecticut line. Westchester County."
"Sounds nice."
David shrugged. "It's OK. Lots of snotty rich brats who think their daddy's money keeps their shit from stinking." He pulled one of the lamps out of the back seat. "Excellent, these will go on our desks. I told my mom I needed a desk lamp, but she's all into this decorating crap and wants the room to be cheerful. Fuck cheerful, I gotta read." He hefted both lamps into the dorm.
Brady decided he liked him. He was funny in a nasty sort of way, but it didn't appear to be directed at him - not yet, anyway. They could just be friends. Roommates.
The rest of the morning was spent getting Brady moved in, which honestly didn't take that long, but his mother was reluctant to admit that the task was done. She and the Tanners seemed to be getting along well enough, and they offered to drive back to Cullingstown with her to get some lunch. She politely explained that there really were no restaurants in Cullingstown - an assessment that David confirmed (leaving aside the greasy burgers that Mr. Jocko made, which even at his early age Brady recognized as repulsive). They weren't to be denied, however, and promptly offered to take her instead to lunch at a place they knew over in Princeton. Mrs. Tanner raved about it. "It's a bit of a drive, but it's a local favorite of ours. It's been there since Dave was in college there - well, since he was here at Wilson, actually, isn't that right, dear?" Mr. Tanner launched into a long story about how he and his junior year roommate at Wilson had commandeered a Hall Master's car one night, when the Master was sick as a dog, and had snuck off to Princeton in it for an elaborate dinner at that restaurant. "We were sick of the Wilson food. Boys get like that sometimes. But Davey'll tell you, Brady, we're here every other week to take you two to a good place for a real meal. Right son?" David smiled politely and nodded, but Brady could see he was cringing inside.
Lunch was approaching. Brady knew he and David had to go to it alone, and that their parents wouldn't be there. David seemed relieved at the prospect. Brady, faced now with the actual parting from his mother, was threatening to fall apart at any moment. His mother didn't look much better. The two walked down the stairwell and out into the sunlight, together. The day had turned warm. They stood by the driver's side of her car, looking at each other for a long moment. Her hand - thin, with veins prominent along the back - caressed his cheek softly. "My little boy," she whispered. "My doll baby."
Brady swallowed hard. "It'll be OK, Mom, I'm not far away, and you can come visit anytime. I mean gas is cheap, right? You can maybe bring us some Tastykakes or something. I'll call you every night, I saw a phone booth in Geiger. And on weekends when I can I'll bike down and surprise you at the store. It'll be fine. Really."
He didn't believe a word of it. Her world was dying before his eyes - and so, in a way, was his own.
She pulled him into a long and crushing embrace. Brady could feel her chest shuddering. She pulled back suddenly and ran her hands through his hair, straightening it. "You be good now, you hear. Study hard, make good friends. We - we're all very proud . . ." She lowered her head, ran her hand one last time down his cheek, and climbed swiftly into the car. "I love you, doll baby." She pulled out quickly, obviously forgetting completely about the Tanners' invitation. Brady watched motionless as the car turned onto the entrance drive and out of sight. His cheeks were sopping wet.
He knew she wouldn't head straight back to Cullingstown. She was going to the cemetery, for the first time in he couldn't remember how long.
When he got back to his room, redeyed and suddenly very tired, the Tanners were also gone. David was tying a tie. He glanced at Brady for a moment, a rueful smile on his face. "You better hurry, we only got 10 minutes, and we need to see our table assignments. You don't wanna get stung first day."
"Stung?"
David rolled his eyes impatiently, but smiled as he did so. "New Boy," he muttered. "It is cool that you're so tall, though. Maybe McShane won't pick on me so much this year. C'mon, I'll fill you in on at least a few things while we're walking. Just get dressed."
Brady threw himself into a jacket and tie quickly (he'd been practicing tying a tier for weeks, and was relieved that he was able to do it now under pressure). They took the stairs down two or three at a time. David led the way out the front door of Linsley, and for the first time Brady really looked at his new home.
In front of the door to Linsley, running from left to right, was center campus, at least 300 yards long and about 60 wide. Two lines of elm trees marched down its length, their vase shaped canopies shading the grass from the midday sun. More trees - some elms, some maples - stood on the outside of the sidewalks that ran along both sides of center campus, near the dorms that were built along either side of the broad lawn. Most of the sidewalks were shaded, all the way up to Geiger on his left, which was guarded on this side by a huge sugar maple. The sidewalk was crowded with boys in jacket and tie, many trying to get their ties right as they walked, all heading toward Geiger.
David swung into the crowd, with Brady following along, trying not to trip over anyone as he stared at the beauty of the campus. "Looks good the first day, huh?" David said, slightly sarcastic. Wait'll like February, you'll be so royally sick of it all."
"Hey Tanner, how was summer?" a skinny blond haired boy called out, from behind them.
"Better'n this," David shouted back without breaking stride. Brady, having glanced around to see where the question had come from, had to hustle a few steps to catch up to David again. Jeez, he thought, this kid walks fast.
"OK," David said when Brady was once again beside him, "'getting stung' is being reported for some violation of the rules - by a teacher, by the Hall Master, by the prefects. You get stung enough, you get detentions and crap. You get really stung a lot, or get into real trouble, they take you to DC to decide whether they want to throw your ass out."
DC?"
"Discipline Committee," David explained. "Leeds, a couple of other masters, sometimes other people, I don't exactly understand who. It's like they put you on trial and shit, only you got no defense. You just kind of beg. Or you don't, if you're really sick of the place." He laughed grimly.
Brady didn't like the sound of that at all.
They barreled in a massive group into Geiger, then up a wide set of stairs just before the foyer. Brady realized as they stepped out onto the second floor that much of the rest of the building was dorms rooms as well. "Sophomores," David said tersely, leading him to the back side of the building. There, an elevated closed in walkway led to another building, whose second floor was the dining hall. The walkway was lined on one side with trophy cases, and Brady glanced quickly as they passed. Tarnished loving cups, bronzed footballs and basketballs that had slowly deflated with age, the scores scrawled on them sometimes almost unreadable, yellowed pictures on plaques. A few mothy looking banners.
The dining hall itself was a huge room, very high ceilinged, with curved pillars here and there about 20 feet inside the exterior walls, and very loud. Grimy portraits hung over and between the windows.
David was trying to get a glimpse of a mimeographed list that had been posted on the wall near the entrance they had just passed through, but due to his stature he was having little luck. "Conover, what's it say? Look for our names, will ya?"
Brady slipped forward into the crowd, trying not to be too aggressive (in contrast to many of the boys, who were jostling each other pretty recklessly). It helped that he was markedly taller than almost every other boy there; they seemed instinctively to give ground at his approach. David was assigned to Table 16, Brady to Table 22. He also saw that seating was optional for this meal only - the mandatory seating arrangements would take effect only commencing with dinner that night. He was about to step back when he was shoved from behind, sending him thudding into a black haired guy's back.
"Cool it, buddy, I'll get outta yer fuckin' way in a minute," the guy he'd fallen into grumbled. Brady was about to apologize when he was shoved again, and again fell against the black haired kid. Instead of getting mad at him, though, the kid now looked past Brady annoyedly. "Will you give it a fuckin' break, McShane?"
Brady turned to see the watery eyed kid he'd stood behind in the foyer earlier. He again made only the briefest eye contact with Brady. "Are you gonna get the fuck out of my way, or what? Bite me, Ruiz," he added, yelling at the dark hared kid. Brady gave way, and McShane strode his way to the list, read it, then burst into a remarkable string of obscenities. "Jesus fucking Christ, not till fucking dinner?! We're fucking around looking at this Goddam fucking list when it doesn't even fucking matter until fucking dinner? What kind oif ass sucking shit is this???" He shoved his way back out of the crowd, continuing to swear under his breath. Brady caught "fucking PR" as he passed Ruiz.
Brady noticed that McShane made a special effort to walk past David and shoulder him. For his part, David remained stoic. Brady shrugged as he got back to David. "No mandatory seating till dinner, I guess we sit where we want."
"That's new," David sniffed. He broke into a crooked smile. "This is what Wilson thinks of as a progressive reform: One meal without mandatory seating assignments for the year. Free at last, right?" He motioned for Brady to follow him, and they took seats at an empty table toward the back. "The food comes out there," he said, indicating a large set of swinging doors. "We'll get ours quicker here."
Brady nodded, glad to have someone with him who knew what was going on. He felt completely lost. "So," he said, "is that McShane guy as big a jerk as he just came off?"
David snorted. "You think he's bad, wait'll you meet his big brother. Ian loves to do shit to people and then hide behind Stud Dougie."
Brady nodded. "So he was here last year?"
David grinned coldly. "For a while, anyway. He was such a prick, they were gonna take him to DC, but his parents took him out of school before they could do it. Kicked out of eighth grade, can you fucking believe that? I didn't think he'd be back. His dad must have ponied up another shitload of money." He looked Brady in the eyes more closely than he had to this point. "This school's close to broke, Conover. Doesn't look it, but it's hurtin'. They got shit for endowment, the Alumni Director guy's a drunk, and people these days aren't so keen to send their little darling boys off to boarding school to get buggered in the night and shit. So some asshole like McShane, his dad is some VP at Smith Barney or something, they pop a check for a hundred grand or whatever and Leeds thinks they're Gods or something. That's how it works, OK? You think the rules are for everybody, but they're not."
Brady felt his stomach tighten .
Their table filled up quickly, with only a couple of people known to David. Introductions were made all around. With Brady quickly realizing he had little hope of remembering everybody's name. One kid swung himself into the chair at the right hand end of the table. David shooed him off. "That's the Master's seat, man."
Brady stared at him, uncomprehending. Just then, an impeccably dressed middle aged man strode up to the table. David's eyes dropped as he stood in place, and the rest of the boys knew instinctively to be quiet and follow suit. The man was a little shorter than Brady, but carried himself regally. His wavy graying hair was precisely combed and in place, his grey eyes glinted from behind a round pair of very old fashioned steel rimmed glasses. He lowered himself slowly to his chair at the head of the table. "Gentlemen," he announced in a clipped authoritarian voice, "you may all be seated." They complied meekly. He looked at David. "Mr. Tanner, I hope you had a pleasant summer."
"Yes. sir," David replied quietly. "It was very pleasant, thank you."
The man nodded, a slight polite smile on his face for a moment. Then it fled, as if it was uncomfortable for him to maintain. He looked at the rest of the table. "I don't believe I know any of you other boys, yet. Nor, I suspect, do you know me. I am Mr. Taber. I am Master of Tyrell Hall, second floor - a junior dormitory. You New Boys will know it, as it is next to Linsley on the chapel side. I teach mathematics - trigonometry and calculus - to upperclassmen. You will not see me in class this year, those of you who are freshmen or sophomores. But I look forward to teaching you later in your careers here at Wilson." He looked about the table, seeming to make eye contact with everyone. "Now, Mr. Tanner, as you are the only Old Boy here, I would suggest you serve as waiter for this meal. That will allow the others to see what will be expected of them."
David sighed. "Yes, sir." As he rose, he whispered to Brady, "I had a feeling that was coming. Oh well, that'll put me last in the rotation at my real table, I hope." He strode off into the kitchen, through the swinging doors, with Mr. Taber watching him.
Mr. Taber now began a polite but very thorough interrogation of each boy at the table - his background, his home town, his father's occupation. Brady prayed his turn wouldn't come - the questioning had started at the opposite end, and perhaps food would stem the inquiry. As a slightly pudgy kid named Donny Walker was being asked about his home in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn, David reappeared from the kitchen area. He now wore a heavily starched white jacket instead of his suitcoat. He bore a tray loaded with tureens and a stack of plates, which he gingerly set down on one corner of the table to unload before Mr. Taber. As he set out a plate of dinner rolls, Walker reached for one. Taber coolly shooed his hand away. "We do not eat until grace is said at this School, Mr. Walker. Best learn that now."
A thin baldheaded man stood near where the lists were posted in front of the hall. The room fell to silence almost immediately. He began a long prayer in s thin voice, which Brady tried to hear but could only catch in snatches. He glanced at David, to see him surreptitiously chewing on a bit of roll that he fished out of a pocket of his waiter's jacket. Their eyes met, and David winked with a slight smile. Brady stole a quick look at Mr. Taber, whose head was deeply bowed, and grinned back for a second before resuming an appropriately pious posture.
The grace ended, and Mr. Taber began speaking once again as he served up the food onto the plates and passed them about the table. David stood at his right side, taking things as he ran out or needed help. His conversation now was casual and inconsequential, about the weather in Summerton in September, the team tryouts that afternoon, the quality of the food (which he insisted was first rate, though Brady's first bite of his cutlet revealed an indeterminate meat substance that, though filling enough, had little if any taste). The rolls, it turned out, were slightly stale.
Mr. Taber eventually resumed his questioning of the boys at the table, and seemed deliberately to save Brady for last. "And Mr. Conover, I believe, are you enjoying your experience here so far?"
Brady blinked. How did he know his name? "Um, yes, sir. Well, I mean I've only been here about two hours. But, um, yes. Sir."
Mr. Taber nodded, smiling. "We look for great things from our Bevans Scholarship students, Mr. Conover. And, I hope, we can scrape some of that Cullingstown dirt from under your fingernails eventually." His eyes flashed at what he felt was a good joke.
Brady bristled. Don't you mock my home town, he thought. "I like that dirt, sir. It's not pretentious."
The table was dead silent. Brady hadn't meant to say anything. David's eyes were very wide and very white. Brady realized everybody was staring at him.
Mr. Taber's cheeks turned a slight reddish color. He looked down at his plate for a moment and took a breath. "Spoken like a true patriot, Mr. Conover. I hope you learn to love this school as much." He looked at David. "I believe it's time for dessert, Mr. Tanner. Though I think you may forego one this meal, since you had an extra roll before grace - and during it as well, I believe." David froze in the process of standing up and stared at Mr. Taber for a long moment. "The next time I will sting you, Mr. Tanner. Fair warning." He turned back to the table as David hurried off, bearing the tray laden with their soiled plates. "Manners, and how one conducts oneself, matter. Here, at Wilson, and throughout life, gentlemen. You will learn both here. Even our farmers," he added, with an icy smile at Brady. Keep your fucking mouth shut, he kept repeating to himself.
David took a few minutes to finish bussing off the table after the meal ended. Brady waited for him in the walkway, passing time by looking at the old trophies. "Jesus Christ, Conover, are you a fucking maniac??" he demanded as he strode past Brady, never slowing his pace. "You fucking insult Taber in like your first hour here?? Taber??? They gave that scholarship to the wrong guy, man. You're an idiot."
"He was being snotty. I didn't mean to, I was just pissed. It just came out."
David wheeled on Brady. "OK, look. You're used to being the big guy and the smart guy and all that shit, right?" He waved off Brady's attempt to protest. "You are, even if you don't know it. You're tall and you're smart and all that crap. Here, you're a New Boy, OK? You're worse than shit for a month at least. And you never -never - talk back to a Master. That is fucking suicide."
Brady felt his eyes water a little. "I'm sorry."
David regarded him for a moment, and shook his head. "Christ, I gotta be your mom or something here. C'mon." They walked down the stairs and out of Geiger in silence. The walk from Geiger back toward center campus sloped slightly downhill, and Brady looked past David at the two lines of elms marching down the lawn, framing the chapel at the far end. A large maple to the right of the chapel was starting to turn color. The scene was ridiculously scenic, but Brady found scant comfort in it. It was an unknown world, a terra incognita, and he suddenly lacked any confidence that he'd ever be able to navigate it. He remembered his comment to Kenny the last time they'd been together- maybe he'd fuck up and be back home by December. Or October, he thought bitterly to himself, at the rate I'm going. By the time he climbed the stairs in Linsley to their room, he was ready to leave.
He and David did a little more room organization. David had a stereo with huge speakers, which he insisted on setting up immediately. He had three boxes filled with albums, many of bands Brady had never heard of - the Grateful Dead, the Electric Prunes, Albert King, the Small Faces, Moby Grape ("Look at this," David said excitedly, holding the album. "The guy's giving the finger in the cover photo, can you believe that?"), Procul Harem, Cream - the list seemed endless. Brady had only a couple of records at home, his musical knowledge was limited to whatever he heard on WABC. David, upon learning that, pulled an elaborately decorated album out and put the record on his turntable. "Then you gotta hear this. It's this Negro guy from Washington state who's big in England. Jimi Handrix." He lowered the needle, and as "Foxy Lady" started bellowing out, he began to dance foolishly. Brady was caught between laughter (at David) and shock (at the music, which was unlike anything he'd ever heard). A couple of kids leaned into the room ass the album played, nodding their heads knowingly with one hand in the air, displaying their index and middle fingers open in a V. That seemed odd to Brady, but he ignored it and just listened. He'd never heard anything so loud.
By the time the first side of the record had finished playing, it was time to walk over to Fredricks theatre. Brady again followed David sheepishly. "So, why are you here today if the registration is supposed to be only for New Boys? Why not wait until tomorrow?"
David glanced at Brady sidelong, a rueful expression on his face. "You only got a taste of my dad," he said quietly. "He's really gung-ho about the place. I think sometimes he'd come back again and be a student here if he could. He thought it'd be a great thing for me to be here to meet you and get all buddy buddy and stuff."
Brady felt embarrassed, for some reason he couldn't quite understand. "Sorry."
David chuckled. "Not your problem. Besides, you're not a total doofus, far as I can see so far anyway."
Brady laughed in his turn. "That really makes me feel better, thanks."
The theatre was on the other side of Geiger, and set back from it, against Summerton's mill pond (which looked almost as gross and lily pad infested as Cullingstown's). It was sparse, with bare brick walls inside painted a dazzling white and a slightly stained burgundy curtain across the stage. "It used to be the gym, they built the new one when my dad was here and turned this into a theatre. There's this tiny little pool in the basement they store stuff in now, it's like ten feet wide or something. Really weird." Brady tried to take it all in - his head was starting to hurt from all he was taking in.
A fireplug shaped man with white hair slicked back on his head, dark eyebrows, and a very small feminine mouth, now strode up onto the stage. The auditorium fell silent. He stepped behind the podium that had been placed at the front center of the stage, gripped it authoritatively with both hands, and looked out. He was a bit short for the podium, and seemed conscious of the fact, determined by the force of his presence to make up for the shortcoming. "Good afternoon, and welcome to Wilson School. I am Alvin Leeds, the Headmaster, and if you're well behaved you'll only encounter me under the most pleasant of circumstances." He waited for a laugh, but little if any came. That seemed to bother him a little; he frowned slightly down at his notes before continuing. "I, and Dr. Larrimore, will be filling you in on some of the details of your school life here this year. We will break at 3:00, and signups for fall athletics will commence at the gym at 3:30. We have a lot to cover, so let's begin."
The next hour or so was a whirl of information that Brady only half absorbed. There was something about New Boy Rules, and socks and school handbooks, and hats. There was a long discussion of discipline and rules, most of which made him nervous (partly because it all seemed pretty vague). There was a description of a daily work program in which the students picked up litter and raked and things around campus. Class books would be available for purchase in the gym the next morning at 9. All meals were jacket and tie, as were classes, and assigned seating would commence that evening with dinner. Each Hall Master would meet with his boys that evening. Dr. Larrimore was even duller as he explained the school's academic expectations, which again passed by Brady blurrily but sounded scary. Finally, out of seemingly nowhere, an upright piano was rolled onto the stage by two older boys, and a man (presumably a Master) sat at it to lead the students in the school fight song - an odd, vaguely 1920s-ish sort of melody as it turned out. Since almost no one in the audience knew the song, having just arrived, this proved to be less than a successful endeavor. They ran it through four times, finally getting some measure of comprehension and semblance of tune from the group, before the meeting was adjourned.
As he walked with the crowd toward the gym, Brady felt a huge headache coming on. He gulped in the warm thick air, hoping to clear it out. "So what are you going out for?"
David laughed. "Rec tennis, are you kidding? Me go out for a sport? C'mon Conover, look at me. Then look at you. You're probably the new football stud or something, and I can't even run a lap."
Brady felt embarrassed to have asked. "Well, you can do like cross country and, you know, get into shape, or something . . . couldn't you?"
David snorted. "Now you sound like my dad."
Brady shook his head. Was there anything he could say to this kid that wasn't some sort of mistake?
The main locker room was big, a little dilapidated looking, and smelled vaguely sour. There was a cleared space at one end, with a large blackboard hung from the wall. FRESHMAN AND JV FOOTBALL was scrawled across it in purple and gold chalk (those were the school colors). Next to the board, at a small table, Mr. Glendon sat with a clipboard, taking names. He caught Brady's eye and smiled at him briefly before resuming taking notes on the boy he was questioning. It took about 10 minutes for Brady to reach the front of the line.
"Hello, Brady, how are you holding up? A bit overwhelmed?"
Brady smiled back. "A little. I'll be OK."
"Course you will. Now, you submitted your physical form, right?" Brady nodded. "You've played before, so I don't need to talk much about positions and such. I think tight end, defensive end or maybe linebacker - sound good? Use that speed of yours." Brady nodded again. "OK, go on into the equipment room -" he waved at a door to his left " - and get your stuff."
Brady got outfitted with his helmet and pads fairly quickly - he knew what he needed and how to assemble everything, which made things easier. The equipment manager was a small, thin black man with pomaded hair, a pencil moustache, and what looked like a permanently fixed smile. He talked faster than Brady had ever heard anyone speak before. "C'mon now boys, let's step it up here, ain't got all day, let's go, let's go." He handed Brady a slip of paper with a locker assignment and combination before turning to the next boy. "McShane, McShane, you back again, boy? You playin' again this year?"
Brady glanced behind him to see Ian McShane, his arms laden like Brady's with gear, smiling. "Of course I'm back ,Johnny, I can't leave you in peace, can I?" Johnny laughed and shook his head as he handed McShane a slip as well, and Brady found himself walking with McShane back to the locker room.
"What's your number?" McShane asked.
Brady was startled to be spoken to directly. "Um, 372."
McShane gestured with an elbow. "Third aisle, I think. I'm here. I'm Ian McShane."
"Brady Conover."
McShane was obviously sizing him up. "You ever play before?"
"Yeah. Some Pop Warner here in Summerton."
"You a Day Boy?" The question was almost an accusation.
"No, I'm from Cullingstown, I just came over for the football stuff."
"McShame nodded after a moment. "You dad must be pretty gung ho about your playing, then."
Brady had no desire to rehash the whole my-dad-is-dead thing - not now, and not with McShane. "My brothers would drive me."
McShame perked up a bit. "When did they go here?"
Brady sighed inwardly. "They didn't."
"Oh." McShane turned down the aisle of lockers he was in front of. "Well, see you around. What position are you trying out for?"
"I guess tight end and defensive end. Maybe linebacker."
McShane looked at Brady hard for a second. "I'm a linebacker. Stay at defensive end." He turned away and made a show of opening his locker to put away his pads.
Brady paused a moment, said, "Right," and moved on to his own row of lockers. It took a couple of times to get the combination to work. He was inserting his thigh pads into the pants when a stack of pads loomed over him. A voice behind them said, "Is 380 down here?"
"I think so," Brady said, moving against the locker to let the pile pass him by. A moment later, it dropped to the floor with a loud clatter, and the speaker stood revealed. He was tall - almost as tall as Brady - with thick dark hair, longish in front but trimmed short around his ears, a tanned narrow face, and a wide mouth. "That crap is heavy! How are you supposed to run and stuff wearing all that?"
Brady laughed. "It's pretty easy, actually. Just hot, sometimes."
"Yeah I bet." The boy extended his hand. "I'm Doug Garretson."
"Brady Conover, glad to meet you Doug." His hand was long, the skin cool. Brady held it perhaps a half second longer than he should have, then pulled away quickly, averting his eyes.
Doug seemed oblivious. "So have you played football before? With all the equipment and stuff?"
"Yeah, when I was in seventh grade I played Pop Warner football. It's fun."
Doug nodded. "I really can't wait. But I have no idea what to do with some of this stuff."
"What, the pads? It's easy, look." Brady showed Doug how to put the knee and thigh pads into the uniform pant sleeves. "Then you strap the hip pads around your waist like this, and the pants go over them."
Doug chuckled. "God, our butts are gonna look huge."
Brady had never thought about that, but flashed to his memories of playing. He was right, your ass does look like a mile wide with all that stuff padding you. He laughed. It felt good to laugh unforcedly after so long a day. "Right, we're the big-assed Cavaliers, in purple and gold."
Doug laughed as well. "Yeah. We'll all look like fat-assed faggots in those colors, too." Brady smiled, but shuddered a little inside. Yeah. Faggot jokes. Figures.
"So," Brady asked to change the subject - at least a little, "you got a jock with a cup?"
"Huh?"
"A cup - to protect your, um, crotch and all."
"Oh," Doug frowned. "I didn't think of that. Do you really need one?"
Brady shrugged. "I wore one when I played Pop Warner. They didn't hand out cups here, I don't know if they issue them or not. Have to check."
Doug smiled at him - a dazzling smile that made Brady feel suddenly better. "This is gonna be fun, I can tell. So where's your room?"
"Linsley, 213. Yours?"
"I'm in 308 upstairs." He seemed vaguely disappointed at this news. "Met your roommate yet?"
"Yeah, he seems like a nice guy. He's got a lot of music and all."
"Was he the guy playing Jimi before assembly? That was so cool."
Brady laughed again. "Yeah, it was. I'd never heard that before. It was, um, pretty amazing."
"I know, can you believe he makes all those different sounds just with his guitar? And he can like play with his teeth and stuff too!"
Brady hesitated - why in God's name would anybody want to play a guitar with his teeth? "That's wild," was all he could think of to say. Doug's eyes were a deep soft brown, and sparkled with his enthusiasm. Brady kept looking at them, not to make eye contact for conversation purposes, but just to look.
Doug finished putting his pads away and turned back to Brady, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes. "So we need to go to the cage to get gym stuff now I guess?"
"That's what they said, yeah," Brady answered. "Are we supposed to dress out today or anything? I didn't hear that."
"No, I asked the coach - what's his name, Glenner?"
"Glendon," Brady corrected him.
"Right, Glendon," Doug said grinning. "Anyway, he said we were just getting uniforms and stuff today, and we'd meet tomorrow afternoon and then start practice. I asked. We could go run some laps or play some basketball or something if you want, though. We don't have anything going until dinnertime, do we?"
Brady smiled. "I don't think we do, but there's been so much going on today I wouldn't know if we did." He hesitated. The idea of playing with Doug - of changing clothes together with him, of maybe even showering next to him - was appealing at some level he couldn't quite pinpoint, but he felt overwhelmingly shy as well. "Maybe we should just head back to Linsley in case there's something else going on."
Doug pursed his lips for a second, thinking. "Yeah," he finally said with a sigh. Brady thought it was cute.
"So where are you from?" Doug asked as they strode together across center campus toward Linsley.
Brady felt the odd mix of embarrassment and mulish pride stir in him again. "Just down the road, in Cullingstown. Just a little farm town."
Doug nodded. "That's cool, your folks and all are close. I'm from Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania. Ever heard of it?" Brady shook his head, quietly relieved that Doug took his being from around the area - and from a farm town, no less- so much in stride. "It's a farm town too, pretty much. Near Harrisburg." He smiled. "That's about all there is to say about it. My dad's a veterinarian there. What's your dad do?"
That damn question again. "My dad died back when I was little."
Doug looked at him a long moment, then laid his hand on Brady's shoulder. "I'm sorry, man. You must get sick of having to explain that to people all the time."
Brady found himself suddenly tearing up a little. He looked resolutely in front of him, blinking his eyes clear. "It's OK, you get sort of used to it." Doug's hand felt good on his shoulder, even through the suit jacket he was wearing.
Doug smiled at him. "Race ya." And he was off, his tie streaming over his left shoulder as he loped across the thick grass.
Brady hesitated a second, taken aback by the sudden challenge, then transfixed at the sight. He'd never thought of Kenny, or any other boy, as beautiful. Good looking, perhaps, in an abstract way, or even handsome, whatever that meant. But never beautiful in a romantic or emotional sense. But Doug, with his hair glowing dark and sleek in the sun and flowing in the wind, his slender limbs pumping loosely, his sparkling eyes and dazzling smile as laughing he glanced back over his shoulder at Brady, was heartstopping. Brady felt his face split into a wide grin, and he tore off in pursuit, hoping to catch him.