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EIGHT MONTHS TO GROW PART 1 Tom Klein was some sort of genius prodigy boy. Everyone said so. He had learned to read at age 4, and by age 7 he knew certain simple chess endings, like King + Pawn vs. King and Lucena’s winning position. He could easily do any schoolwork put in front of him, and tested way, way up there, almost off the charts, in “left-brain” things like math, logic, and puzzles. His Dad was an important figure in the US State Department, and Mom did some online consulting work for several businesses. They had had Tom rather late, and when Tom turned 13, Dad was 52 and Mom was 50. The family was really wealthy, but they tried as much as possible to live in a middle-class way, to avoid having so many luxurious things that they would forget about what mattered most in life. They were both busy, important people, but not too busy to love and care about their only child. Many was the time that they blew off some of their afternoon’s work to come home and take him to the park, to play games with him, or just to be together. From the time Tom was age 8-12, Dad was assigned by the government to live and work in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Tom went to school there and of course learned nearly perfect Spanish, though he had trouble with the rapid-fire joking and slang that the other kids used. As he grew from little tyke to full boy, he began experiencing more and more problems interacting with the other kids. Time after time, he would get into fights—the other kids thought of him as some sort of weird American freak, claimed he thought he was better than they were, called him “maricon” and “gringo cabron”. Tom would come home from school and cry for hours, wondering why the kids were so mean to him. For all of his genius in many areas, he was totally clueless on how to get along with other kids, and just couldn’t interact normally. He sank deeper and deeper into isolation, and got more and more involved in his two hobbies. Tom was a whiz in chess, and one of the big Buenos Aires clubs was only a short walk from his house. It was dangerous to wander those streets at night, but the boy was there for hours on end on weekend mornings and afternoons. The other players (almost all were grownups—a couple of kids showed up occasionally, but they were beginners) were initially shocked by how good the little boy was, but after awhile he was treated as just another player. Tom loved how the intensity of the game was mixed with the laughter and camaraderie of the regulars. He could beat many of the men there, but by no means all. The masters would constantly crush him and playfully remind him that he still had work to do—one of them, an older guy named Felipe, would sometimes give him informal lessons, especially about the openings, which was Tom’s weakest area. Tom wondered if the guy was one of those molesters he’d heard about—Felipe would sit close to him, really stare into his eyes, and sometimes gently pet the boy’s wavy black hair. But Tom didn’t mind—the old man was kindly and the chess was fascinating. Tom was never any good at sports growing up, and this further isolated him from the other kids. He could barely kick a soccer ball, and was clumsy at basketball, ping-pong, and most everything else. But in 6th grade, he discovered that he liked to run. Just run. Leave the house in the afternoons, do lap after lap of the neighborhood, head up to the grassy park with the hill, and just keep on going. He liked the challenge of it, liked its solitary nature, liked the sounds of his breath and the pat-pat of his sneakers on the ground. By age 12, he could easily jog along for almost an hour without tiring, and could do 15 repetitions up the hill when he wanted to challenge himself. Mom and Dad could see that their son was not growing up normally. They were very concerned that he had no friends, and when he came home from school crying it just broke their hearts. Then, in early July, a couple months before Tom turned 13, Dad received some news that would change the whole family’s life. The State Department was transferring him—he was to have a three-year assignment in Belarus. He could of course refuse it and retire, as money wasn’t really an object. But Dad was a patriot and knew that his country needed him. It would be a major life change, that was for sure. Mom and Dad talked for a long time about what to do before they told their son anything. They were afraid that if Tom went with them, he would withdraw even further from social interactions, and they were really worried about his mental health. They had an idea. What if Tom went back to the USA and went to boarding school? Would the forced interactions with other kids bring him out of his shell, make him more of a regular kid? Tom’s maternal grandparents lived in Greensboro, North Carolina, and said they knew of a Catholic prep school in the hills of north Georgia where they were really into values, discipline, caring about the individual, etc. Mom and Dad were Jewish, but not really faithful about it, and Tom had never had any religious training. The place was all-boys, but there was a smaller all-girls school a few miles away. With Dad’s schedule as it was, Tom wouldn’t be able to start 8th grade on time with the class there, but he could start only a few weeks late, at the end of September. Mom and Dad finally had a long, long talk with the boy, and everyone agreed that they’d visit the school and see what they thought. If it didn’t work out, then Tom could at least temporarily live with his grandparents and start school in North Carolina. The family spent a few weeks packing up their lives and possessions in Argentina, and eventually Mom, Dad, and Tom walked through the gates of St. Brendan’s School. Tom had turned 13 just days before and was starting to grow up. He was still short, exactly 5 feet tall, but his face and body were just beginning their journey of change from little boy into young teenager. He had black wavy hair and fairly dark skin, perhaps because his mother had Mexican ancestry. People in Argentina said he could pass for Chilean. He in a way looked the part of the classic geekboy, right down to the glasses he wore. His arms were still pipe-cleaner skinny, but he was proud of the fact that he was beginning to grow tiny 6-pack muscles on his stomach, due to the hundreds of situps he used to do after he got home from running. The boy had noticed that only a few weeks ago, tiny fuzzy hairs had begun growing in above his dick, and the new feelings when he played with himself at night were something strange, wonderful, and exciting. Mom and Dad wanted to talk privately to the headmaster for awhile, so they told the boy to walk around and explore for awhile, and they’d see him at the admin building in an hour or so. Tom was scared of this place, yet curious and eager. It was so different than what he was used to. Most of the kids were much older and bigger than him, but he knew they did have a 7th and 8th grade section. It was really weird hearing kids speak English! And it was so different from the streets of the big cities he’d lived in for as long as he could remember. Here there were so many trees, so much grass, so much open space, and hardly any cars. There was no constant noise of traffic. The smell of the pine trees was also new and unusual. He knew that he was being sent here to become normal with other kids, but he didn’t know if he could really do it. He decided to give himself a little test. He saw a soccer practice going on in a field nearby, and he thought “Hey, I’ll go over and try to say hi to some of the kids. Are they going to pick on me? Let’s see what happens.” Tom walked over and watched for a few minutes. He practiced smiling and hoped he wouldn’t look like a dork. The kids looked like 9th or 10th graders. He didn’t know how to talk to anyone, so during a break he walked over to the water jug just hoping to be noticed, and to see what happened. And, amazingly enough, a couple kids actually said hi!! Wow, he thought, they didn’t pick on me or call me faggot! He actually got up the courage to ask someone “Hey, when’s your next game?” The other kid answered nicely, “We go against Carsonville Thursday. Hey, I haven’t seen you around.” Tom’s mind was swirling. Another kid, an older one no less, had talked to him in a pleasant way, hadn’t made fun of him, and he had to think of a response. His mouth opened, and out came “Yeah, I might be coming to school here in 8th grade.” “Cool. See ya!” replied the older boy, and jogged back onto the field. Tom stood there, and could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He thought that maybe he could fit in here. He watched the practice for a few more minutes and went back to the admin building to wait for Mom and Dad. PART 2 Tom’s parents talked at length to Headmaster Carlisle about various aspects of the school, about various financial things, and then Dad brought up the most important subject. “Headmaster, as we’ve discussed, our son is far ahead of his age in academic ability. He tests well into the 99th percentile in almost all standard aptitude tests. And we know that your school has a strong academic program. But frankly, classes and studies are not our biggest concern with him. Our son, despite being so advanced intellectually, has real trouble making friends and interacting with other kids. We want him to mix with other kids, to feel a part of the group, to experience all the joys and all the problems of a normal boy. How do you think you can meet Tom’s special needs?” John Carlisle had been Headmaster for over ten years, and had met many hundreds of parents. The school, like all independent boarding schools, was feeling some economic pressures, and every student helped the balance sheet, especially one whose parents could clearly afford the full costs. He launched into a speech that he had carefully written, rehearsed, and given so many times. Despite being a canned speech, it really was from the man’s heart and he delivered it as brilliantly as any Broadway actor. “”Mr. and Mrs. Klein, we are a large school with almost 700 students in grades 7-12,” (a little white lie, as this year enrollment was only 643). “Our teachers and facilities are well-known throughout the country. We have had graduates attend Ivy League schools and go on to very prestigious careers, including cabinet positions. But while these things are important to us, they are only secondary. One thing matters to us much more than any of our laboratories, any of our sports championships, or any accomplishments of our graduates. That thing is the development and happiness of each individual boy who comes into our community. Each boy comes to us with strengths and weaknesses, with his individual personality. Since our founding in 1923, our first and foremost concern has always been the well-being of every boy, one of them at a time. We want to work with your son academically, spiritually, morally, athletically, and see him happy. I personally promise to care deeply about Tom and to always have my ears open to any concern that he has.” Mom and Dad were impressed. Mom spoke next. “Headmaster, though we do not actively practice, we are Jewish. Tom knows very little about the Roman Catholic Church or your rituals. What should we know if he is to be prepared to join you?” “Mrs. Klein, we used to be a very strict Catholic organization, including regular catechism classes. But times have changed and so have we. I’m not sure if you realize it, but over one third of our students are NOT of the Roman Catholic faith. We have several other Jewish students. There were three Muslim boys in last year’s graduating class. On Sundays, we have two religious services, and unless there is an objection from a parent, we require that each boy attend one. One is Catholic Mass, and the other is strictly nondenominational where we teach values that are common to virtually any religion.” Mom asked “Would he have a roommate? He’s never been away from us before, and I think it would be really important for him to share a room with another boy.” The headmaster explained that fortunately, there were an odd number of boys in 8th grade this year (another white lie), and that at this moment one boy didn’t have a roommate (he didn’t explain the reason why—no need to get into that here). The boy’s name was Ricky Spann and he hoped the two boys would get along well. He explained that Ricky was a polite and well-behaved kid, and that his parents lived fairly close, just outside Asheville, North Carolina. He said it seemed like a good match. Dad answered “Well, headmaster, we’d like to talk to our son now and think for a while before we make a final decision. Will you be here in about an hour?” Mr. Carlisle assured him that he would, and Mom and Dad walked outside into the late afternoon sun to see Tom waiting in the parking lot. “Hey, tough guy!” said Dad as he put his arm around his son’s shoulders. “How about we take a walk around and talk things over?” They went up a small hill overlooking the soccer field where Tom met the kid who had talked to him. Mom and Dad told him various things about the school, and asked him what he thought from his wandering around. “It’s sure different. I’ve never seen so many trees. Must be fun to run here. Do they have an atletismo or cross-country team? I bet I’m in as good shape as some of the kids.” “Tom, we’re not in Argentina anymore. It’s called “track”, not “atletismo”. The headmaster said they did, but I think interscholastic sports start in 9th grade. Did you get to meet any of the kids? Do you think you can make friends?” “Well, I said hi to a couple kids who were practicing soccer, and they seemed OK. At least they didn’t push me or call me hijo de puta or maricon.” It was Mom’s turn now. She loved her son so much, but like many moms, she did sometimes go overboard on the lecturing. She took one of his hands in both of hers. “Tommy (he hated that name!), you know the most important thing in your life now is to learn how to get along with other kids. Be interested in what they say and do, and do more listening than talking. No one knows you here, and it’s a chance for you to have a whole new start, a clean slate. I think that this would be a good place for you. You know how much we want you to be happy. The headmaster said you could be roommates with a boy named Ricky.” “Can I meet him? How about this—if this kid is nice to me, then I’ll stay here.” “Well,” replied Dad, “I’m sure you can meet him. Let’s find out where he is, and we’ll get introduced.” They made some inquiries, and found Battell Hall, where the youngest kids lived. It was about 5:00 PM, and sports had recently finished. The kids were supposed to be studying or getting ready for dinner, but there was normal boy activity, with much more running, pushing, and laughing than studying. They found a priest who introduced himself as Father Ray, and were directed to Ricky’s room. Tom was excited and eager, but really scared. He kept reminding himself to not be a loser, to not say anything dumb, to be cool. All the advice was running together in his mind. They knocked on the door, and it was opened by a handsome blond boy who was easily 7 inches taller than Tom. “Are you Ricky?” asked Dad. “This is my son Tom, and he might be coming to school here. They said that you didn’t have a roommate right now, and Tom might be joining you.” “Hi!” said the bigger boy. “That would be cool.” Tom noticed that he had a slight southern accent, like many of the other kids. He wasn’t used to hearing kids talk to him in English, as had mostly heard English from TV and from his parents for the last few years. The bigger boy had a nice smile, and gave no hint of anger at seeing him. Tom desperately racked his mind for something cool to say, and noticed a guitar, a violin, and a banjo piled into a corner of the room. “Hey,” he said, “Are those yours? You play a lot of instruments.” “Yeah, I kind of learn a little bit of all of them,” replied Ricky. This seemed like a small conversation, and of course it was. But Mom and Dad’s hearts were soaring to the sky, just hearing their son talking nicely to another kid for even a few seconds. They looked at each other and decided that now would be a good time to make their son leave the nest for a little while, to make him fly on his own. “Hey, Tom, we’re going back to see Headmaster Carlisle for a bit,” said Dad. “Why don’t you hang out here for a few minutes and we’ll see you soon.” Tom’s heart was pounding a couple times per second but he tried to remember that he had to learn to get along with other kids. Stay cool. Fortunately Ricky seemed really friendly, and he did most of the talking, telling Tom about some of the classes and rules. Tom didn’t have to say much, and was more comfortable letting his hopefully “new friend” lead. Mom and Dad headed back to the headmaster’s office. He received them graciously and asked them what they thought. They said that Tom seemed willing to try, and that his potential roommate Ricky seemed like a nice kid, though they were surprised that he was so big. They said that they would talk it all over this evening on the ride back to Greensboro, and would have a final decision tomorrow. “You know,” said Headmaster Carlisle, “you have a long drive ahead of you, especially as some of it will be at night. Why don’t you have dinner with us, and Tom can get used to things a bit. He can stay with Ricky. And we have comfortable guest rooms on the 3rd floor for you, or there’s a motel just a few miles away in Ripton.” Mom and Dad figured that they’d have to let their son interact with the kids sooner or later, and now was as good a time as any. They told the headmaster that they’d talk with their boy, and found him back in Battell. They told him what was planned, and they could see tears starting to well up in Tom’s eyes. They quickly took him outside so he wouldn’t be embarrassed. “What’s wrong?” Mom asked gently. “You know that we love you and this place will be good for you. Isn’t Ricky nice?” Tom’s voice caught as he sobbed. “He’s OK. B-b-but I don’t know, I’m j-just so scared. I don’t know what to do.” He then could hold it in no longer, and cried freely, collapsing in Dad’s arms. Dad just held his son for a few moments, kissing and stroking the top of the boys’ head. “Son,” he said, “you’ll learn what to do. You’ll learn.” PART 3 Mom and Dad walked with Tom for a bit and his tears dried up. Everyone knew that he was as ready as he’d ever be. He’d stay with Ricky that night, and in the morning they’d drive back to Greensboro, do a few days of preparations there, and bring him back for good on Sunday. Everyone made their way back to the dorm and Dad told Ricky, “We’re gonna have dinner here and if it’s OK with you, Tom will stay here with you tonight. He’ll come back here for good on Sunday. Ricky, will you make sure he behaves himself?” Dad grinned as he said this. “Don’t worry, sir, if he causes any trouble I’ll kick his ass good!” said Ricky, and the bigger boy playfully grabbed Tom around the neck and landed a couple half-hearted punches to his head. Tom, completely without expecting it and without rehearsing his reaction, giggled and hit back at his new roommate’s ribs. “OK, see you tomorrow!” Tom said. Mom and Dad headed out of the room and now Mom was about to cry. “Did you see that?” she cried. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen, or at least I can’t ever remember, him laughing together with another kid!” “Yeah, it was nice,” Dad agreed. “But there’ll be tough times too. It’s like he can do 12th grade work in math but he’s a 3rd grader when it comes to social interactions. Let’s just be happy for that little moment and take things one small step at a time. That kid Ricky looks about two years older than him, but he seems like a nice boy and he seems to accept Tom. Let’s have dinner with the headmaster and we won’t look in on them at all tonight. You know, this is going to take some adjustment for us, too. We’ll be on the other side of the world from him in just a couple weeks. We have to learn to let go, also. Your folks are going to be there in case of any emergencies, and life goes on.” Tom got in the dinner line with Ricky and the food was good—some sort of Salisbury steak with brown sauce, fries, and green beans. There were also as many rolls as the kids wanted. Dessert would be peach cobbler, something Tom had never seen but ate right up. Ricky tried to sneak back in the line for more dessert later, but the sharp-eyed cafeteria ladies had seen this trick many times before, and he had no luck. There were long tables where usually about 12 kids sat, but Ricky and Tom didn’t join any others. Tom was too socially unaware to notice this, but there were very few kids not in one of the large groups. Ricky and Tom sat at a small circular table, and after a few minutes they were joined by one kid of Tom’s size, and another who was even a bit smaller. Ricky introduced them. “Hey, this is my new roommate Tom. Tom, these are a couple of useless little piece of shit 7th graders. I think they’re called Rob and Carlos. I guess they’re not so useless really. We can use them as punching bags if we need to blow off some stress!” Tom noticed that Carlos was clearly Hispanic, but he didn’t want to appear weird by talking to the boy in Spanish. The younger kids were clearly not afraid of Ricky’s threat. Rob picked his nose and flicked the booger at the big kid while Carlos shot something in Ricky’s direction through a straw. Tom remembered his Mom’s advice and didn’t say much, but he did laugh spontaneously a few times at the silliness. After dinner, before the boys headed back up to the dorm, a teacher (Mr. Conroy) made an announcement that all 8th graders were to meet immediately in the first floor common room. Everyone made “ooohhhhh” noises like they knew someone was in deep shit! Tom sat with Ricky before the meeting started, and tried to be as invisible as possible. He was beginning to lose his fear with Ricky, but he didn’t want any of the other kids to even notice him. Fortunately no one really did. He got a couple quizzical looks, but didn’t have to talk to anyone. Mr. Conroy came in and in his most serious and pompous voice declared that there had been problems this week with kids running out of their rooms and playing during evening study hall. He said he was investigating who was responsible for Monday’s water fight and subsequent flood (a few kids pointed fingers and tried unsuccessfully to stifle giggles), and that study hall rules would be strictly enforced tonight! Ricky and Tom went back to their room and Ricky said he had to do his stupid homework. “What subjects do you have to do?” Tom asked. “Math and Spanish. So stupid, we sit in class until 2:00 and we’re supposed to do homework on top of that? Sucks.” Without thinking, Tom quickly said “Bueno, tal vez puedo ayudarte en algo.” “Huh?” “Tal vez puedo….oh shit, I forget sometimes, I lived the past few years in Argentina.” “So you know some Spanish?” “Sure! I know it all! Lo se todo!” The instant the words came out, Tom wished they were back in his mouth. Shit!! Didn’t Mom tell him time and time again not to act all superior? “Well,” the bigger boy grinned, “Yo soy really suck bad in espanol. Yo got 30 on my last prueba.” “No hay problema,” said Tom, grateful that Ricky hadn’t taken offense. “Echamos un vistazo.” It turned out that the assignment was very easy. Just filling in some blanks with “tengo”, “tienes”, or “tiene”, and writing a few short sentences with each. Tom was really happy that he could be useful, and led Ricky through it all. The math was no big deal either. There were still about 15 minutes left in study time when the boys finished, and Tom looked again at his roommate’s musical instruments. “Can you play all of those? Can you play something for me?” Part of this was Tom remembering Mom’s advice to be interested in what the other kids do, and part of it was real curiosity. He had never seen a banjo before. “Cool, I love to practice, but I gotta warn you. The other kids get really pissed at me when I do and it causes problems. I had a roommate before but he didn’t like me and got transferred to another room. Sometimes during free time after study hall I go up to Riley’s Field to practice where no one hassles me. Wanna come?” “Sure!” By now Tom’s answers were no longer rehearsed, and he was really beginning to relax around his (still hopefully) new friend. “What kind of music do you play?” “Some bluegrass, some gospel, some fiddle tunes, and Mom wants me to work more on my classical guitar. Also I’m starting to get into some Celtic.” Tom had no remote idea what some of these kinds of music were, but he knew that he felt warm and good around this boy, and it was a delicious feeling to be accepted. “You ready?” said Ricky. “Let me put the banjo in its case. Can you carry the guitar? Let’s get outa here.” “But isn’t it still study hall for a few more minutes?” “Not if we can escape without Mr. Conroy seeing us!” Ricky replied with a mischievous grin. The boys peeked out the door, sensed the coast was clear, and trying to giggle as quietly as possible, raced down the hall and out into the surprisingly chilly evening. Riley’s Field was on the other side of the soccer field, and it was deserted. The moon was rising, and it was strange yet beautiful to Tom to experience the darkness and to hear the breeze in his ears. Ricky took out the banjo first and warmed up a bit. Tom had never heard that instrument with its sharp twang. “What do you want to hear?” asked Ricky. “I dunno, I don’t know much music,” Tom answered. “Well, I’ll start out with “Rocky Top”, and then maybe get into some other stuff, let’s see how it goes.” And then Tom’s eyes widened as what he saw and heard just blew him away. This kid was incredible!! Even in the low light, Tom could see Ricky’s fingers flying, going wild, making that banjo into a living thing! After an introductory bit, the boy began to sing, and his voice was a bit higher when singing than when he just talked regularly. “Wish I was on top of Rocky Top, deep in the Tennessee hills. Ain’t no smoggy smoke on Rocky Top, ain’t no telephone bills. Rocky Top, you’ll always be home sweet home to me. Good old Rocky Top. Rocky Top, Tennessee. Rocky Top, Tennessee.” Tom wondered how he could possibly concentrate on the words he was singing while his fingers were flying, flailing, spinning in all directions. Finally the last chord sounded, and the banjo went silent. “Oh my God! How do you do that?? That’s so awesome!!” “I just picked it up when I was little. You want to try?” Tom knew that he was terrible at instruments, but he’d do anything Ricky asked. Ricky sat next to him and put the banjo strap around him, and they were close enough so that Tom could feel the boy’s warmth and feel the boy’s breath on him. Tom plucked a string and the thing said “bwang!”. Ricky tried to show him how to use his other hand on the neck of the instrument. Tom didn’t want to appear too clueless, so he just asked Ricky to play some more. Ricky brought out the guitar and played something much slower, something he called gospel. “My Lord, He calls me, He calls me by the thunder, the trumpet sounds within my soul, I ain’t got long to stay here.” But on this one, Tom noticed the pitch of his voice was all different, much deeper. Then he played something that was also slow, but he made his voice into a whole different person. “There were green alligators and long-necked geese, some humpty-back camels and some chimpanzees. Some cats and rats and elephants, but sure as you’re born, the loveliest of them all was the unicorn.” Tom’s mouth was open with surprise. He’d heard British people before, lots of them, but this was a bit different, like with each letter “r” stretched out, and it was way different from his usual voice with his southern accent. Sounded like a whole different kid. When he finished (the song was something about Noah’s ark), Tom asked, wide-eyed, “How do you do all those strange different voices? Where did you learn all that?” “Ah, that’s a really old Irish Rovers tune,” Ricky replied, sounding like himself again. “I just hear stuff around, and I can kind of work it out. It’s fun.” Ricky said that he had to practice a classical Bach piece he’d been learning. He said that the classical stuff wasn’t easy because he wasn’t used to it, but he had to learn all styles, and he kind of liked it. In music class, he said he was also working on a violin concerto. Tom listened to the Bach guitar stuff, and it didn’t seem like it was at all difficult for this boy. He was amazing. Finally, they packed up the instruments and walked back to the dorm. PART 4 As the boys walked back down the hill, Ricky asked a question that Tom didn’t understand. “Are you saved?” he asked. “Uhhh, saved? What do you mean?” said Tom, afraid that it was something he should know about and he was about to look like a geek again. “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?” asked the blond boy. “Uh, I dunno. We’re Jewish, but we don’t really go to synagogue or church much. I don’t really know if I am or not. Are you supposed to be saved here?” “Ah, no big deal. I was just curious. Almost back to good old Battell. On school nights, we’re supposed to have lights out by 9:30. Father Ray checks up on us to see.” “Oh yeah, I met him with Mom and Dad when we were looking for your room.” “Hey, it’s OUR room now. Ya know, the guys say he’s gay. You know, being a priest and all, and checking up on us before we go to bed.” “You think he is?” Tom had heard all about Catholic priests, but was still surprised to hear this about someone right here in the school. “Ah, he’s all right. Some of the other kids are so stupid, all they talk about is the girlfriends they say they have and accuse everybody of being a faggot. Father Ray’s kinda cool. If you’re nice to him, he’s nice to have around. You can talk to him and he won’t make you feel all unimportant. Coming in to see us, you know, he’s just doing his job, and I feel sorry for him when the kids talk about him behind his back. He teaches some classes to the older kids, and sometimes he’s in charge of keeping us quiet at night.” The boys arrived at their room and Tom felt the welcome warmer air. He hadn’t realized how cold he had been outside until he came in! The clock on Ricky’s desk said 9:26. Ricky asked “Do you mind if I do some Tai Chi before I go to bed? It makes me feel all mellow. My other roommate didn’t like it. If you don’t want me to, I won’t. “ “What’s Tie Chee?” Tom asked, even though he thought he had heard something about it before. Some sort of stretching exercises, he thought. “It’s just some moving around I do. Back home there’s a group of people that do it sometimes in the park, and I used to try it with them. I like it.” “I don’t mind, but isn’t it almost lights out time?” “No problem, or like you say, No Eye Problayma. Father Ray will show up soon and tell us when to turn them off. Why don’t you climb up on the top bunk so there’s more space on the floor. There’s blankets and sheets up there.” Tom climbed up top and Ricky stripped off his clothes to his underwear. Tom had never really been this close to another kid who was almost undressed like this. Tom, without really knowing it, stared at his new roommate all over. Then Ricky started doing this strange slow sort of dance, sort of stretching, sort of nothing like Tom had ever seen. Both boys were silent, and Tom just looked carefully at the other boy. He was of course much taller than Tom, though still quite thin. But his chest, arms, and well, the front of his briefs were clearly those of a teenager, not of a little guy like Tom. After a couple minutes there was a soft knock on the door, and in came Father Ray. He didn’t seem surprised by Ricky doing his Tai Chi and just said “Hi kids! Ricky, you know you’re supposed to be in bed with lights out now. What kind of example are you setting for your new friend here?” “I just don’t want him to think I’m too good.” “Well, get in bed right now!” “Oh yeah, Father, what are you gonna do to me if I don’t?” “I don’t know yet, but when I think of it you’ll be sorry!” The words of this conversation may have seemed angry, but Ricky and the Father were clearly smiling and everything was playful and gentle. Ricky laughed “Oooooh, now I’m scared!”, jumped into his lower bunk and reached over to turn off the lights. Tom, in the top bunk, was still dressed in his pants and polo shirt, and Father leaned over and talked to him softly. “Well, how do you like things so far?” “I think it’s OK. There’s so much for me to get used to. I’ve never been away from Mom and Dad before, and I haven’t even been back in the United States in years. I just get scared that sometimes I won’t know stuff and people will make fun of me.” “Everyone here wants you to feel comfortable and happy. If there’s ever anything you want to know or want to talk about, you can always come to see me. Goodnight.” Father gently petted the side of the boy’s neck and climbed back down the bunk ladder. “Goodnight, Father,” Tom replied and then he quietly listened to the near silence of the room with just him and his sleeping roommate. But Tom’s mind was still racing with all the thoughts of this very busy afternoon and night. He didn’t want to bother Ricky, but he still had so many things he needed to know. He decided to just whisper “Ricky? Are you still awake? Can I ask you something?” To his surprise, Ricky wasn’t sleeping yet, either, and the older boy said, “Sure, but keep it quiet. Rusty and Mike next door will throw a spazz fit. Can you come down here?” Tom was about to climb down the ladder, but realized that he was still dressed. He had never really undressed near another kid, but well, Ricky had, and he didn’t want to look scared or like a dork. He slipped off his pants and shirt. He usually wore red or black underwear from Argentina which were briefer than Ricky’s, but he was so skinny they seemed loose on him. He climbed down the ladder and sat on the edge of Ricky’s bottom bunk. “Hi again,” said Ricky in the darkness. “How you doing?” Tom then spoke in his quietest whisper, afraid of bothering the kids in the next room. “I was just wondering something. Sometimes I don’t always get along with other kids too well. What are the kids like here? I know I’m starting school a few weeks late and I just don’t want them to think I’m a loser.” “Well, some of them are OK. But a lot of them are real jerks. A lot of them are into their stupid stuff and bragging about all their money and girlfriends. Some of them think that by putting other people down, it makes them all high and mighty and tuff. I don’t think many of them are saved, or if they are, they sure don’t act like it. I had a roommate for the first two weeks who didn’t like me and would tell shit about me to everyone else. And some of the kids are only friends with the ones in their little group, like the football players or the kids who make believe they’re potheads. I dunno, I don’t want to make it seem all bad here, and there are good kids, too. Just try not to get on people’s bad side.” There was a moment of silence, and then Ricky continued “You know, before I didn’t think I really cared, but now that you’re here, I’m glad I’m gonna have a roommate again.” There was again some silence as Tom absorbed all this. He finally said “Well, OK. Thanks. I’m really tired now. It’s been a hell of a long day.” “Goodnight, Tom,” replied Ricky as he rolled onto his side. Tom climbed back up the ladder to the top bunk and knew that something felt so good, but he couldn’t figure out what it was for what seemed like the longest time. Finally it came to him. This boy had called him by his name. Not “maricon”, not “Oye! Tu!”, not “imbecil”, or some other Spanish insult. He had called him by his name in a friendly way. Tom tried to remember if or when any other kid had called him by his name before in such a nice way. He closed his eyes and as he drifted into sleep, repeated the word, repeated his name in his mind in the voice of his new friend (now there was no doubt—this was a friend), exactly the way he had said it. Tom. Tom. With this thought in his head, darkness and sleep overtook him. PART 5 Less than a minute after the wake-up bell rang (Tom thought it was set way too loud), Dad knocked on the door and walked into the boys’ room. “Hi kids. You guys sure are lazy this morning!” he said cheerfully. Ricky made some sort of grunting noise and Tom opened his eyes and greeted his father. “Come on, Tom. Up you go. Hey, just think how lucky you are. Ricky and everyone else have classes right after breakfast. All you have to do is ride back to Abuela’s house with us. Pretty easy, right?” Both boys were now awake but not showing much sign of movement. Dad shook his son a few times and tickled him right where his bottom ribs met the side of his stomach. That had always gotten him moving since he was tiny, and it still worked. Ricky also kicked off his blankets and started getting dressed. “I’m hungry,” said Tom. “Can we have breakfast here?” “Sorry kid, but I have to be back in Greensboro before 12 for a conference call. We’ll eat something on the road. “ In a moment Tom was dressed and ready to go. “Nice to have met you, sir. See you Sunday, Tom,” said Ricky as they were about to leave. “Right. Bye now,” replied Tom with a little wave. Once again, the sound of his own name, said by another boy in a good way, washed over him like delicious cool water on a sweaty summer day. Ricky started moving faster, as on school days breakfast was only 15 minutes after wakeup bell, and anyone who was late had to wait at the end of the line. Anyone who was more than 10 minutes late didn’t get breakfast at all. Very few boys made that mistake more than once! Ricky Spann was almost ten months older than Tom, and even though Tom and many others didn’t know it, had caused a lot of problems in his time. Not intentionally, of course. He was a considerate boy who would never try to do anything harmful. But his life had taken a very strange course to lead him to start at St. Brendan’s just a few weeks before. He was an absolutely strikingly handsome boy. Handsome in the way girls would turn their heads to stare at him, and then go into little girl-giggling fits with their friends afterwards. Like many other people who are physically very attractive, he really didn’t think of himself that way. He just was. He had golden blond hair that was not plastered to his head, but a bit fluffy, with body. He wore his hair a bit longer than most boys, not like some throwback hippie but over most of his ears and down to about his shirt collar. His eyes were some sort of mysterious green color. The boy also smiled easily, which just further highlighted his appearance. He had grown a shocking 9 inches in height from the beginning of 7th grade to the beginning of 8th, and was now a bit over 5’7” tall. Only a few other 8th graders were taller. Ricky’s parents were Californians who were both involved in their young adult years with the development of hardware and software products just as the computer age was really beginning. They even knew Bill Gates. They were some of those Silicon Valley young start-up whizzes who arrived on the scene just at the right time. They had made a lot of money, but decided that they wanted to live somewhere a bit simpler, with a slower pace. They had their first son, Ricky’s older brother, 8 years before Ricky was born. They took a vacation east one summer, with little Matthew in tow, driving all through the Smoky Mountains, up and down the Blue Ridge Parkway, and fell in love with the area. They decided to settle there. Their jobs now were just ordinary, but they were happy. Dad was the IT director for a hospital in Asheville, and Mom worked only part-time in the human resources department of the public school system. When Matthew was 11 and Ricky was only 3, these brilliant but down-to-earth and humble people were dealt their first cruel blow. They didn’t deserve it, but there is still no answer to the age-old mystery of why bad things happen to good people. Matt suddenly sickened badly, and was diagnosed with childhood leukemia. By the time it was discovered, he was already beyond help. He died within a couple months. Ricky didn’t really remember his older brother, but he had his own problems that surfaced within the next couple years. He was very, very slow to talk, and even at age 5-6, said hardly anything most of the time. He would sing songs that his parents had never heard of, and didn’t know where he could have picked up. When he did speak, it was with a slight southern accent, which his parents had no idea where he could have learned. They were Californians and didn’t have a trace of it. The little boy started kindergarten and then first grade, but was much slower than the other kids to read and write. He seemed sometimes in his own world, and would pretty much ignore what was happening around him, just focusing on singing something or on a toy he had. His pediatrician was the same man who had treated Matthew, and partly through this shared tragedy, had become close friends with Ricky’s parents. This doctor and various specialists in the area could find nothing physically wrong with little Ricky, and his hearing seemed normal. They thought of autism, and took him to various specialists as far away as Atlanta, but that wasn’t it. Did he have some learning disability or mild mental retardation? As the boy progressed through grade school, he did improve some. His attention span was way below normal, but when he finally got down to working, he could do almost average work. He wasn’t hyperactive or anything, just sometimes in his own world. The pediatrician warned against treating him with Ritalin or similar medications, because he felt they could cause more harm in his case. Then, just at the start of 4th grade, there was a breakthrough. Not really as far as schoolwork, but as far as finding out what made the little guy tick. Mom and Dad were at a town Labor Day picnic with him, and there was a local amateur band playing folk music on the grass in front of everyone. Ricky stared and stared at them, and during a break, he asked one of them if he could try playing his guitar. Somehow, incredibly somehow, he took this way too big instrument in his hands and played back a couple of the band’s tunes almost perfectly, and sang the words louder than he had ever spoken in his life. Mom and Dad, as well as a few dozen people nearby, were just shocked. Where and how had he learned to do this? More and more surprises were to come over the next few weeks. In school, Ricky went to music class and after just minutes of observation played the violin as well or better than kids who had been taking lessons for two years. The music teacher called his parents and asked who had taught him so far, and Mom and Dad had no answer. There had never been a violin in the house! Where did he get this strange and amazing gift? Soon the boy learned to connect on the internet to streaming music sites. He seemed to prefer bluegrass or folk music, though he probably could have played any style he felt like. This kid who couldn’t even remember what his teacher was saying ten seconds ago could soon remember dozens upon dozens of lyrics and tunes. His parents first rented, then bought him a guitar, violin, and banjo. He’d spend hours practicing and sometimes would invent his own tunes. All this didn’t help his schoolwork that much. He had the same problems paying attention, though as he grew from 4th to 6th grade, he did become much more verbal, talking as much as any other kid, and reading reasonably well. He didn’t have any close friends, though. No one hated him, but the kids thought he was a bit of a “retard” and a weirdo who was off on his own private planet. Ricky didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t bother the other kids, but played with them very little after school. His playmate was his music. His parents worried that perhaps this musical gift was isolating him too much from the rest of the world. Near the end of 6th grade, there were more specialists, more neurologists, and more seemingly conflicting opinions. His parents were constantly hassling with their health insurance people, struggling to get these huge bills covered. They asked their trusted friend, the pediatrician who knew Ricky well, to go through all the reports and try to interpret everything. Their son wasn’t really unhappy, but he wasn’t really progressing well in any area except his music. “We probably know less about the brain than we know about any other part of the human body,” said the doctor. “The good news is that we have totally ruled out any form of autism, any form of retardation, or any neurological damage. He’s had some developmental delays, and these were manifested in his slowness to talk, read, and write. But he’s pretty much overcome these. Some of the time, he’s a real chatterbox! What seems clear is that for some reason, which we’ll likely never know, the creative, musical side of his brain is far more advanced than the logical side. Sometimes if some senses are weak, the brain compensates by making the others stronger. He’s able to pick up sound patterns and internalize them like few people can. That’s probably how he developed his southern accent. He heard it somewhere outside the home and it just became part of him instantly.” “I guess we’re all wondering what his future holds, and what we can do. I just think we have to accept him as he is. Let’s be grateful for the incredible progress he’s made. Remember when he was 5, when we didn’t know if he’d ever talk correctly? Or when we thought he’d never read, when we thought he’d be in special ed for his whole school career? I think we’ve got to just realize that sometimes he hears that old “different drummer”, and we just have to love him and celebrate what he is. I would like to see him mix more with other kids. I’m a bit worried that he’ll become accustomed to being on his own so much, and not learn social skills. Maybe we can use his music to facilitate this. Why don’t you bring him to open mike at Flaherty’s some time, or see if you can find him some other musicians to jam with? I sometimes think that maybe I’m too personally close to you and to him to be his pediatrician, but you guys know I’m an old-timer, and my patients are much more than just customers to me.” 7th grade was to be a year of change for Ricky. Some of the changes would be obvious, like his shooting up in height and his entering and blasting right through puberty. There were, however, some special incidents that his parents certainly couldn’t foresee, and that would shape his young adolescent life. PART 6 The first thing Ricky did early in 7th grade was grow. Sprouted up out of control. His parents found that every time they bought him pants, it seemed like no time until the cuffs were up over his ankles. He was soon quite a bit taller than most of the other boys, and he soon discovered the joys of puberty and masturbation. It was one thing to read about growing up in the health class textbook, but quite another to lie in bed and feel the glorious sensation of leaping off the edge of the earth, feel his whole body being turned inside out with joy, and then repeat the whole procedure the next night! Oh yeah. Ricky thought it was his best birthday present. Girls in 7th grade are often much more advanced than boys, and the girls sure noticed this tall, movie-star handsome blond boy. They knew that he was a little bit weird, but a lot of them had their little secret giggling discussions about him, and would imagine that he was looking at one of them, or smiling at one of them. Many girls who Ricky barely knew claimed that he “liked” them. It was February, and there was to be an important boy-girl party at Melanie Ryan’s house. The girls had been talking about and planning this for weeks, and Melanie’s circle of girlfriends hatched this deep plot to see who could get what off that hot dreamboy Ricky. Along with the cool kids, they invited him and also a couple of the unpopular geek boys, just so Ricky wouldn’t feel suspicious. Then the girls drew straws for who would get to make the first move on him. The others would wait outside the bedroom door, partly to stand guard, partly to listen and witness what could happen. The winning girl was Caitlin. The girls could think of nothing else for the whole week leading up to the big Friday night. Ricky did show up, and the girls began to whisper. Then they pushed Caitlin toward him, and she asked him above the pounding music “Ricky, how’s the party? We couldn’t get beer cause someone would probably spill or tell and Melanie’s parents would know. Hey, can I play you Melanie’s new CD? I bet you could play some of the songs.” She led him down the hall, and the other girls followed at a safe distance. The two of them went into Melanie’s room, sat down on the bed, and then all hell broke loose. Caitlin just put herself all over the very surprised boy, and in an instant she was kissing him. She was a good-sized girl, as tall as Ricky and heavier, and she had him well held down. One of her hands quickly unbuttoned his pants and started exploring. Ricky was not at all into this, had no idea what was up, and couldn’t breathe with his face covered like this. He tried to pull away, and OWWWW!!!! One of Caitlin’s long fingernails got caught in and pulled his newly-grown pubic hair, and he yelped in pain. Then, also accidentally but no less painfully, one of her knees caught him right in the nuts. It all happened so fast. Ricky just wanted to be free, still could hardly breathe, and without thinking, he bit the girl really hard on the inside of her lip. Now it was Caitlin’s turn to scream, much louder than Ricky had. Ricky quickly broke free, adjusted his pants, and ran out of there as fast as he could. His balls didn’t hurt so much any more, but he was embarrassed and felt sick. He ran away from the house crying, and just wandered around the neighborhood for a couple hours, not wanting to go home, not knowing what to do. He knew that the story of what happened would be all over the school Monday. Sure enough, that was the case. There were constant whispers and the kids all looked at him strangely. Ricky could hear the little comments, like boys saying “Shit, if I had Caitlin Johnson all over me, I damn sure wouldn’t bite her! I’d use my mouth, but not like that!” and even grosser stuff. Some of the more cruel kids would make barking noises behind his back. Once someone put dog biscuits in his lunchbox. One day when the kids were supposed to do a science project in groups of four, the teacher assigned him to a group and one of the kids shouted “Mrs. Hanratty, it’s OK if he’s in our group, but can you please tell him to keep his mouth closed? I don’t know if he’s had his rabies shots.” This continued unabated for weeks. Before this, Ricky had never really cared much one way or another what kids thought of him, but this was too much. He would cry a lot at home, and his parents couldn’t figure out why. He didn’t want to tell them the awful secret. The fact that Ricky was a rather passive boy who had never fought anyone just made the other kids bolder in their teasing. But everyone has a limit. One day before last period, Ben Craymore was with a couple other kids, walking in the hall behind Ricky, and was making “Dracula” comments loudly enough so he knew Ricky could hear. Ricky turned around and, uncharacteristically for him, angrily told him to shut the fuck up. Ben pretended to draw back, and said sarcastically, “Oooohhhh, Dracula has a tongue to talk with. I thought he only had teeth. I better watch out!” And Ricky snapped. He never had done anything like this before, but anger coursed through him from toes to face, and he just cocked his fist and smashed the totally unsuspecting Ben right in the jaw. Ben staggered backwards, and before anyone had a chance to react, Ricky quickly bashed him three more times smack on the nose with all his strength, making the back of the kid’s head slam into the metal lockers. There was blood all over Ben’s face and Ricky’s hand. Two teachers were quickly there to hold Ricky back, but Ricky was so shocked at what he’d done that he didn’t need to be restrained. Ben kind of rolled onto his side, made some groaning noise, and the other kids who had gathered round just stared in silence. Ben was taken to the hospital and Ricky to the office. The vice-principal was as surprised as anyone else. Ricky Spann? No way, she thought. She talked to him to try to find out what happened, but all Ricky could do was cry and say again and again that he was sorry. There were only a few minutes left in the school day, and Mrs. Landry reached Ricky’s father at work. Dad was completely taken off guard, and asked her if there was some mistake, if they had the wrong kid. Ricky couldn’t have hit another boy. Mrs. Landry explained what she knew to him, and asked him to come in to school with Ricky tomorrow and stop at the office first before going anywhere. When the boy got home, he went straight to his room and cried. Neither parent could get him to come out and even eat dinner. In the early evening, Mrs. Landry called the house and reported that Ben had suffered a broken nose and a moderate concussion. She agreed with Mr. and Mrs. Spann that this was completely out of character for Ricky, but pending further investigation, she could not allow the boy back in school tomorrow. She also said, and the boy’s shocked parents couldn’t disagree, that at this point it would be best for his own safety if he didn’t come back until Monday. Mom and Dad just didn’t know what to do. About 8:00, Dad went into Ricky’s room and firmly rolled his son onto his back, as he had been on his stomach, still crying. Dad made him open his eyes and told the boy that he had to tell them what happened and right now. Dad was loving with him, but firm that Ricky was to tell him the story. Ricky wanted to. He really did. But how could he start from the beginning? It was just too shameful. The details he did share were confusing to his father. Why on earth would he be getting teased more than he ever had before, and what was up with this “dog” nickname? And Ricky barely knew this Ben kid. Ricky’s story was disjointed and made no sense. Ricky repeated again and again that he was sorry, that he didn’t mean to hurt the kid, and that he would never, ever do it again. Dad figured that he wouldn’t get any more information out of his son tonight, and finally just told Ricky that whatever happened, Mom and Dad loved him and would be on his side. They hugged for a few minutes. The family had a dog of their own, a huge, very affectionate beast who was a mixture of Rottweiler and Mastiff. Ricky had named him “Fluffy” after the guard dog in the first Harry Potter movie. Since Fluffy now weighed close to 150 pounds, they no longer let him sleep in Ricky’s bed, but Dad decided this would be a good time to make an exception, as the boy should have someone with him tonight. He called the creature, who came running and jumped on the bed, slobbering all over his favorite kid. Finally Ricky smiled, dog and boy kissed each other, and Dad left them together to go to sleep. Ricky did go back to school the following Monday, and there was absolutely no more teasing. No one dared even talk to him. He was used to being on his own a lot, but not this much. Once he tried to approach Ben, who was wearing a plastic face mask like some injured basketball players do, and apologize. Ben just walked quickly away, almost running. That Saturday Mom and Dad decided that perhaps they could help clear the air between Ricky, Ben, and Ben’s family. They drove over to Ben’s house. They left Ricky in the car and knocked on the door. Mr. Craymore, a fat guy who looked the part of the prototypical redneck, listened but didn’t invite them in. He heard the Spanns say that Ricky felt awful about what had happened. They said their son knew he was wrong, and begged them to take their word that he was just not a kid who attacked other boys. “Look,” said Ben’s father, “I got nothing against you people. I don’t want trouble with anyone. But my son told me your boy went off like this once before, and I personally don’t think he belongs in public school where he can be dangerous to regular kids. There’s places for kids like him. But we won’t press charges or push this thing if your kid will just stay away from my Ben. Just leave him alone, and we’ll leave all this alone. I’m sorry for you folks, I wish you the best, but please just keep him away from my boy.” Mom and Dad knew this was all they would get out of that family, and there was nothing to do but head home. Bit by bit during the spring, things calmed down, but Ricky kept almost totally isolated from the other kids. He developed some other interests with adults, as they didn’t seem so scared of him. He one day saw a group doing Tai Chi in the park, and he joined them. Also, on some Saturdays he’d take one of his instruments on his bike down to Wal-Mart and sing and play near the entrance for all who passed by. The first time, the store’s security people considered chasing him away, but he didn’t seem to be doing anyone any harm, and people liked to crowd around and listen. He always put a hat down on the ground for donations, and he was proud that he could usually make $10-15 in an afternoon. One Sunday, he was riding his bike aimlessly out in the countryside as he often did. He could ride for hours and hours, sometimes many miles from home. Today he heard singing coming from somewhere, and his right hand slid off the handlebar as he worked out the melody as though he were holding his banjo. It was a happy tune, and lots of people were singing it. As he rode closer, he could make out the words of the chorus. “Leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms. Leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms.” Finally Ricky made it to where the sound had been coming from. It was a fairly small building with a sign that said New Life Victory Church. Pastor Cal Warrington. He parked his bike and walked in. His life would be very, very different before he walked out. PART 7 Ricky didn’t know much about church. Mom and Dad brought him a couple times a year, usually at midnight services at Christmas and on Easter Sunday. They went to a big church in the city, but this new place was much, much smaller and simpler. There were no more than 50 people in the place sitting on white wooden benches. Most seemed to be families with smaller kids, but there were a few people who appeared alone. A nearly bald guy who was definitely older than Dad was up front leading things. Ricky’s entrance didn’t cause any real disruption or change in anything. A few people turned back and smiled at him, and the leader, who spoke in a very thick deep southern accent, said “Welcome, young man!” Then there was a kind of long prayer where the leader read something from a book and everyone else responded with another line. After that there was another song, and of course the music made Ricky feel more at home and comfortable. Then the guy at the front started a kind of speech. To Ricky, it seemed long, but the guy really only spoke for about five minutes. The guy was loud and intense. After a bit, Ricky began listening much more carefully, the words caught his attention much more, and strange feelings started running through his mind and body. “People, it’s not that complicated, it’s not that sophisticated! You don’t need money, you don’t need a job, you don’t need education! Jesus Christ had none of these!! Jesus had nothing but what was in His heart!! And He took the beatings, He took the abuse, He took a lot worse than you’ll ever know! And why?? You know it already in your head, but I want you to know it in your heart!! He did it all for YOU! Not for “the human race”, not for “the United States of America”, not just for some star on American Idol!! He did it for YOU!” the man shouted, pointing a long finger, it seemed, directly at Ricky. Then the guy’s voice softened just a bit. “You can lay down all the weight you carry. You can be forgiven for all you’ve done wrong. You can start a new life right today, right this minute. All you have to do is come to Him. All you have to do is accept Jesus Christ as YOUR personal savior. All you have to do is love Him and serve Him, and He’ll take on all your sorrows. If you’ll just accept Him, He is yours.” The guy’s voice got even slightly quieter. “Is there anyone here today who wants to change your life? Is there anyone here today who wants right here, right now, to accept Jesus Christ into your heart as your own, your very own, personal savior? If there is, I want you to please come forward to me right now.” As this speech went on, Ricky began feeling some strange current going through his body. His hands began to shake a little. He didn’t know what was happening. It was somewhat like when his jerking off would come to a peak, and he would just lose control of his legs as the pleasure raced through him. But it was also different, even deeper, even more strange, and was lasting much longer. Ricky didn’t even realize that his feet were moving and he was walking down the aisle toward the front of the room. He just knew that he wanted so desperately to be forgiven, to be OK, to no longer feel so bad about Mom and Dad taking him to so many doctors, to no longer feel guilty about all those D’s on his report card, to no longer be ashamed about The Bite or The Fight. He got to the front and didn’t realize it, but his mouth was open and he was breathing hard, almost like Fluffy after he played with him. He didn’t even realize that there was an older woman right in back of him. He could feel the leader put his hand on his forehead and squeeze. He couldn’t hear them, but the other people in the church were whispering and buzzing. “Young man, I’ve never seen you before, but you’re here for a reason!! Are you ready, here and now, to take Jesus Christ as your personal savior?” Ricky kind of whispered “Yes, sir”, and he barely heard the guy pray again as he continued squeezing the boy’s sweaty forehead. A moment later, he let go of his head, and Ricky, still sweating and panting, walked to the back and sat down. He felt really, really tired but peaceful. In some ways it was like when he and Fluffy were smaller and he was ready to go to bed with the dog next to him, but he felt even more sleepy and secure. He didn’t even hear the whole procedure being repeated with the old lady who had been behind him. A few minutes later, the service was over, and people started getting up. There was a little picnic being prepared outside, with different people laying out cakes, cookies, soda, and sandwiches. Ricky just wandered outside, not really knowing what he was supposed to do. Various grownups shook his hand and asked him his name. He wasn’t hungry, but was a little confused about what had happened. He was grateful when the pastor came over with his wife and kind of pulled him aside. Ricky kind of felt that he knew this guy, though of course he had never seen him before in his life. The man asked his name, and where he was from. Ricky told him, and the guy said, “For real? That’s 10 miles away if it’s an inch! And you rode all the way here on your bike? Ricky, what made you come here to us today, to give your heart to Jesus?” “Well, sir, it wasn’t….” “Boy, my name hasn’t been “sir” since I was in the Army! My name’s Cal, or if you really want me to feel all important and high and mighty, you can call me Preacher.” His wife laughed. Ricky grinned and was less nervous. “Well, sir, uhh, Cal, it wasn’t really on purpose. I was riding my bike around and I heard people singing. I really like music and play some instruments. I just kind of followed the music. We usually don’t go to church or anything. But like when you talked, I dunno, I just felt something so weird and so cool.” “What you felt, son, was the spirit of the Lord. And now He’ll be part of you forever.” “But that part about all the sins and stuff I’ve done bad, are you sure? I mean I’ve done a lot of really really bad stuff. Worse than you can imagine.” “Oh yeah! I bet you have!! I can remember when my son was your age, and I remember all the stuff he did!! Thought he’d send his mom and me to an early grave! I bet you’ve done more sins than you could count with a calculator!” “Hmm, I don’t know about that many, but I’ve done plenty.” “I know, Ricky, and you can tell it all to Jesus. All of it. Every bit. He’ll take it, He’ll take your detentions, He’ll take your punishment. You know it now. He went up there on that cross just for you, Ricky. And all you have to do is love and serve Him.” “What do I do now?” “I have something for you,” said Cal, who went back inside and brought out a small leatherbound Bible. “Why don’t you read this, bit by bit, and try to grow up the right way, the way Jesus intended, and make your life a witness to His love.” “Well, I can’t buy this now, I didn’t bring any….” “Ricky, this Bible isn’t for sale. Remember when I told you you didn’t need money or anything else? This is a gift to you, maybe the best gift you’ll ever receive.” “Thanks, Cal. I never really…” Cal was really nice, but he did have an annoying habit of interrupting people. “Don’t thank me, Ricky, it’s not me giving it to you. It’s from Someone a lot more important than me, Someone who can give you a lot more than I ever could.” They talked for a couple more minutes. Cal was curious about how Ricky had made it here without his parents, and hoped that the boy would bring Mom and Dad one day. He also invited the boy to bring his guitar or banjo one day, and he could play for the service. Ricky went home and spent more and more time reading the Bible he had been given. Fortunately, it was a version in modern language, without any confusing “thou” or “hast” or verbs ending in “eth”. And Ricky was by now an OK reader, almost average in 7th grade. The experience didn’t change much outwardly in Ricky’s life. He was still the scary outcast in school, the kid no one would go near. Except now, he was engrossed in his Bible as well as his music, and sometimes would talk about it to the very few kids he did still occasionally talk to. He was now seen as not only a scary weirdo, but a scary Jesus Freak weirdo. There were no more fights, and he kept his grades at a C minus average. Mom and Dad were a bit suspicious of this new religion thing of his, and were very suspicious of this Cal guy who Ricky talked about all the time and went to see on his bike every Sunday. One Sunday Ricky had his parents drive him to the church. Mom and Dad were wary of all this, as they were really liberal new age people, extremely suspicious of fundamentalism, and were angry that maybe these people were brainwashing an impressionable boy. But they got to meet Preacher Cal, had a long talk with him while Ricky practiced some tunes, and they were impressed with his down-to-earth and kindly nature. Cal was not actually an ordained minister, but a dispatcher at a local trucking company. Cal heard that Ricky was being made fun of because he was “spreading the word” perhaps too much, and in Mom and Dad’s presence, he told Ricky that it was OK to tone it down with the other kids. “You know, Ricky, some Christians believe that you should shove Jesus in everyone’s face, that you should tell the whole world to join us and be saved. I don’t think like that. I think that each person who wants to come to the Lord has to do it in his own time and in his own way. Just like you did on your bike. And we have to respect that a lot of other people have their own way of thinking that may not be the same as ours. So don’t worry about going out and trying to make everyone like us. Just live your life well, learn from your Bible, and always know that your parents love you very much.” Yes, his Mom and Dad did love him very much. Fate would soon take the boy far away from this simple church and far away from this simple yet devoted amateur preacher. PART 8 Spring passed without any big incidents in Ricky’s life, but his parents just still felt uneasy about his progress. They knew that kids could be cruel, and that as kids grew into teenagers, this cruelty could harden into attitudes that got permanent. They didn’t want Ricky to pass the rest of his school life as the weirdo who people were afraid of. They thought that maybe a change of scenery would be what he needed. Boarding school was expensive, and it would be a factor in their finances, but they could swing it, at least for a year to see how things went in 8th grade. But where? There weren’t many prep schools that took 8th graders, and Ricky’s academic credentials were pretty weak. Mom studied and researched online, and they found St. Brendan’s. All the literature and references suggested that it might be too academically demanding for Ricky, but then again, their instrumental music program was among the best in the country. Maybe he could really develop there. Mom and Dad went down there one weekend without the boy, and they were impressed by the beauty of the campus, the seemingly reasonable balance between classes, sports, and free time, and of course by their discussion with Headmaster Carlisle (who would use virtually the same words a few months later to convince the Kleins!). So through June, Mom and Dad wracked their brains, trying to arrive at a final decision. They talked at length to their close friend, Ricky’s pediatrician. He said that basically there was no way to predict how the boy would react there, how he’d react to being on his own. It could work—it was certainly true that by 8th grade, a teenager’s reputation among his peers is pretty solidly entrenched, and wouldn’t change much among those who knew him. He did caution them not to have any tremendous expectations. Often a change in geography didn’t really change a person, and the same problems could occur anywhere. They also decided to talk it over with the boy’s adult friend, Preacher Cal. Strangely, Mom and Dad had become friendly with this guy and his wife Gloria. It was weird, as these people were from such different backgrounds, had such different levels of education, and had experienced such different lives. And the Spanns thought these screaming religious services were corny at best, but these folks were honest, salt-of-the-earth people, and they trusted them. If Ricky was to have another hobby besides music, they supposed he could find worse things than this. Ricky had planned to play and sing at next Sunday’s service, and was practicing all week. Mom and Dad asked to come to the service to hear him, but they also put the boy’s bike in the car. They asked Ricky to ride his bike back home afterwards, as they would want to talk to Cal for awhile and do some other errands. During that service, they saw their son in a way they’d never seen him before. Sometimes parents are so caught up in the little and not-so-little demands of parenting that it’s tough for them to see their child in perspective, tough to find pleasure in observing him. Mom and Dad were responsible day after day, week after week, for feeding him, nagging him to pick up his clothes, nagging about homework, dealing with dentists and shopping and laundry for him, and so many other tiny details. It was rare that they really had a chance to take it easy and just enjoy their unusual but beautiful son. Today would be one of those few precious chances. Ricky, despite having little interaction with his peers, was by no means shy. And Mom and Dad could soon see that he was a born entertainer! Now that they could relax in the church pew for an hour with no pressure, they saw how truly physically handsome and incredibly talented he was. Ricky gave a little verbal intro, performed two numbers, and had that congregation totally under his control. He first performed a slow Negro spiritual, and Mom and Dad were amazed by what he could do with that singing voice, how he got his listeners to smile and sway their bodies with his music. Without knowing it, Mom put her hand inside Dad’s and they just looked at each other as though to say “what a kid we have!” Then came a rowdy, rollicking version on the banjo of “Every Time I Feel the Spirit” and he got those Bible-banging churchgoers rockin’ and rollin’ and feelin’ happy. He and the singing congregation shook that old wooden building down to the foundation! And lastly, totally unexpectedly, when the song ended and the noise calmed, he looked at all the people and said, unusually loudly for him, “Thank you for helping me out today as we raise our voices to the sky! And I want to give a special thanks today to my Mom and Dad sitting there for, well, just about everything I can think of. I love them soooo much. Well, my throat is getting a little tired, so I think I’ll just sit down and shut up, and I hope you liked the music.” A few people turned around to look at the kid’s parents, and Mom was completely in tears. Dad just smiled and gently shook his head with pride. After the service, they put Ricky’s instruments in the car and he took off on his bike. Mom and Dad talked at length to Preacher Cal about their son’s history, their concerns, and their consideration of sending him away to St. Brendan’s. Cal listened for awhile and his comments were simple and to the point, though not very specific. “You folks know I’m not a professional counselor or minister. If Ricky goes away, we’ll miss him and we’ll think about him all the time. He’s a great kid. You know, as his parents you’re naturally trying to take all factors into account, trying to weigh up your options. But sometimes we can try to take too many things into account, to overanalyze decisions we have to make. I can’t really offer you any advice other than this—look into your hearts. Don’t think too much, just feel. You’ll make the right decision for him.” After some discussion with Ricky, the decision was made, and Ricky entered St. Brendan’s School on September 4. It was very new for him, and there were many adventures and many setbacks in his first few weeks. One of the first new things was regular sports every day after classes. Ricky had the potential to be a pretty good athlete, though he never really was into sports much. He wasn’t a competitive or aggressive kid. In 4th through 6th grade, he had been in the town’s age-group diving program, and was decent though nowhere near great. He quit in 7th grade as he grew so fast that he got all out of balance. The first day of sports, the basketball coach noticed his height and suggested that he take basketball. Even though he hadn’t played much before, the coach was salivating because in drills, he could see that Ricky had physical tools. The boy was coordinated, fairly quick, and a good jumper. However, it was soon obvious that he had absolutely no instincts for the sport. Things would happen around him that he’d either ignore or not interpret right. Sometimes he’d get the ball and fire up a 3-pointer that had not a chance in hell. Other times he’d be under the hoop for an easy layup, get nervous and look for someone to pass to, and get called for 3 seconds. He’d sometimes look at one opponent with the ball while the kid he was supposed to guard escaped for an easy hoop. For a few days, the coach yelled at him a lot, and then, seeing that Ricky was a bit sensitive and just wasn’t much good, he softened up and just let him play. Coach figured that he might “get it” one day and that for now he’d use him in games only sparingly, in situations where Ricky wouldn’t get embarrassed. There was also a situation with his roommate, a black kid named Jeremy Latham (the boy’s real name was Jermaine, but he preferred the whiter-sounding name for school purposes). Jeremy had started the school in 7th grade, and was a really highly motivated kid and a top student. He was from Atlanta, and was on half scholarship. Jeremy just felt really uncomfortable rooming with Ricky. Without knowing it, Ricky sometimes jerked off too loudly and indiscreetly at night, shaking the bunk bed. That and stuff like the Tai Chi, the weird hillbilly music he played all the time (and sometimes sang softly to himself during study time, which bothered Jeremy no end), the strange motivational religious posters he put up above his desk, it was all too much for Jeremy. Jeremy didn’t want to cause any trouble—he knew he was on scholarship. But he went to Mr. Conroy (who was residential director for Battell Hall) and begged to be transferred to another room. Except for the loud jerking off stuff (Jeremy toned that complaint down, instead saying that Ricky snored, though Mr. Conroy could read between the lines and was pretty sure what Jeremy was talking about), he told Mr. Conroy everything. But he also said, quite truthfully, that he didn’t have anything against Ricky, that he wasn’t a bad guy or anything. They didn’t fight or have any conflicts. Jeremy just said that living with him gave him the creeps. Jeremy said he could still be friends with him, but really, really wanted a different room. Normally the school made very few roommate changes once school started. Mr. Conroy thought that kids should learn to work things out, and once one kid moved, other kids would try to switch around so often that there would be no continuity. And in this case, he was worried about how Ricky would feel. But after some discussion, Jeremy was allowed to move into an empty triple room with two other kids—the 8th grade had extra space, and there were two rooms big enough to be converted into triples just for situations like these. Mr. Conroy hoped that eventually another kid would enroll so Ricky wouldn’t have to remain alone. And life went on. None of the kids disliked Ricky in any way. He was just thought of, probably quite accurately, as a good, easygoing kid who was just a little off, who marched to his own different beat. And he very rarely hung out with the group. Ricky, despite his awful grades in classes, was not a stupid kid, and knew what the deal was. He adapted, was basically OK, and then there was the day he met Tom. The morning Tom went back to Greensboro, Ricky started counting the hours until Tom would come back, and prayed and prayed that nothing bad would happen and Tom would really return. He realized now how badly he needed that little guy to be with him, to be his roommate and to be the first best friend Ricky had ever had in his life. The hours counted down until Sunday. PART 9 The Kleins left Greensboro before 6 AM because they wanted Tom to have plenty of free time Sunday to get used to things before he’d start classes Monday. Ricky, of course, had no idea when and even if they’d come, and was more nervous throughout the weekend than he’d ever been in his life. But he didn’t think they’d get there so early on Sunday. The required church service was just ending when their car rolled up, and Ricky jumped into the air when he saw them all outside unloading Tom’s stuff. He ran down the hill to Battell and everyone greeted everyone else happily. Mom and Dad didn’t want to hang around for long, partly because they had a long drive back and partly because they just wanted Tom to get into the routine. The goodbyes were loving but not lingering. Tom spent Sunday just getting used to things slowly and letting Ricky show him around the whole beautiful sprawling campus. It really was a special place. Above the sports fields were what seemed like miles and miles of forest, with winding trails where someone could walk (or run) forever. There wasn’t a whiff of city pollution to be smelled, no noise of traffic to be heard. The fall breeze made a ruffling noise through the branches of the willows. Scattered all over were little wooden benches for kids to just hang out, and there were lots of colorful flower gardens that were well-maintained by the groundskeepers. The buildings were all rough stone, some of them really covered with ivy. The sports complex was closed, but through the window Ricky showed Tom the pool. Tom knew they had one, but hadn’t known it was so big. He had always liked swimming since he was little. On weekends, the kids had tons of free time. Sometimes the school would organize movie or mall trips for kids who wanted. There was also the small town of Ripton about 4 miles away, and often kids walked or biked there, usually in an earnest but not always successful quest for girls, beer, or weed. So unless there was a home football game, the campus was usually less than half full at any given moment on a Saturday or Sunday. The only required things on Sunday were church in the morning and study hall after dinner. After lunch Father Ray showed up at the boys’ room while Tom was doing more unpacking, and he hung out with the two boys for much of the afternoon. They all spent about two hours at Riley’s Field—Ricky practiced some fiddle (though he called it “violin” when he played classical stuff), Father Ray showed Tom some card tricks, and Tom told them some stupid Spanish jokes. Tom felt happy and accepted—he knew it wouldn’t always be this fun, but today was such a cool, stress-free afternoon. His heart felt light and free. Maybe Father Ray is a pervert, Tom thought, but he’s nice. Before dinner, Tom asked Ricky if he could go for a run. He just felt like exploring on his own, maybe for only a half-hour or so. Wow, it was so neat up there in the highest part of the campus. The trails were mostly pine straw. Tom had never run on anything other than concrete or occasionally on grass in Buenos Aires. This new surface felt like soft cotton or velvet to his feet, and he felt he could run all day and night if he felt like it. He had fun for a few minutes getting himself lost on the winding, up and down trails, as they all looked pretty much alike. But of course all he had to do was head downhill and he’d eventually see the main part of the campus again. At dinner Ricky and Tom ate in their regular place, apart from the majority (who were the cool kids), but they were joined by a couple other kids from their grade who were obviously kind of geeky but friendly enough. There was study hall, but Ricky claimed he didn’t have much homework so the boys mostly just talked and laughed about the stupid things that boys laugh about. Tom showed his friend his favorite toy, a hand-held chess computer the size of a small opened book. He could put in positions and analyze variations, or play games against its various levels. Ricky didn’t know how to play, but looked it over. Tom said he used to bring it with him to class so that if class was too boring he could study it—it could easily be hidden behind a notebook. Tom was hoping that Father Ray would come to see them and say goodnight, but it wasn’t his turn. Instead Mr. Conroy (who Tom would later grow to dislike) told them when it was time to sleep. He wasn’t unpleasant, but he wasn’t special like Father Ray. Tom was dead tired after this long, long day. Lying in his top bunk, he repeated to himself his parents’ advice—take it slow, try to make one friend at a time, don’t try to impress everyone, just…..and he was asleep. Monday morning early, of course, that damn wakeup bell rang and the regular school routine started. Tom found most of the classes very easy, though there was one that would be challenging, mechanical drawing. He had never taken that and got confused about the different views of the thing they were doing. One day they tried it on the computers, and that was even tougher. Only about half his classes were with Ricky. He also would have one longer elective class per day. These were really more like clubs, with kids in them from all different grades. He chose chess, and of course Ricky had instrumental music. Tom was too scared to eat with anyone besides Ricky, but Tuesday and Wednesday in free time before lunch he went without his best friend to the 8th grade common room where the cool kids were gathered around the foosball table. They let him in, let him get in line and play, and weren’t mean, but they certainly didn’t take any special interest or really welcome him. Tom thought most of their conversations were boring—mostly about girls’ tits and pussies or about beer, like how and when they’d get some and who did what when he got drunk enough. Tom thought they were posers (his word for people who act all big just to impress people). But he didn’t say anything stupid and sometimes pretended to laugh along. Tom’s favorite time of the day was evening. For the first three school nights, the boys went up to Riley’s after study hall (or during, when they could escape), and Ricky would blow him away with his awesome music. Tom was beginning to understand the differences between bluegrass, Celtic, gospel, and classical. Ricky was great at them all. Ricky tried to get Tom to sing along, and Tom tried, but would always forget a word or would come in a half-note too early or too late. Ricky laughed at how clueless he was. Tom wasn’t used to getting laughed at and LIKING it, but because he was laughing at himself at the same time, it felt good. On Monday and Tuesday night, Father Ray came in to see them after he was done with all the other kids and sat with them until they were ready to sleep. Monday he taught Ricky a song, really more like a tune. It was a peaceful Irish melody called “Slane”. First Father Ray sang it with no words, just la-la-la, and then Ricky joined him. Tom was worried that Mike and Rusty next door might get mad, but they didn’t hassle. Then Tuesday night Father Ray told them a story, something about a Bible character named Job. It wasn’t as good as having Dad put him to bed, but it was still reassuring to the younger boy. Around Ricky and Father Ray, Tom didn’t feel he had to pose or act any certain way except like himself. Wednesday night was different. Another teacher was on duty, and Tom didn’t go to sleep quite so easily. Then, about a half-hour after lights out, there was some strange noise and shaking that Tom couldn’t figure out, and was a bit scary. His first thought was maybe an earthquake. He looked over the side of the bunk and saw Ricky with his eyes closed but moving up and down, back and forth, and breathing all hard, almost grunting. So THAT’S what was going on, and Tom laughed to himself so hard he almost fell out of the bunk. The noise and shaking kept going, and Tom thought, “Well, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!” Tom had learned how over the summer. A few moments, then the oh-oh feeling, then the arrrrrRRGGggggg feelings, then the mmmmmmm feeling, and THEN he was deep in dreamland! It had been a happy and successful first few days for Tom in his new school. But Dad was right, that there would be bad times, too. As the exhausted boy slept peacefully, he had no idea that the very next morning, they would start. PART 10 Social studies class was 2nd period, and it held enough of Tom’s interest that he didn’t need to look at his chess computer to avoid getting bored and squirmy. Mr. Milroy had an overhead projector diagram up about the Constitution and the jobs of the three branches of government. He asked how it was possible to change the Constitution, and the kids dutifully chorused “Amendments”. But Tom noticed something, and an idea came into his head. Sometimes having ideas was his downfall. He raised his hand and said “But Mr. Milroy, sometimes the Constitution can change without amendments. Like look where it says Congress is the branch that can declare war. Well, in the last few decades it’s really been the President who’s had that job. Congress didn’t declare war in Vietnam, and there’s not even an official war right now in Iraq. There’s no sovereign country to fight against. And a bunch of times in between the President has just done stuff to attack other countries on his own, like when President Reagan bombed Libya, or when we went into Afghanistan after 9/11. I know it says officially that Congress declares war, but isn’t it really the President these days who decides if and when we attack someone?” Mr. Milroy was only 23 years old, and it was his first year at St. Brendan’s. Like many other teachers, keeping the kids calm in class was a constant effort for him, though he was a quick thinker and usually successful. Also like many teachers, he sometimes needed about 5 eyes and 8 ears to deal with all the stuff that was happening in a classroom with 21 playful young teenagers. Here, he was forced to concentrate on a few things—he was surprised that a boy had that kind of insight and wanted to think about what Tom had said, he had to deal with a few kids whose feet were starting to kick and whose erasers were starting to fly, and had to deal with kids who were beginning to make fun of this new kid who was way above them intellectually. OK, OK, the teacher thought, don’t panic. Walk and buy time. Mr. Milroy started to walk around the room, which usually had the positive effect of getting the kids near him to behave, at least temporarily. He’d need a moment to think. “Well, Tom, why do you think this is? Why do you think things have changed so much?” “I dunno, maybe it’s that people want to feel that they have one guy in charge instead of a whole committee of 535 guys and they don’t know who most of them are. Especially when we’re under a threat from terrorists and people that we can’t really identify. It’s not like in the World Wars when we KNEW who the enemy was. My Dad works for the State Department, but he really doesn’t know President Bush that well. He only met him once for just a few minutes. But he says that even if people don’t always like President Bush, they always know…” Mr. Milroy knew that he’d better shut this kid up fast because the other kids were making gross faces and noises at him and control would only last so long. “Tom, let’s listen to what the other guys think of your point. Justin, what do you think about what Tom said?” Justin answered instantly, and other kids’ comments started flying thick and fast. “Oh yeah, Mr. Milroy, whatever he said, sounds good to me.” “Hey, Mr. Milroy, why didn’t you have your notebook open? How can you learn anything if you don’t take good notes?” “Or maybe his dad could get you a job. He’s friends with the President. Probably pays more than you make here.” “We’re lucky to have a wizard of this kid’s powers here at Hogwarts.” The teacher changed activities quickly and skillfully so Tom wouldn’t be further teased. “OK, that’s enough!! Let’s try some reading aloud. Jeremy, can you pick up on page 42 about the amendments, and let’s hear each kid read two of them.” Mr. Milroy knew that the kids liked to read aloud, and it was usually enough to deflect their attention from any evil mischief that they had been doing or considering. Unfortunately, Tom didn’t have the social skill to even realize what the other kids were thinking, to realize that they felt he was trying to show off. Just before lunch, in Spanish class, it happened again. With a couple exceptions, most kids’ Spanish was about at the level of “Como estas?” or “Muy bien.” Tom was of course fluent, and saw that the teacher was discussing a poster with various world records. “Hay alguien que puede contarnos algo de unos records mundiales?” asked Mr. Hoffman. The teacher was greatly overestimating the Spanish comprehension of these kids, who understood almost nothing he was saying. Tom quickly answered, “Bueno, Barry Bonds se esta acercando al record de cuadrangulares de Hank Aaron. El record es 755 y ahora falta como 40. Pero muchos dicen que su marca no vale porque ha usado drogas esteroides. Y he leido en “Guinness Book of World Records” que hace como ochenta anos, habia un hombre en Illinois, el hombre lo mas alto en el mundo, que midio casi 9 pies! 8 pies 11 pulgadas! Pero creo que Bobby lo va a alcanzar muy pronto!” Bobby was by far the tallest kid in the 8th grade, at 6 foot 2 towering high over even Ricky. Tom thought he was being friendly and making a little joke by saying that soon Bobby might soon take over the title of World’s Tallest Person. But Bobby, who had been daydreaming peacefully until the sound of his name jolted him alert, glared angrily at the newcomer. Immediately after class, Bobby cornered Tom, and was furious. Except on the basketball court, where he was the star, Bobby was not an aggressive kid. He certainly wasn’t a bully, but he didn’t like being talked about by this rodent (Bobby’s word for small kids) he didn’t really know, who was showing off in another language. “Hey kid, what’s up with you? I don’t appreciate you talking shit about me, especially when it’s something only you understand. I never did anything to bother you, so what the hell do you think you’re doing? You might do better to shut up a little more, you know.” Oh no, Tom thought, why, why, WHY??? He knew he’d done it again. All he did was have an idea, but it had come out so wrong. Tom apologized to the huge kid (Tom’s eyes were around the level of the lower part of Bobby’s chest), said that he was just trying to make a joke, he didn’t mean anything bad, and went on and on way too long while trying to fight back the tears that were beginning to form. Bobby, for his part, was taken aback by how profusely this little kid was apologizing and begging forgiveness. “Yeah, yeah, all right, no big deal. Just chill, forget it, man. Just don’t talk crap about people, that’s all.” That evening after study hall, it was raining too hard for Ricky and Tom to head outside, so Tom decided to join the cool kids in the common room at the foosball table while Ricky practiced his music and did his Tai Chi. He got in line for a game, and was stared at a bit, but after a couple games got his turn. His partner was Jeremy (Ricky’s former roommate), and the opponents were two football players. The smaller kids were losing, but Tom quickly scored twice to narrow the margin. He made the mistake of pumping his fist and making a little “yeah boy!!” celebration. The other kids started in with comments like “Hey, Ryan, you better lose to him or he’ll have his friend the President bomb your house.” “But maybe the kid’s a spy from Mexico. Talks the language.” “Yeah, half of the death metal group Spic and Spann.” “Hey, we’re just a bunch of Americans, what do we know?” Tom didn’t realize that their intentions were not necessarily vicious—the kids ragged on each other too, ragged on their best friends sometimes. It was just a way that boys of that age exercised their growing minds, much as they played games and climbed on things to exercise and test their growing bodies. He should have just laughed it off, and probably the other kids would have, too. No, Tom didn’t know this. He could feel the hate rising in him, but he tried desperately to be cool. He failed badly. The game ended in a loss, and he fired back angrily “I’m as American as any of you fuckers, but at least I’m not ignorant!” Tom also had another bad habit--he would sometimes lapse into Spanish without thinking, especially when he was mad or upset. He wanted to get out of there, started walking away, and said, facing away from the others, “Ya me voy. Ustedes maricones no valen la pena.” Now things got really serious really fast. PART 11 Quick as a cat, Joey Peroni jumped up and blocked the exit door. He was from New York City, a veteran of the public schools there, and was a tough kid. His grades in Spanish class were poor, but from his time back home, he sure knew what the word “maricon” meant. “Yo, man, you sure got a lot to say when you’re walking away from people. Hey, where I come from, even the Puerto Ricans speak English. You got something to say to someone? How about saying it to our faces? Yo, dog, we’re all your friends here (yeah, right, Tom thought).” Joey posed like some sort of rapper, fingers pointed straight in a wannabe imitation of gang signs. “I said I’m outa here. You guys aren’t worth it.” “Worth WHAT??? You think you’re better than us? We ain’t worth what, your time?” Joey gave Tom a little light chest bump, and all Tom’s insecurity, all the hate in him, all the misery of his time in Argentina, rushed to his head and his temper boiled over. Tom made a fist and smashed Joey hard on the cheekbone below his left eye, feeling the delicious, satisfying crack of bone against his knuckles. Joey was rocked backwards, but recovered quickly and yelled “OK, faggot, now you’ve done it!!” and the two boys were all over each other. The fight was not a mismatch in size or strength. Joey was only a little bit taller than Tom and was also skinny. However, in terms of talent, it was no contest. Joey was used to fighting when he had to in New York, and could take care of himself quite well. Tom was used to fighting, but not used to winning. In fact, he had never actually won a fight, nor even managed a draw. He was more used to receiving ass-kickings, and this would be yet another in the long line of them. Again and again Joey’s fists smashed into his face or stomach, and twice the back of his head was driven into the floor. Flashes of blackness went through his mind with each hit. He flailed away, trying to get a piece of the other kid, but each attempt just brought another smack in the head. After a couple minutes, peacemakers pulled Joey off, and voices said “Come on, Joey, he’s had enough.” Joey stood defiantly, dancing like a boxer, saying excitedly, “I’m cool, I’m cool.” Tom scrambled to his feet. His vision was a bit blurred as his face was covered in a mixture of blood, snot, and tears, but he could see two black arms around his chest, and hear Jeremy saying from behind him “Hey man, you don’t want any more of this. Just mellow, no more.” Joey shouted “Let him go, Jeremy. Hell, if he wants some more, I’ll help him out. I got all night, I’ll give him whatever he needs.” Unfortunately, the peacemaking kids (who Ricky’s Bible said would eventually inherit the earth) were dead wrong. Tom had definitely NOT had enough, and wanted much more of Joey. He slithered out of Jeremy’s grasp, charged at Joey again, and Joey planted a well-aimed karate kick right in his side below his ribs. As Tom doubled over, unable to breathe, a full-strength right-hand punch connected with his mouth. Tom fell down, and this time didn’t have much more fight in him, though there were now three kids holding him down, including Ricky, who had arrived a moment before. “Damn, Ricky!” shouted Jeremy. “I thought you were a little weird, but this new kid is one crazy ass nigga!!” Mr. Conroy had been in his office, but he came running when he heard about the fight. He shouted for order. “HEY!!! THAT’S ENOUGH!! I want all you kids out of here and in your rooms. Joey and Tom, you guys have War Council with me right after breakfast tomorrow!” Mr. Conroy then looked at what remained of Tom, and said more compassionately “Ricky, please take him to bed and clean him up. If you think he needs to see the nurse, bring him, but maybe it’s best just to have him sleep. Remind him about War Council after breakfast.” Ricky put an arm around his friend and led him to their room. He was badly beaten up, but it didn’t look to Ricky that the nurse could do much tonight. He gently helped Tom up the bunk ladder. Tom undressed and just cried and cried. Cried because his face and stomach hurt so much, and cried because all the same problems of before had come back again. He’d thought life was getting better, that all the bad stuff was in the past, but here was another fight, and he was the class jerk again. Why, he asked himself, were you so stupid AGAIN, after all Mom and Dad and Ricky did for you? Everything was closing in on him, that there was no way out of this situation. No way out. Now he knew he had a reputation, and it was forever. If he’d been able to summon the physical strength at this point to run away, he would have. Run, run through the blackness of the Georgia night, run anywhere far away from here. His sobs and wails just wouldn’t let up. There was a pounding on the wall, and their neighbor Mike shouted “Hey, could you two girls quiet down so we can sleep? Ricky, why don’t you show your roommate how to change her tampon so she quits crying and shuts up.” Ricky climbed up the ladder and softly said “Tom, they’re right, no one can sleep like this. Come on down here with me, shhhhh, it’ll be all right.” Tom slowly, with muscles aching, did climb down and lay down next to his bigger roommate. The bottom bunk was too small for two kids to lie side by side on their backs, so Tom lay on his side with Ricky’s arm around his right shoulder. Tom’s right arm was bent at the elbow, draped across Ricky’s chest, with his hand on the left side of Ricky’s collarbone. He felt a bit better, and was totally, totally spent. In his ear, he could feel the beating of Ricky’s heart. It only took a couple minutes for Tom’s breathing to calm down and for him to fall deeply asleep. Ricky kicked off the blankets from their upper bodies as they weren’t necessary because of Tom’s warmth. Ricky had never been physically this close to anyone since The Bite, but this was of course so much warmer and nicer, and he was glad his friend had stopped crying. On many nights Ricky talked or prayed to Jesus before he went to sleep. He usually did this after he’d finished masturbating, as then he was more calm and thoughtful. On this night, he’d taken care of that important ritual earlier, while Tom was playing foosball. He would sometimes just tell Jesus about his day, or ask for forgiveness if he’d done something stupid, or thank Him if something good had happened. He did it silently, but sometimes moved his lips with his words. Usually Ricky only talked to Jesus about himself, but this time he was more concerned about his roommate. “Jesus, please look down on my friend Tom tonight. He’s my best friend, and I’ve never really had a best friend before. Yeah, he shouldn’t have started the fight, I know. It was dumb. But those kids can get fucking nasty when they start in on people. Tom’s Jewish, and he doesn’t know much about You. But that’s OK, isn’t it? I mean You were Jewish, and anyway You love everyone, right? Tom’s just really hurting now, and You remember how bad I was doing after the Bite and the Fight? Hey, Jesus, I’ll tell You what. Let’s do like Coach says in basketball and we’ll play a zone. I’ll really look out for him down here for the next few days, and can You please help him out from up there, too? He’s a good kid, and he’s really important to me. Let’s help Tom through all this. I love You, Jesus. Goodnight.” Ricky squeezed the little kid’s shoulder a bit tighter. PART 12 At wakeup bell, Ricky reached over to get Tom moving, but he wasn’t there. He’d woken up to piss in the night, and was back in his top bunk. Ricky climbed up to see him, and Tom was up and beginning to move. His face looked awful, with one eye swollen shut and other parts plenty messed up, too. The dried blood was by now purplish-black. “Hey,” the big blond kid said. “Come on, Tom, it’s morning. Remember, right after breakfast you have War Council.” “What’s that?” “It’s after there’s a fight, the two kids have to meet with Mr. Conroy and talk about stuff.” “Mmmm. Shit, I can’t fit my glasses on. How do I look?” “You don’t wanna know. Anyway, that’s the last thing you got to worry about. Come on, let’s not be late for breakfast.” The boys got moving and headed to the cafeteria. Just by strange coincidence, when the teacher on duty organized them in line (this job was necessary at each meal to prevent feeding frenzy), Tom was just behind Joey. They stood less than two feet apart and stared at each other. Things got a bit quiet, and someone behind them made a comment “Oh, man, this is gonna be good.” The air was thick with 13 year-old testosterone, and both boys looked as macho as they could, though each boy’s mouth was just beginning to curl upwards at the corners, as each kid was trying not to be the first to laugh at how funny this situation really was. Neither one really wanted to fight anymore. Joey was of course nowhere nearly as banged up as Tom, though he did have a sizable lump under his eye from Tom’s one and only hit. Joey spoke first. “Hey, faggot, where are your glasses this morning? What’s wrong, couldn’t fit them on your face?” Tom shot back “I left them in my room so I wouldn’t have to look so closely at a sick motherfucker like you.” “At least you don’t have to look at yourself in the mirror. You look like dried dog shit.” “Yeah, well in a couple days I’ll look normal, but your face is gonna look like the inside of a gorilla’s asshole as long as you live.” “How are you so expert in gorillas? Can’t get a girl and gotta have something to jerk off to?” “What’s that purple thing under your eye? Justin try to give you a hickey and missed?” During all this, both boys were trying so hard not to laugh, but finally, Joey’s lips parted and he showed his teeth in a smile. “Yeah, yeah, OK, just remember we got War Council next.” War Council was a unique and interesting conflict resolution system that Headmaster Carlisle had developed a few years ago with his residential supervisors. The name was stupid, but the system was excellent, and Jerry Conroy executed it with the skill of a true master. Tom didn’t like Mr. Conroy. He thought he was a poser who acted all tough and macho and football coach just to get respect and fear from little kids. Maybe he was, but he was also a brilliant child psychologist who knew just what made these early-pubertal kids tick, and knew exactly how to get the desired result out of them. He was also scrupulously fair with the boys, and could drop his tough guy act when he needed to, for example when a boy needed to be listened to with more tenderness. In War Council, each boy was required to sit in a chair three feet from the other and facing his enemy. Each boy had to address his comments directly to the other kid’s face, and only one could talk at a time. Hats were prohibited. Mr. Conroy would try to get the kids to agree to change something about their behavior so future fights wouldn’t happen. He tried, if at all possible, to find a way to give each boy at least one comment of sincere praise. At the end, he’d decide if any punishment or consequences were necessary, and he’d make the boys shake hands sincerely (none of this over-macho fist-touching business) and genuinely smile at each other. “OK kids, you know how this works. I want to hear one at a time, starting with Joey. What the hell happened last night? And don’t look at me, look at the other guy.” “We were just talking and all of a sudden he went all wild and hit me. See?” Joey pointed to the lump on his face which still hurt, though he sure wasn’t about to admit it. “He threw the first punch. He started it. Ask anyone. Everyone saw it.” “Yeah, but all I was trying to do was leave and you were in front of the door and wouldn’t move your ass. And I didn’t insult you guys like you guys did to me. You really started it way before.” “Didn’t insult? Whaddaya call ‘maricon’, then? If you didn’t try to act all fucking better than…..” After a couple more exchanges, Mr. Conroy was sure of the key facts of the case. The kids teased Tom, Tom lost his temper and started the fight, and then Joey kicked his ass. No more details were really necessary. Now it was time for him to get the kids to figure out what they could do differently from here on. “Joey, Tom is in his first week here, and I think he just wants to get along. Do you think you can do anything differently so that he feels more welcome and part of us?” “All right, Mr. Conroy, I guess we won’t fuck with him, we’ll leave him alone.” “Joey, that’s one thing, and it’s an improvement, but can you see your way to doing even a bit better? How about you and your group accepting him as one of your friends?” Joey’s shoulders relaxed a bit, and he tilted his head and exhaled deeply. This was good, Mr. Conroy thought. A boy’s mouth often lied, but his body language almost never did. It was clear that Joey was being reflective, dropping the macho act, and really thinking, at least for the time being. “Mr. Conroy, I really think you’re asking a bit too much there. You know, nobody can just force people to be friends. It’s something that just does or doesn’t happen, not like you can just automatically say it.” Joey paused for a moment. “But we’ll be better to him, we’ll give him respect, I promise.” “Joey, that sounds like a really honest thing to say, and I understand your point. I think we can start from there, and see how things go from that base—decency and respect.” Now the teacher turned to Tom. “Tom, from what I’m hearing and seeing, there’s one thing I think you can do differently. Can you think what it is?” “No, sir.” “I think you can try to grow a thicker skin. I think you’re getting yourself all bent out of shape when kids say things about you, but they don’t always mean any harm. Here, the kids always joke around, and if you take it and give it back without getting all mad, they’ll accept you. I don’t think you should be so nervous and quick to take offense. I know you’re really smart, and your teachers say you’re doing great work, but I just want you to be happier. Can you change?” “I’ll try, sir. I really will.” Tom was fighting hard against the impulse to cry, but was doing well and winning. He had it under control. “I don’t want hassles with anyone.” “Good, Tom. But tell it to Joey.” “Joey, I’m sorry for everything. I know I shouldn’t have started it last night. I don’t want trouble. My parents sent me here so I can learn to get along better with kids. Can we just have this thing be over?” “Yeah, OK man. Let’s just…..” Mr. Conroy interrupted. “Joey, I don’t think his name is ‘Man’.” Joey rolled his eyes in classic teenage attitudinal fashion, and stretched out his former enemy’s name sarcastically, but with a grin on his face and without any real hate. “Yeah, OK, Tooommmm. Let’s just move on, it’s over.” “Kids, we’re about done here. I don’t want you to miss any more class time and I don’t think you guys need any punishments. Tom, one look at you tells me you’ve been punished enough and Joey, it’s definitely true that Tom started the fight. If we don’t have any more problems, everything’s OK as far as I’m concerned. Can you guys give each other a good handshake and a smile now? Let’s see it.” The boys did and headed their separate ways to class. Tom didn’t remember this right now, but on his first night at school, when he had cried in Dad’s arms that he was scared and didn’t know what to do, Dad had told him “Son, you’ll learn what to do. You’ll learn.” Bit by bit, Tom was. PART 13 Friday’s classes passed without incident, and Tom had Physical Challenge after school. The school required most kids to be on a sports team after classes, but in the last few years realized that some kids just weren’t cut out for competitive sports and making them be on a team would only embarrass them and drag down the rest of the team. For these fat, slow, lazy, or uncoordinated kids, the school designed a program called Physical Challenge. In theory, the idea was for the teacher to design an individual fitness program for each kid in it, as these were often the kids who needed exercise most in the long term. The kids could do weight training, aerobics, stretching, karate, or other lifetime fitness activities. In late November, the 7th and 8th graders in PC class would also get to swim, as use of the pool was rotated among the various grades. Perhaps fortunately or perhaps not, the 7-8th grade PC teacher didn’t work too hard and didn’t really “design” programs for anyone. He pretty much just took attendance and let the kids play with the universal weight set or climb on gymnastic equipment. Tom was far from lazy or fat, and was definitely not slow, but he was uncoordinated and useless in all team sports, so he chose PC over football, basketball and soccer. He used the time to go running, and he was starting to grow more and more in love with the sport. It had been fun in Argentina, but here on the pine straw, here where no one would bother him for mile after mile, here where the birds and wind would make soothing noises, it was even better. But Tom was a competitive and sometimes intense kid. He liked to just run for fun, but he wanted even more to run to win. One of his favorite movies was the old British film “Chariots of Fire” about the British Olympic sprinters of 1924. He liked the Scottish preacher character, but liked the tough no-bullshit Jew even better. On Wednesday he had seen the cross-country team practice and was not impressed. He knew that cross-country started in 9th grade, but he was curious about how they trained. He trotted along behind some of the kids, and did a lot of watching. Some of the time they walked or screwed around, and it never seemed like they were working hard. One time he saw a couple of them stop to smoke a marijuana joint. No one seemed to push it very much on the uphills. Tom never even saw the coach, and guessed that he just sent the kids off to run on their own. Tom was almost positive he was better than most of them. That Friday, there was to be a home cross-country meet, and Tom decided to watch, and hopefully get to join the team. He’d show these pussies how to run! He was not really an arrogant boy, and knew not to intentionally boast or talk trash out loud, but Tom was a kid who was totally sure of what he was good at. In his mind, he was sure that he could do this. He also could be plenty stubborn at times, and the changes of puberty were making him even more so. The afternoon was one of those special glorious early-fall afternoons that make people young and old just happy to be alive. The sun was bright and the sky was blazing blue. The weather was no longer sultry hot, but just mild enough to be comfortable. The St. Brendan’s kids wore green and yellow nylon uniforms with the letters “Cougars” across the chest, and a figure of a leaping mountain cat just below. Tom thought the uniforms were really cool, and he wanted desperately to wear those colors, too, to be part of the team. One of the kids who looked like an 11th grader had tendonitis so he couldn’t compete, and he was friendly enough to describe the race course to Tom and tell him how a meet worked. They added up the places of the first five runners from each team, and just like golf, low score won. The race course was a bit less than three miles, and consisted of some loops around the athletic fields with one much tougher hilly stretch into the forest above. It was possible to see most of the race, except for the part where the kids would disappear into the woods. The official lined up the runners, about ten from each team. At the gun, the kids took off flying, with the opponents letting out some rebel yells, and the race was on. But after a few minutes, it was obvious that most of the kids were posers, and the pace of all but the top five guys slowed to almost a crawl. And even these guys, though they were working hard, didn’t seem all that fast to Tom. To make things even worse, there was only one Cougar in the lead pack. All the rest were gray-shirted Rebels. Tom wanted so badly to be out there. His jaw set and his nostrils flared. He wanted with all his heart and soul and guts to make those fucking arrogant Rebels sweat! Make them try to chase him. The runners disappeared into the woods, and when they emerged for the final half-mile flat part, there were only three kids anywhere near the front, not one of them a Cougar. The three opponents crossed the line within a few yards of each other, and everyone else was way, way back. Other kids staggered home bit by bit. The final score was 21-36, an ugly ass-whipping. Tom’s injured friend (he liked to think of any nice kid this way) told him that this was Brendy’s 4th straight loss. After the race, Tom found the coach, a youngish skinny man who Tom thought looked like a weasel. He told the coach his name, and that he was new here, but used to run all the time in Argentina, and…and….and…..Tom didn’t realize it, but he was talking much too long. “What grade are you in?” asked The Weasel. “8th grade, and I know most kids are in 9th or higher, but I’ve trained a lot and I just….” “Sorry, kid, but this sport starts in 9th grade.” “But can’t I at least practice with you guys and you can see if I’m good enough to help? I mean the team has lost four in a row and if I had a chance maybe we could get better.” “Sorry, come back next year. I have to go now.” Tom watched The Weasel walk away and was angry, hurt, and confused. He knew that he had trouble getting along with the other kids, and that was why he was here, but he had NEVER, as far as he could remember, been disrespected by a grownup. Since he was little, Dad had taught him “Tom, learn to give respect to people and you’ll get respect back.” Tom knew he had always been polite and good to his teachers, to the diplomats and other people who worked with Dad, and to ordinary poor people in the street. He called them “senor” or “senora”, and was proud of having good manners. Adults had always been impressed with him and had given him respect back, even when he was really little. Never had a grownup just walked away from him like this. Not once had he been ignored. Tom was ripping mad. Tom clenched his teeth and said to himself, “OK you fucking weasel with your lazy pot-smoking losing team. I’m going to show you and everyone. I’m going to train so hard that when you see me again, I’ll blow all of you away.” Then for some reason Tom remembered the scene from the movie where the old farts at the university were hassling the Jewish runner about something, and he told them to stick it up their pompous British asses. He also remembered another scene where the Jew told his friend “I’m going to take them all on. And I’m going to run them off their feet.” Tom was dressed in his running shorts and shoes, and he started on his 6-mile course angrily, pushing hard on the uphills, but then calming himself down and feeling more peaceful when he got deeper into the woods. Tom’s heart slowed down, and he figured he’d just file away in his memory what happened today, and have a fun night with Ricky, especially as there was no study hall on Friday. About 30 minutes later, he made his way out of the woods, and trotted down the hill to Battell. Ricky was back in their room, and they went to dinner with big smiles on their faces, thinking of all the free time in front of them. No homework til Sunday night! No classes! Just hang out and do what they felt like. The two 7th graders Tom had met on his first night joined them at the table, and they decided that after dinner they’d all head up to Riley’s to throw some frisbee, play some hacky-sack, listen to some of Ricky’s music, and just celebrate the lack of study hall and the later 10:30 bedtime. It was nice up there. Carlos (turns out he was Colombian) also brought a soccer ball, and did some out of control juggling tricks with it. Totally sick stuff with his feet, knees, head, back. Even the Argentine kids Tom remembered weren’t this good, not even close. All four of the boys were laughing like idiots, and Tom felt himself wishing he could just hold this moment, keep it on this channel forever. His face was healing and he could fit his glasses on with no problem. Last night’s fight was far, far away, the moon was bright and full, and life just didn’t get any better. Rob and Carlos headed back inside after about an hour and only Ricky and Tom remained. Ricky was just screwing around with the guitar, playing some slow melody without really thinking, and he told Tom, “Man, you really had me worried last night. You get way too intense. Just let it go sometimes, Tom.” “Well, I know, but it’s easy for you, nothing gets to you, you never get freaked out about anything.” “Mmmmm…..” Ricky murmured. “Well, I dunno, it’s not easy for me, not like you think. I’ve done some shit so bad you can’t even imagine.” “What do you mean?” Ricky stayed quiet for a couple minutes and only his guitar spoke. A couple days after he’d been saved, he’d told Jesus everything, and he was sure Jesus listened and forgave him. But he’d never told his story to a friend, since of course he’d never had one. Was it worth it? This little kid was looking up at him curiously, and maybe it would feel better to just not hide anything anymore. He was pretty sure he could trust Tom. Ricky took a deep breath, and the guitar fell silent. Well, maybe it was worth a try. “It’s a long story. Too long, maybe. I was one fucked-up kid, more than anyone knows.” “Ricky, what happened?” “All right, here goes. You won’t tell anyone, will you?” “Of course not, not if you don’t want me to.” Ricky stopped talking again, and asked Jesus if he should start at the beginning. Jesus had never really talked back to him before, and didn’t this time either, but Ricky decided to just go for it anyway. If he wasn’t going to do it now, then when? And Ricky started in all the way back, all the way back to the night of the party, the night of the Bite, when all the bad stuff started. Ricky poured out every detail, every thought, everything about the “dog” teasing, everything about the Fight, every feeling about how screwed up and lonely he was back then. Originally he hadn’t intended to get into the part about Jesus with Tom, remembering what Cal had said, and knowing Tom was Jewish. But once he got talking, more and more words just kept coming out of him, out into Tom’s curious, sympathetic ears and out into the soft Appalachian evening. Never in his life had Ricky talked for half that long. Neither boy knew how long it was, but the half-hour-til-lights-out bell rang, and Ricky was finally too tired to say any more. “Wow,” said Tom, the first word he had spoken for a long time. By now it was after 10:00 and no one else in the school was outside. The wind had died down, and there was almost total silence all around them. The moon was now high and the boys could see perfectly, as their eyes had gotten well used to the silvery light. Tom took a few moments to think about something and softly said “Ricky, I have an idea. Let’s make a deal.” “What do you mean?” “Let’s decide right now, and decide for good, that no matter what happens, no matter how stupid one of us gets, that nothing, like NOTHING, is gonna separate us. Whatever happens, we’ll have each other’s back, and if we get mad at each other, we promise to work it out and forgive.” “Hmmmmmm…..like for stupid stuff like you picking your nose and looking at it? You’re so gross!!” Ricky said with a smile. “Oh yeah, how ‘bout you jerking off and damn near making the bunk bed collapse!!” “Yeah, Tom, like you’re so goddamn pure you never do it!” For a religious and basically well-mannered boy, Ricky had a surprisingly foul mouth. You might say he cussed like a motherfucking sailor. “Well, maybe sometimes, but at least I don’t try to cause an earthquake! And I don’t zone out in math class and start air-guitaring.” “And I don’t pick fights with half the football team!” Both boys giggled for a bit and gently punched each other, but soon they both calmed down and Tom said again “But Ricky, I’m serious. No one’s gonna look out for us but each other. Let’s decide that as long as we’re here, nothing will separate us. Sound like a deal?” “Yeah, Tom, you’re right. Seriously, you’ve been a good friend and I’m really glad you came. Yeah, it’s a deal.” The boys shook hands in the macho style, with fingers held out diagonally upwards instead of horizontally and arms bent at the elbow. Ricky ruffled his younger friend’s hair playfully and they walked through the moonlight back down the hill to “Bats”. A whole weekend of free time stretched out endlessly in their minds before them. It was gonna be soooo cool. PART 14 The school worked the kids hard every Monday through Friday with 6:00 AM wakeup bell, quite demanding classes, required sports after school, and at least two hours of homework every night (except Fridays, but Sunday night study hall was even longer). However, on weekends the school wanted the kids to really, really relax and have fun. Mr. Carlisle felt it was very important for the kids to be allowed to blow off the stress and tension of a tough week. There were so many activities they could do, everything tailored for the enjoyment of teenage boys. There were often home football or basketball games for the kids to watch, there was free time to hang out, there was extra time to go online with the school’s computers, there were occasional dances with the the girl’s school a few miles away (as well as more illicit encounters with the ‘townie’ girls of Ripton), and |