16 comments/  25978 views/  26 favorites

International Exchange Concert

By: Sir Galahad



Robert Jabez put his computer on the empty seat next to him and stepped into the aisle of the tour bus carrying him and his fellow musicians north toward Buffalo and the Canadian border. He glanced at the bus they were trailing and started back for the rest room, ignoring the whist game going on across the way between the director of music, Dr. Paul Sella, aka "Don Paolo," aka "the Godfather;" Mrs. Dunnigan, one of the chaperones; and two of his fellow students. He passed the rear door on the right side of the bus, keeping a wary eye on the other students. At eighteen years of age and having been associated with some of them for twelve years of schooling, he'd been the butt of far too many jokes to trust them. 

The rear of the tour bus had once been a bar area, now modified for instrument storage and as a space where a person could lie down on a nest of pillows and nap - two, if they were friendly - known as the Love Shack. He noted the white rag that indicated it was in use was not in place and idly wondered which pair of steaming teenage hormones would next occupy it. 

He felt a hand shove him sideways from behind as a foot tripped him. Losing his balance, he fell across the lap of Denise Danton, a voluptuous 18-going-on-25 girl with shining black hair and bedroom eyes who was known as 'Double D' for a couple of reasons; two of which, unfettered by a brassiere, were an inch from his face behind a transparent silk blouse unbuttoned almost to the navel, hard nipples poking against the thin fabric.

"Like what you see?" she purred, black eyes gleaming with amusement alloyed with lust.

"Very much. They are magnificent, bordering on spectacular. The erect nipples are particularly alluring."

"Wouldn't you like to suck them?" she asked, moving so they were almost in his mouth.

"Certainly. If the locker room rumors of your sensuality are anywhere near correct, I'm certain we'd both find it enjoyable. However, I surmise that the person blocking the light behind me is your boyfriend Mark. Were I to so much as touch them, he'd take it as an invitation to drive me into the ground like a tent peg. I am not so foolish as that. So, Mark, if you'd be good enough to help me up?"

The kids in the nearby seats laughed as Mark, who when he wasn't playing the tuba wrestled in the light-heavyweight division, plucked Robert out of his awkward position and set him on his feet. He brushed imaginary lint off Robert's green school blazer.

"Smart decision, Mr. Spock."

"Under the circumstances, it was the logical decision to make. However, I suggest that as at the moment the Love Shack is available, you and Denise should repair to it. Certain olfactory indicators are utterly reliable in the human female. Right now she really is horny. Now, if you will excuse me?" Seeing Mark's jaw drop and Double D's eyes widen with surprise, Robert stepped into the rest room. Mark shook his head and grabbed the door handle, holding it shut.

"How long will you need?" he whispered to Neil Taylor.

Neil held up a thumb drive. "A couple of minutes ought to do it, provided he didn't lock the keyboard." He walked forward to Robert's seat and sat down. Plugging the thumb drive into the laptop, he got onto the desktop and set to work uploading its contents and typing in a change to the startup procedure.

Inside the rest room, Robert washed his hands and looked at himself in the mirror. He was pleased to see his face was its usual color, even after a setup plainly meant to embarrass him. He combed his hair to conceal his pointed ears, visible legacy of a childhood accident, and spent two minutes performing a yoga breathing exercise to insure his blood pressure and emotions remained low. Then he tried to open the door. Nothing happened. He pushed against it and felt the resistance he knew from past experience meant someone was leaning on it. Pressing against the opaque tinted window, he brought up a leg and tried to snap-kick it open. It popped for a second, showing a sliver of daylight, and slammed shut again.

"Very funny, assholes," he thought. He repeated the kick for the same results. Outside, Neil was sliding back into his seat, smiling in anticipation. Mark stepped away from the door. The third kick slammed it open, bouncing it off the wall, just missing Mark.

"Lock stick again?" he asked in mock sympathy. Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth.

"No, just excessive resistance from the door closer," Robert shot back. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting." He eased past the wrestler and walked forward, not looking either at Double-D or the Love Shack. Sitting down again, he picked up his laptop, intending to continue working on the paper that was due two days after the Buckthorn High School Symphonic Wind Ensemble was scheduled to return from their Canadian trip. He tapped the spacebar to reactivate the machine, which was set to fade to black after 2 minutes of no input. Instead of the document he expected, a movie materialized on the screen and sound came from the speakers.

A well-built, big-titted starlet with bleached blonde hair knelt on hands and knees while a muscular stud fucked her from behind. She moaned deep in her throat as he held her by the hips, ramming his huge cock into her hard enough to make her boobs sway.

"Oh, you're so bad!" she panted as she thrust back against him. "So bad... so baad... so baaaad... so baaaa.... baaaa... baaaa... baaaa... baaaa..."

As her speech changed, so did her appearance. Her face and body morphed. Her face lengthened, her hair shortened and curled, and her body shifted until the starlet was transformed into a ewe. The camera panned and zoomed in on the stud's face, which also began to morph. His mustache disappeared and the eyebrows and ears took on a decidedly satanic slant as the actor's face changed to his. The camera pulled out and showed 'him' eagerly fucking a bleating sheep before the screen froze in mid-thrust. 

Laughter burst around him and he looked up to see the Godfather, Mrs. Dunnigan and about six of his fellow students crowded in behind his seat looking at the screen. Robert stood up and pushed his way through them, heading unerringly toward Neil Taylor. 

Neil saw him coming and raised his hands, but before he could say anything Robert hauled him out of his seat with one hand, spun him around and frog-marched him to the rear bench seat behind the rest room, heaving him into the corner. Neil squirmed around and looked up at Robert, his face red with rage, a network of normally invisible scars standing out in sharp relief.

"I suppose this is your idea of humor. You're the only person on this bus who is skilled enough with CGI software to have created that little scene. While I admire your talent, I'm not amused.

"I want to make one thing crystal clear to you. If that footage escapes onto the Internet, I will not file a complaint with the principal. I will not sue you for defamation of character. I will not beat you to a pulp. But I will destroy you. 

"You had better make sure that movie and all your working files are wiped and deleted ASAP. Do we have a meeting of minds here?" Ice cold blue eyes locked onto brown eyes filled with terror. Neil fumbled in his pants pocket and held up a thumb drive, which Robert took. Opening a box marked "Percussion BHS," he lifted out a wooden mallet normally used with the chimes and put the drive on the floor before smashing it into shards of metal and plastic with the hammer. Tossing the mallet into Neil's lap, he swept the bits into his hand, yanked open the rest room door, and tossed them down the toilet before stalking back to his seat, his fellow teenagers shrinking aside from his horrible visage. He took his seat and set to work deleting the file and searching out the instruction that had activated it. When he was done, he looked up to see the Godfather watching him.

"Do we have a problem here, Spock?"

"Not any more, sir. The situation has been - dealt with." Dr. Sella studied his xylophonist/keyboard player, noting that although the facial scars were mostly invisible now, the ones above the eyes could still be seen.

"I'd be very unhappy if something were to happen to Neil Taylor, Robert."

"I'm sure you would be, Godfather." Robert's expression did not change as he delivered his reply with no more emotion than he'd have shown ordering in a restaurant.

"I'll have a word with Neil. He owes you an apology. Some practical jokes just aren't funny."

"Don't bother, Dr. S. As I said, the situation has been dealt with." Robert looked back down at the screen and resumed writing his paper, closing up and closing out the outside world where he fit in so poorly.

The two buses stopped at Niagara Falls so the Buckthorn students could see that natural wonder. Some of the kids chose to take a Maid of the Mists cruise to view the Falls close up. The rest preferred the walk through the Cave of the Winds. Robert chose to visit the museum where the feats of the daredevils who had challenged Niagara Falls were chronicled and preserved, alone. 

A safety protocol set in place by the Godfather long before was that students went out in groups when they were on the road. It was the only rule governing the behavior expected of Buckthorn musicians that Robert routinely ignored. He was well aware that while he was with the group he didn't truly belong, even though he was one of just three students in his class who had made the by-audition-only Wind Ensemble all four years in high school, a remarkable achievement. The sole teen in the ensemble without a boyfriend or a girlfriend, group social activities served only to rub his nose in his apartness when all the others were paired up. The Godfather could see his position, but knowing of no solution didn't make a point of his solo adventures. 

After lunch and clearing customs, the small convoy continued to its destination, the Kensington Secondary School. As they neared the town, a bedroom suburb of Toronto, a buzz of speculation about what they'd find, if so-and-so would remember such-and-such from the two week long exchange tour the Canadians had made to Buckthorn in October and November and similar burning questions arose. They pulled up in front of the school, a 1980s-Modern brick complex that could as easily have been a factory, a research facility or an office block, and were directed to the auditorium.

Dr. Wycombe, the Godfather's opposite number, met him on the front steps. They shook hands, exchanged pleasantries and trailed the horde of students looking for seats on the left side of the auditorium, pointed that way by Kensington seniors acting as guides and traffic cops. Other Kensington students under the direction of the Buckthorn chaperones were unpacking the cargo bays of the tour buses and the inside instrument storage areas, ferrying the contents to the stage.

"Did you solve the dilemma of what to do with my problem child?" asked Sella.

"He turned out not to be a problem after all. I had a request for him, actually."

"You're not pulling my leg, are you?"

"Would I do that? I'll admit to being surprised, but any simple solution, eh?" They walked down the aisle and up onto the stage, where a podium and a microphone awaited. Dr. Wycombe took his place behind it.

"Dr. Sella, ladies and gentlemen of the Buckthorn Symphonic Wind Ensemble, on behalf of the town of Kensington allow me to bid you welcome." Applause interrupted him. When it had died down, he went on, "As you've had a very long bus trip, I'll not detain you longer than necessary. There will be a welcoming dance in the gymnasium tonight from 8 to 10 PM. Dress is informal; blazers for boys and dresses for girls. Tomorrow being Saturday, there will be a combined ensemble rehearsal from 9 AM to 3 PM, after which the rest of the day is free. On Sunday we've arranged a tour of the town for you. Monday is the start of the school week. You'll be given academic schedules that match your own at home as closely as we can manage. The rehearsal schedule for combined and separate ensembles and your Jazz Ensemble will be posted in the practice rooms, as will the schedule of the various tours and activities that have been arranged for you. But I'm sure you'd like to get settled, so I'll get on with the housing assignments. 

"When your name is called, please come onstage and meet your host; then take your luggage and head on out. We'll expect you back at eight o'clock.

"Marianne Anarath, you'll be staying with Jacqueline Weygand..."

Robert, seated alone in the last row of the auditorium, wondered if he dared get his hopes up. Halloween was a long time back and people don't always behave at home as they do when they're away. His thoughts were dark as the two directors ran through the alphabetical list and got to him.

"Robert Jabez!"

Resigned, he stood up, walked down the aisle, climbed the three permanent steps that fronted the stage and came to stand by the Godfather.

"Jabez, you'll be staying with Inga Gustafson." He looked at the just turned 19 year old girl with black hair and a black and silver choker visible over the white shirt collar of her school uniform walking toward him. There was murmuring on the Kensington side of the hall and surprised whispers from the Buckthorn side as the goth chick took him by the arm and led him toward the row of suitcases.

"Her?" whispered Sella to Wycombe. "She asked for him, specifically?"

"She remembered him from our trip to the States."

"After what happened down home, I'm more than a little surprised."

"Perhaps he has hidden talents. Shall we get on with this?"

Unaware of the astonishment in the auditorium, Robert plucked his very large suitcase from the line of luggage and followed Inga off the stage. She eyed it curiously.

"That's a real antique you have there. An overnighter, isn't it?"

"You have a good eye, Inga. It was intended for use on the passenger liners that ran from New York to Havana back before the war. A man would pack two or three suits plus a set of evening wear and related shoes, shirts, linens and toiletries; enough to last him for the run. His real luggage, of course, would be in steamer trunks in the hold." He paused. "I was hoping we could get together again."

She put an arm around him, drew him in and gave him a quick but meaningful kiss. "That's why I asked Dr. Wycombe if I could have you as my guest while you guys are up here." She held the outside door open for him and pointed to the student parking lot, where her Mini waited. They wrestled the overnighter into the cargo area and drove off.

As they drove, Robert's mind flashed back to the visit Kensington had paid to Buckthorn back in October, and the first time he'd noticed Inga.



International Exchange Concert



"In order to cover his skull after the surgery, they had to pull the edges of his scalp together; a big chunk of it was missing. It pulled his eyebrows up. He lost parts of both ears and they ended up pointy. I have no idea how many surgeries it took to fix him, but there were a lot of them. Mom's a nurse on the pediatric floor and she said his head was both squished and slashed to pieces at the same time. 

"Robby was in the hospital for a year learning how to walk and talk again. That was when he took up the piano. The idea was to improve his fine motor control and eye-hand coordination. It's just dumb luck he's so talented a musician.

"When he came back to school, he wasn't the same. He had to wear a hockey helmet for a year while his skull healed. Aside from the forearm crutches he had to use for a year, his face was a mass of scars. He went back to the hospital for cosmetic surgery like, three or four times. Eventually they got him put back together. He looked almost the same as before the crash, except for the eyebrows and the ears.

"But his personality changed. Before, he used to laugh and tell jokes. Since, he never smiles. I mean, he never smiles. And I haven't heard him laugh since I don't remember when. It's like his sense of humor is broken. 

"He went all scholarly, too. I mean, do you know anyone who owns hard copies of the Encyclopedia Britannica and the unabridged Oxford English Dictionary that takes up a whole bookshelf and reads them for fun? His memory is nearly photographic, which scares some people. Add in the eyebrows and ears and it's kind of inevitable he'd be called Mister Spock. He's probably smarter than most of the teachers in this dump. There are times when I wonder if Robby really thinks he's a Vulcan.

"His face can be downright frightening sometimes. You can always tell when he's mad or embarrassed, because his scars show up red and he looks demonic. He practices yoga and karate to help control his emotions so his scars don't appear. The only reason Robby doesn't get picked on more than he does is the bullies here know he can beat the crap out of them. He's done it more than once, and when he fights he's merciless. 

"Sometimes I see him watching people. It's as if he's trying to decipher a puzzle. He's very forthright, and the concept of 'little white lies' does not seem to exist in his universe. I think he doesn't always understand how people are expected to behave. Maybe that part of his brain was damaged in the crash too." Cyndy glanced at her watch and the trio drifted back towards the auditorium.

They walked through the stage door and absolutely not to the surprise of Debbie and Cyndy, found Robert sitting behind the organ, a full score open on the music rack. His right index finger was beating time as he studied it, lost in his own world. They walked on to take their seats, but Inga paused by the keyboard. She touched his shoulder and was startled as he spun around, hands rising to a 'ready' karate stance.

"Excuse me! I wanted to apologize for my rudeness earlier, but now I'm not sure I should!"

"I think when it comes to apologies, we're even. I suppose looking intently could be taken as rude or creepy. I apologize if my dropping into a defensive posture scared you. It's just that I've had too many spiders, mice, snakes and rude signs put on me over the years to presume someone touching me is being friendly."

"You have something against spiders?"

"No. But finding a tarantula on your shoulder when you don't expect it is, shall we say, disconcerting?"

"Let's start over. Hello, my name is Inga. I'm first chair first flute with Kensington."

"Hello, my name is Robert. I play keyboards and percussion with Buckthorn. How do you do?" He offered a hand and she took it, noticing lines appear on his face as they shook.

"Do I frighten you, Robert?"

"No, Inga. But I'm not used to girls touching me, even to shake hands."

"You should be. Not all of us are heartless bitches. Oops, gotta run, the Doctor is in." She hurried to take her seat as Dr. Wycombe strode toward the podium to resume the rehearsal. As it progressed, stopping and starting to go over sections of the music and work with the instruments separately, from time to time Inga peeked over at Robert. Most of the time he was either studying his part or the score, but once he caught her eyes. The corners of his mouth turned up and one eyebrow rose. She didn't know quite what to make of that.

The rehearsal broke up at 10:30, the kids putting their instruments away and chatting as who would ride with whom was worked out. Longstanding custom going back at least forty years was for any Buckthorn musical group that had a late rehearsal, be it the Precision Field Band, the Stage Band, the Jazz Ensemble, the Wind Ensemble or one of the chamber groups, to go for pizza at Bertolucci's. Those who had cars ferried those who didn't and dropped them at home later. Debbie caught up with Robert as he was racking the mallets he used on the xylophone and the bells in the box he had built for that purpose.

"Spock, could you take Inga, Brad and me to Bertolucci's?"

"I assumed you'd be riding with Brad. Where's his car?"

"Something's wrong with it and it's out of commission until he can fix it. So can you take us, please?"

"Of course. It'll be a tight squeeze, but I'm sure we can manage. I'll be in the parking lot." He closed the box and headed for the Percussion Closet, actually a storeroom, to shelve his sticks before walking to his car. He was waiting when the two flutists and Brad Crawford, the lead tenor sax player, joined him. Inga was surprised at what she saw.

"This isn't what I'd have pictured you driving at all," she said.

"Debbie, Brad, you get the back seat, such as it is. Inga, if you'll come this way?" Robert led her around the front of the Jaguar XKE 2+2 coupe to the front passenger seat while Debbie flipped the driver's seat forward and she and Brad took their places in the back. Settling in behind the wheel, Robert turned the key and waited as a light came on in the dash. It winked out and he pressed a button. Instead of the varoom Inga expected, a diesel engine rumbled to life. Flipping on the headlights, Robert studied the gauges for a few seconds before dropping the car into gear and moving out. He shot a glance at her and again she saw his eyebrow rise. Turning into the street in front of the school, the Jag smoothly accelerated away.

Without taking his eyes off the road, Robert said, "Before you ask, yes, that's a diesel under the hood. Father gave me the car when I turned 15. It was his when he was in college and it was his pet. He hung onto it even after the engine seized up. He said if I could get it running again, I could have it. Trying to find the 5.3 liter V-12 engine it had up front originally is next to impossible. So I talked to Duke Taormino about what I could use instead. We thought about a Chevy V-8, since that conversion has been done before. Then a wrecked Mercedes diesel that got rear-ended came into his dad's auto graveyard. We measured and found the engine would fit if we modified the hood a little, so I bought the wreck's engine. It took us two weeks to install it and redo the hood because we had to reposition the engine mounts and mount the turbo, but it wasn't that hard, really. This may be the only diesel-powered Jaguar on earth."

She studied him in the dashboard lights as he maneuvered the sports car through streets he knew well, the coupe surprisingly quiet. As with the engine, the dashboard was not Jaguar standard but had been carefully made and fitted. Extra gauges gave the trained eye detailed information about how the car was running. Clearly Robert cared about his ride.

They arrived at the restaurant and went in. The owners of Bertolucci's had long ago figured out it was worth keeping at least one oven hot and paying an extra hour or two to the necessary staff on rehearsal nights, calling the Godfather's secretary to find out the schedule each week. The amount of pizza and soda the student musicians went through was enough to make it worth their while, but the goodwill they generated by staying open late was worth even more. Tonight with the Canadians in tow, the place was almost as full as on nights when the Buckthorn Rangers Precision Field Band (the name for the combined concert band and Wind Ensemble during football season) rehearsed its halftime show for the weekly football games. Debbie snagged a four-seat table for them. Robert seated Inga, which raised eyebrows, and took the seat next to her, which set some of the girls to whispering. While Robert always came for after-rehearsal munchies, he didn't sit with the other high school kids unless he was invited. He seldom was.

They agreed on pizza and argued about toppings, and Brad placed their order. While they waited for the waitress to bring it to the table, Robert and Inga went back and forth about the merits of venison, beefalo and buffalo as opposed to beef. 

"I'll tell you, there's nothing that beats a deer that's had the run of the cornfield for a month. It's sweeter than beef," Robert said, "and you can do more with it. You can't make good sausage out of buffalo, it's too lean -"

"But it's much better for you, "interjected Inga. "If the buff has been raised on sweet grass and hasn't eaten too much wild onion the meat is flavorful and tender."

"Excuse me," said a voice behind them. They ignored it as Inga went on, "What's your favorite game recipe, Robert?"

"My favorite is venison stew, I suppose, with lots of potatoes, onions and slivered sweet red peppers for flavor. But there's something to be said for buffalo jerky done with teriyaki sauce -"

"Oh, you're not a vegetarian, then?" This with a smile that took the sting from her words.

"Unlike my namesake, I'm an omnivore. I'll eat anything that's standing still or even moving slowly -"

"Kroykah!" Startled, Robert turned in his chair to find Joyce Karlassian looking down at him, their eyes almost level despite the fact he was seated. A petite girl of Armenian extraction, she was also the de facto social director of the Wind Ensemble and not used to being ignored when she spoke.

"Spock, it is not polite to keep a lady waiting," she said, in the cadences and accent of Celia Lovsky's T'Pau.

"It was indeed rude of me. I ask forgiveness."

Eyes sparkling with amusement as they played out a shtick they'd done together since elementary school. Joyce replied, "The cause was sufficient. Let us speak no more of it." Dropping the accent, she went on, "I've got dibs after the combined ensemble performance. Halloween yours?"

"In costume, I think. Father will be out of town. Is Ms. Phoebe acceptable?"

"They've never complained before. Right, then, it's on. I'll publish. Eight to when?"

"Midnight. It does fall midweek. Covered dish potluck. Acceptable?"

She raised her hand, the fingers parted in the Vulcan hand salute. "Agreed. Live long and prosper, Spock."

"And you also, Joyce," Robert replied, returning the gesture. Joyce moved on, stopping to chat at another table. Inga looked at him.

"Would someone tell me what that was all about?"

"Joyce and Spock just agreed on who would host which party where and when, Inga," said Debbie. "She has the big do after the final concert two Saturdays from now that will run from about 10:30 to whenever; and he's hosting a Halloween costume party next Wednesday from 8 to midnight. Everyone attending is expected to bring something to share, which means it will be heavy on desserts, chips and dips. That's all."

"I've known Joyce since kindergarten," Robert explained. "We've known each other for so long, we can speak in shorthand and fill in the gaps. She also endured Trek-related teasing because her name is very close to one of the races that regularly visited Deep Space Nine. After my accident, we turned it into a double act and eventually they let up on her. Joyce can't help her family name."

The pizzas they had ordered arrived. The four teens fell on the food, conversation temporarily suspended. Inga observed that Robert ate much more sedately than Debbie, Brad or herself, his eyes constantly moving, using the mirrors on the walls to watch his back. She wondered what had happened to him or been done to him that he felt the need for that high a level of situational awareness.

Debbie's hands suddenly rose to her throat. Her lips moved but no sound came out. Robert was out of his chair so fast it fell over, hauling Debbie to her feet as his hands slid under her breasts.

"What do you think you're doing?" yelled Brad, trying to pull Robert away from her. Robert's expression didn't change as his right hand spun Brad around and then firmly grasped him at the base of the neck, long fingers digging in through his shirt. Brad gave a little squeak and dropped to the floor, out cold. 

Debbie's face was turning blue. Robert repositioned his hands and yanked under her diaphragm hard enough to lift her off the floor, once, twice, three times. She coughed and a blob of pizza crust, cheese and sauce splattered onto the table. She made a rasping gasp that silenced the room before collapsing into Robert's arms.

"Oxygen!" he snapped, his tone of voice making it an order. Cyndy pushed past the cashier into the kitchen, emerging a second later with a green oxygen tank, unrolling the line with its attached mask as she hastened to the table. He held the mask to Debbie's face as she opened valves and looked at the flow gauge. Debbie's color returned to normal.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Better," she croaked. "Thanks."

"See if you can swallow some liquid." He held a glass to her lips and she took a suck on the straw, grimacing as it flowed down.

"It hurts like hell, but I think I'm okay," she said hoarsely. Robert looked at Cyndy.

"Keep her on oxygen, 1 liter per minute for at least five minutes. Don't let her eat anything. When she comes off the oh-two, have her try drinking again. She still might have to go to the ER. Someone throw a bucket of water on Crawford and bring him around. Excuse me." He turned and moving quickly, vanished through the outside door. Cyndy pulled the strap of the mask over Debbie's head to hold it in place and splashed a glass of something on Brad, which brought him spluttering awake. Taking in the scene, he moved to take the oxygen tank away from Cyndy, holding Debbie's hand, looking worried.

Inga looked at Cyndy. "Where's Robert?"

She shrugged. "Out in the parking lot throwing up, I expect. It's his way. I've seen it before. When it comes to the crunch, he does whatever needs doing and doesn't let anything stop him. Afterwards, he tosses his cookies and shivers for awhile. He'll be all right. Just let him be."

She looked at Cyndy disgustedly for a moment. Then Inga picked up a glass of soda and headed for the door.

Outside, she stood still and listened. Retching sounds came from her right, so she walked slowly in that direction as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She found Robert around the corner, leaning on a dumpster with a puddle of vomit by his feet, trying to clear his mouth of residual nastiness.

"This might work better," she said, stopping out of his reach and extending the glass to him. Not looking at her, he took a sip from it and swirled it in his mouth, spitting it out before taking another that he swallowed. He set the glass on the dumpster. 

"Thank you." He walked to the trees at the edge of the asphalt and leaned on one, shaking with reaction as the fight or flight reflex faded. Inga came to him and put her arms around him, holding him as he shivered and stroking his back to calm him.

"It's okay, She's all right. Cyndy and Brad are seeing to her. You saved her life."

Robert shivered even more. She held him tighter, pulling him into her. After a minute his hands came up from his sides and wrapped around her as she adjusted her position so they fit more naturally. The tremors abated, but she continued to hold him, seeing the scars bloom on his face. They stood like that for a while before she felt him trembling again. Her hands continued to stroke him gently and his breathing deepened. He looked down at her, and she slowly brought her face to his for a chaste kiss on the lips. She could feel his erection pressing against her. Apparently he felt it too, for he eased away from her. She let him, but caught his hand so he could not turn away. 

"Robert Jabez, how many times have you ever kissed a girl before tonight?"

"Less than once, actually."

"I'm surprised. No one should have to cope with stress always by themselves, and everyone deserves comfort and human contact. You did a brave thing in there. Come here." She pulled him to her again, caressing his back, feeling his hands begin to move over her back. They kissed again, lips still closed, but with a sensuous feeling nonetheless. They stood wrapped around each other, his hands instinctively stroking her hair, until she said, "We ought to see how Debbie is getting on." They started back for the restaurant, to Robert's surprise holding hands. She let go of his just before they walked in.

Debbie and Brad were sitting at the table, Cyndy next to them with the oxygen tank. They looked up at Robert and Inga, Debbie with gratitude, Brad with embarrassment.

"I think it's time to go home," Inga said before anyone could say anything. Tossing money on the table, the four walked out the door, the buzz behind them increasing as they left. Brad was dropped off first. He and Debbie cuddled the whole way to his house, according to Robert's occasional glances in the rearview mirror. The drive to Debbie's was silent. They arrived, and Robert got out and came around to open the door. Inga and Debbie got out. 

Debbie looked at him. "Thank you," she said simply.

"Any time," he replied. The two girls started up the driveway to the back door. They paused for a moment, and Debbie went inside. Inga came back down the drive to Robert.

"Let's talk for a minute," she said. He leaned against the Jag. She looked at him in the pale glow cast by the streetlight two houses down.

"What exactly did you do to Brad?" she asked slowly. "I always thought the Vulcan Nerve Pinch wasn't real."

"It isn't. The subclavian nerve pinch is, however. My sensei taught me how. You can only do it on skinny people because it involves pressing the nerve between your fingers and the collarbone just so. Done properly, it drops someone like they've been hit with a taser. They'll only be out for a few minutes, but as it was tonight, sometimes a few minutes are all you need."

"But why did you do it?"

"Debbie was choking to death. When someone is choking, seconds count. I did not have time to deal with macho boyfriend chest-pounding, so when Brad got in the way I took him out of the equation. He's had a chance to think things through by now and realizes I did the right thing. I won't bring it up again if he doesn't."

"You're some kind of hero, you know that?"

One corner of his mouth quirked up. When he spoke, his tone was bitter. "By the time the rumor mill gets through with this, it'll be Cyndy who saved her, or maybe Brad. I'm not socially acceptable as an heroic figure." He looked away.

Inga closed the gap between them and took him in her arms. "Well, you're a hero to me, Robert. Or do you prefer Spock?"

"My friends call me Robby. What few friends I have, that is."

"And how many is that?" 

"Very few."

She smiled, saying softly, "Well, you have one more now. Go home and get some sleep." She kissed him lightly. "Good night." She walked up the driveway, his eyes following her narrow waist, swaying hips and shapely legs until she disappeared through the door.

Morning found the visitors sitting in the stands of the football field as the marching band rehearsed for its Friday night halftime show. The fact the Canadians would be performing a solo concert, presenting a musical and then a combined ensemble concert with their American hosts over the next two weeks didn't relieve the Buckthorn Rangers Precision Field Band of its responsibility to put on a halftime show at the football game on Friday. Regular band and Wind Ensemble rehearsals were scheduled for the first period after homeroom. Politicking years before by the Godfather had transformed the two instrumental groups into their own homerooms, thereby giving them another 20 minutes a day for rehearsal.




International Exchange Concert



They watched as the Rangers first walked through, and then played through, one of the evolutions that would be used in the show. Under the sharp eyes and sharper tongue of the Godfather, the maneuver quickly polished up. When the bell for second period rang, the group was dismissed. Inga caught up with Debbie and Brad as they trotted back toward the school.

"Have you seen Robby?" she asked. They looked blankly at her.

"Spock," she clarified. Brad pointed toward the student parking lot. Marching bells and their harness dangling from his right hand, he was heading toward his Jag. Inga cut across the grass and pavement to intercept him.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To class," he said as her lifted the instrument into the back and slammed the hatch. "You'd better hustle, Inga, or you'll be late to second period."

"Will I be seeing you around the school today?" she asked as he got into the car.

A corner of his mouth quirked up. "Unlikely. But if you're around tonight when your gang starts setting up for Cabaret, you'll see me. I run the stage for the Drama Club and I'll be doing that for you guys too."

"Oh, you'll see me," she said. "Pick me up at Debbie's at 6:30." She closed the door for him and ran to catch up with Debbie. Robert stared after her for a minute before he started the engine.

She didn't have a chance to ask Debbie what Robert's cryptic comment about classes meant until they had settled into their seats at the start of third period. She repeated their conversation and looked questioningly at her host.

"What he meant was he doesn't take many classes here. He was tracked into the gifted program a long time ago and his father the doctor does not believe in interrupting schooling. He started taking high school level classes in the seventh grade, whatever he could fit into a summer school day. He had enough academic credits to graduate by the end of sophomore year."

"So why is he still here, eh?"

"Because the state requires a certain number of non-academic credits, too. He has to pass Phys. Ed. and Life Skills, and those are given only during the school year. His dad tried to get the requirements waived for him, but the School Board wouldn't play. Doc Jabez got his own back on them, though.

"There's an obscure law that says if a school cannot meet the needs of a particular student, the School Board has to pay the student's tuition at a school that can. It was meant to cover students with special needs, but it isn't worded that way. Doc Jabez enrolled Spock at the University and sent the bills to the School Board. They screamed blue murder and went to court. The judge found for Spock and his father. 

"He'd been taking college classes for a year and a half now. The Board has to pay for his tuition, books and fees. The members of the School Board hate that Spock only shows up here for Life Skills, gym class and rehearsals. If he doesn't have a class at the university, you usually can find him in a practice room, in the main auditorium futzing with the stage gear, or in the tutoring center." 

"That explains a lot," Inga said slowly. The teacher walked in and the subject was dropped.

At 6:30 there was a knock on the door of the Province home. Debbie opened it to find Robert in casual clothes, his Jag parked at the curb.

"C'mon in. Inga will be out in a minute." She went down the hall to fetch her. They came back and Robert gave a respectful whistle. Inga was dressed in spandex tights with a black corset over them, twirling a bowler on one finger and wearing dancer's pumps, a tote in her other hand.

"Miss Sally Bowles, I presume?"

"Charmed," Inga riposted with a curtsey. Debbie and her mother, who had just come in from the kitchen, laughed, and Inga joined in. Robert's eyebrows rose and he applauded politely.

"You won't keep her out too late, will you, Spock?" Mrs. Province asked.

"I'll try to have her back sometime before cockcrow," he said. "The performers like as not will go out for a bite after rehearsal, so we may be late."

"Well, be sure to call us if you're going to be very late," Mrs. Province said to Inga. "Have fun, you two." She waved them on their way.

Enroute to the high school, Inga asked, "You're going to be the stage manager for the show?"

"Tech master, not stage manager. I handle lighting, sound and special effects. You guys brought your own stage manager, thank goodness. Dealing with people is hard enough for me; dealing with actors, impossible." 

"Even me?" She fluttered her eyes coquettishly at him and smiled adoringly.

The corners of his mouth quirked. "Well, perhaps not you."

At the school, she headed for center stage while he went into a huddle with his Canadian opposite number. The rehearsal was mostly for lighting and staging, with a piano substituting for the pit orchestra. Lighting was set, the Canadians were introduced to the selsyn tracking spots the Buckthorn auditorium enjoyed, and minor problems were ironed out. When the director called a break, Inga found Robby in conversation with a teenage bodybuilder of Mediterranean extraction, discussing the need for a filter on one of the tracking spotlights for one of the musical numbers.

"So, Robby, where are we going to eat after we break for the night?" she asked. Robert looked at the macho man standing next to him.

"Will Anthony's place still be open by the time we get out of here, Duke?"

"I'll call and make sure," the hunk said. "Who's your friend?"

Inga found herself shaking hands with Richard "Duke" Taormino. The introduction had to be immediately repeated as a slender Italian girl walked up to Duke and handed him the filter Robby had ordered for the spot, and Inga met Carissa Gaetana, also known as the Duchess. Inga felt an immediate affinity with her and the four of them chatted until the rehearsal resumed.

When the rehearsal ended shortly before 10 PM, they met by the lighting console. Robby waited until the stage cleared, then shut everything down except the auditorium lights. The adults would get those on their way out. The four walked to the parking lot. 

"Robby," said Duke as they neared the cars, "I have a problem with a paper for my World History class."

"Like what?"

Duke looked down and scuffled his feet. "Well, the fact is I don't have a topic. Any ideas?"

"Sure. How about 'The Ten Most Influential Small Arms in History?' Not too hard to write, easy to get photos to expand the page count without increasing the amount of writing too much, and as long as you back up your opinions with stats, old Mr. Dalton won't argue. When it comes to military technology, he's a complete idiot." The two boys looked at the girls.

"Inga, would you mind riding to the restaurant with the Duchess? If Duke rides with me and takes notes, we can have his paper outlined by the time we get there." Inga and Carissa looked at each other, as if to say, "Boys!"

"All right," she agreed. Without another thought, Robert fumbled in his pocket for his keys, saying, "So what do you think they are, Duke?"

"Well, the AK-47, of course. And the Garand..."

"Don't forget the Mosin Nagant - "

"You're just saying that because of Natasha!"

"No, I'm basing my claim on the fact it's been in service around the world for more than a century, and still is. Which brings us to the Brown Bess..." The conversation was cut off as the doors on the Jag slammed. Carissa shrugged and the two girls got into Duke's Mustang.

As they followed the Jaguar up the road, Inga asked, "So who is Natasha? I thought Robby didn't have a girlfriend."

"Natasha's not a who, she's a what. She's his favorite gun, a Mosin Nagant Russian battle rifle that's been civilianized with a custom stock and a scope. He and his father go hunting a couple of times a year. Natasha was his first big gun and he's good with her. Davy Crockett had Old Betsy and Daniel Boone had Tick Licker; Robby has Natasha." Carissa was silent for a minute, as if making up her mind about something. 

"Have you met Joyce Karlassian yet?"

"Yes, the other night. She and Robby settled who would hold the Halloween party, right before Debbie almost choked on her pizza."

"I heard about that. Well, you can think of Joyce as the cruise director for the Symphonic Wind Ensemble. She's a born organizer and party-thrower and she's really good at it. She makes sure the Wind Ensemble plays together as well as plays instruments together. But there are times when she doesn't stop to think things through; that some people, by which I mean Robby, can't do whatever the activity she has in mind may be. She's done things like set up skating parties and ski weekends and insist that Robby go along even when he doesn't know how or isn't coordinated enough to keep up with the rest. 

"I sing in the Buckthorn Madrigals, the vocal program's elite group, which is how I heard about this one. One of our altos and one of our tenors are also in the Wind Ensemble. They had a real horselaugh telling us about Robby trying to ice skate and falling half a dozen times as he tried to make it around the rink. On his face, on his butt, losing his balance and slamming into the boards, and all the time hearing the other kids chortling and mocking him. 

"Or the time they went skiing; he'd never been on skis before. A couple of the skiers in the group taught him the fundamentals and eventually got him down the bunny slope without him doing a face-plant. They told him they thought he was ready for something a little more challenging - and then they took him down a black diamonds trail for expert skiers while the rest of the group was watching at the bottom of the mountain! 

"They almost couldn't get the story out, they were laughing so hard. It was like something out of a comedy. Skidding round corners on one ski; hitting a mogul and going airborne, with Robby frantically trying to get his skis back under him; Robby going off the trail over a short drop and somehow extending like a ski-jumper to land in the one clear spot among the bushes to pick up the trail again; flying over another mogul and making a complete somersault without losing his skis and managing to stay up when he landed, heaven alone knows how. He made it all the way to the bottom without falling, by the grace of God and pure dumb luck.

"Instead of congratulating him on making it down an expert run without falling even once, what they did was laugh and tell him how foolish he looked flying through the air like the cow shot from the catapult in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Hysterically funny or not, he did make it down in one piece, but they couldn't see past the humor of it. And they didn't get it when he told them it wasn't even a little funny. Roller-skating, water-skiing, bowling, it didn't matter; he was always comedy relief.

"Then Robby decided he'd had enough of being laughed at for his lack of athletic skills. 

"When the Army deactivated a training area west of town a few years ago, a group of investors, including Robby's father, bought it and turned it into a private gun club. There's enough land to hunt on, and it has rifle, pistol, skeet and trapshooting ranges the Army built. There's a picnic area with barbecue pits, grills and deep fryers, too. A real nice setup for parties, you know?

"After the Ensemble got back from their USO tour last summer, Robby arranged to rent the place for a day and had Joyce set up a shooting party and barbecue. He invited Duke and me, too; Duke's a good shot and I'm learning. They both teach me.

"A bunch of the boys had .22s and thought they were good shots, real hot shit with a gun. They, Roberto Santiago in particular, had a ball blasting tin cans, plastic bottles, and assorted vegetables off stands on the 50 yard plinking range, the only place the club allows that kind of shooting. They were teaching their girlfriends in the Ensemble how to shoot. Robby watched all this tolerantly.

"Then Santiago, who's the Wind Ensemble's president with an ego the size of Australia, took out a Russian sniper rifle with a scope and went over to the high power rifle range with a bunch of hangers-on. He set up a gallon milk jug filled with water at the 100-meter line, went back to the bench on the firing line, put his rifle on a rest and fired. The jug exploded. He looked over at Robby, who was watching him. 'What do you think of that?' he bragged.

"'Why don't you try a real target?' said Robby. 'There's a head-on steel deer silhouette at 300 meters. Hit that, and you'll be doing some shooting.'

"Santiago tried four shots at it, firing seated from the rest. He missed. Robby took Natasha out of her case and loaded five rounds. Standing up and shooting offhand, he put all five shots on target. BOOM, clang! BOOM, clang! BOOM, clang!, five times, as fast as he could work the bolt and get back on target. 

"When he was done, he looked at the members of the Ensemble who were watching open-mouthed. 'Not as much fun for you as my falling on my ass, perhaps,' he said, 'but for me it's much more satisfying.' He cased his rifle and walked away.

"The barbecue was much more subdued than Wind Ensemble parties usually are. He'd made his point."

The car was silent for a minute as Inga digested this. "So he doesn't have a girlfriend. He doesn't date at all?"

The Duchess shook her head with a sad smile. "There isn't a girl in the school that would be caught dead with him out on a date. Not even Sandra Slotski, whose nickname is 'Sally Slut.' She is, shall we say, not at all fussy about who she goes out with and has remarkably easy virtue?"

"Couldn't keep her legs together with glue, eh?"

"You got it. And it's not hyperbole. Robby actually tried to date her once.

"Last year he really wanted to go to the Junior Prom. He's too young for the college girls he goes to class with at the university, knew he didn't have a prayer with any of the girls in the music program, and the ones he'd had classes with in the gifted track either had boyfriends or hadn't treated him like he was a human being. He asked a couple of them anyway, and got turned down. One of the wits in the Wind Ensemble suggested he ask Sally. So he caught up with her after school one afternoon, gathered his courage, and asked her. 

"To the surprise of the school, she accepted. But she had one condition: that he meet her at the hotel where the Prom was being held, rather than pick her up at her house. That would have set my warning lights off -"

"Mine, too," agreed Inga.

"- But Robby didn't know any better. So he shows up in the lobby of the hotel in a tailored white dinner jacket waiting for her, and in walks Sally Slut on the arm of this big bruiser of a fullback she's been seeing off and on. Duke and I arrived just in time to see her laugh in his face and tell him, 'You really thought I'd come to the Prom with you? You're so weird, a crack whore wouldn't go out with you if you gave her a rock the size of a snowball!' And everyone in the lobby laughed out loud.

"In the movies, this would be where the doors slam shut, heads explode, people catch on fire and jocks get thrown through the walls. But in the real world, that doesn't happen. Robby just looked at her and said, 'If you didn't want to go out with me, all you had to do was say no. There is no reason you had to humiliate me in public. I hope you and your date enjoy yourselves.' He dropped the prom tickets and the orchid he'd brought for her and walked out, no expression on his face. I told Duke to wait and went after him.

"I found him leaning on the steering wheel of his Jag, crying. Not wailing, not sobbing, just crying. I wanted to approach him, but I couldn't. He had just been massively embarrassed and my being there would not have been a comfort.

"I heard him say, 'There's no hope. There isn't a single person in the world who wants me. No one cares. I'm just a sometimes-useful robot, a piece of equipment that does a job and gets put away until the next time it's needed. Machines are not allowed to have feelings. "Love" is an illusion. Everyone acts like it's real, but it doesn't really exist. I'd better get used to the fact I'm not human. Maybe then it won't hurt when they laugh at me.' And then he drove away."

"Dear God. That sounds like the kind of thing that pushes someone over the edge, where he snaps and starts shooting until the police show up and put him down like a mad dog."

"I know. Fortunately, Robby's sane. But you want to hear what's really weird?"

"Weirder than being desperate enough to make a date with the school slut?"

"Yeah, even weirder than that. I don't believe this, and I was there.

"I have a cousin from New York. She got sent off to a boarding school run by nuns out in the middle of nowhere because she went wild when she turned 16 two years ago. To keep her out of trouble for the few days between the end of summer camp and the start of school, her folks sent her to visit us, far away from the bright lights of New York City. Long story short, I was deputized to keep her out of trouble. Duke came up with the idea of taking her to see the attractions down at Colonial Williamsburg: the recreated Colonial museum town, the parades, shopping; and then Busch Gardens, the amusement park. To keep her from feeling like a third wheel, I roped Robby into coming along.

"I wouldn't have expected Sophia to be interested in him. She looks like a lingerie model and gets whatever she wants from guys just by crooking her finger. They drool and babble and step on their tongues around her, doing everything but pound their chests like apes. Robby is as straight-arrow a guy as I've ever met. He flies with the Civil Air Patrol, drives people home from parties when they've had too much, tutors at the high school, helps out friends with cousin problems and everything. But for some reason, she was taken with him. 

"Maybe it was because he didn't act like he was out to lay her. Maybe it was because he wasn't obviously impressed with her looks. Maybe it was because he was polite but not fawning; I don't know. But she was attracted, no question. Pressed up against him in the back seat, took his arm every chance she got, asked him questions and hung on his answers - you know, all the things we girls do to impress a guy and make him think he's wonderful. But it cut no ice with him. 

"She asked me to see if he was free for the weekend so we could go to the beach and then maybe Duke and I could get lost, if you get my drift. He said sorry, but he was flying with the CAP both days. Duke checked; he's in the 496th too. Robby volunteered to fly. It wasn't his turn on the schedule. I don't think Sophia has been that surprised since she grew boobs and found out what she could get with them!"

"I don't suppose he smiled and laughed at her jokes, did he? He seems to take everything so seriously. I've never seen him smile."

Carissa was silent for a minute. At last she said, "I met Robby through Duke. Duke's 19, a year older than me. He was held back junior year because he couldn't read very well. He was ordered to report for reading tutoring, and Robby caught him. He sat down and talked to Duke for about 15 minutes, excused himself, left and came back with a book. He tossed it on the table and told Duke, 'Read me that, out loud, please.' It was a copy of a car repair guide from the library. Inside of two months of three times a week lessons, he had Duke reading confidently, simply by picking things he wanted to read. From car manuals they moved on to other books, and he gave Duke the idea that reading can be fun, a look into another world. They also discovered a mutual interest in cars, guns, airplanes and hunting. Duke may be the first real buddy Robby ever had.

"So when I ran into trouble with a paper I had to do for American History class, Duke took me to see him. I knew who Mr. Spock was, of course; everybody in the school does. He was that nutjob with the funny ears who never smiles, who's taking college classes at the town's expense. But it wasn't until I walked into the tutoring center that I realized Duke's friend Robby was Mr. Spock. I'm ashamed to admit I snapped at Duke, that I thought he was playing a joke on me. Robby just looked at me and said, 'If you want to spend summer vacation sweltering in a classroom taking American History all over again, you'll just swish that cute little ass of yours out the door. If you want to get an A on your paper and pass the course, you'll park it in that chair. Your call.'




International Exchange Concert



"So I sat down. Without further ado he looked over my topic and my notes, had me re-evaluate the points I wanted to make, made me take a broader view of my topic, and told me he expected to see a first draft by Friday and no excuses. On Monday he handed me back a marked up draft, with notes where and how it could be improved. He told me he wanted the rewrite by Wednesday. Thursday he gave me back the edited second draft and made me an offer: if Duke and I would come to his house Saturday afternoon with the final draft, he'd give it a final edit, proofread it, style it for me in Quark, insert the pictures into the text, and print it on his father's professional color printer for me to hand in on Monday.

"Somewhere along the way on Saturday, when he said he was pleased at how my paper was turning out, I asked him why he wasn't smiling if it was so good."

"What did he say?"

"He looked at me and Duke and said, 'I was in an accident when I was a kid. A lot of nerves in my face were severed. The muscles between my eyes and my mouth don't work very well. I'm lucky I can talk, never mind smile. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that I can't.' I wanted to sink through the floor, I was so embarrassed."

"I've seen him lift his eyebrows and turn up the corners of his mouth when he looks at me -"

"Then you've seen him come as close to smiling as he can. And as for laughing - well, Inga, try and laugh without smiling. Go on, try it!"

Inga did. It took a great deal of effort to keep her face straight and then laugh. What emerged from her throat wasn't laughter. It was a cross between a croak and a cough that hurt her ears. Carissa nodded agreement.

"And that's why he doesn't laugh, even when he thinks something's funny. He knows how grotesque and painful his laughter sounds, so he applauds instead. He's trying to be considerate."

Inga shook her head. "Wow. And I bet the number of people who know that are in this car and the one ahead of us."

"Pretty much. Plus his father, of course."

"Debbie's told me a little about him. An important doctor, she said. Has an important job and a big career. A real quality-timer with his son."

"If Robby is his son," Carissa said softly.

Inga looked at her. "What do you mean?"

Carissa sighed, turning the wheel as they took a curve. "While Robby and Duke and I were printing the final version of my paper, his father came home. He's tall, craggy, salt-and-pepper hair; just what you'd expect a distinguished surgeon to look like. He insisted we stay for dinner. We ate in the dining room. Miss Phoebe, their housekeeper, fed us. 

"It was very stiff compared to what I'm used to, to what Duke is used to. To us Italians, dinner is when we catch up on each other's days, tell our little triumphs and tragedies; you know, family time. Robby and his father asked and answered questions, but it was like a board meeting in a movie, you know what I mean? Formal. His father seemed interested in my paper, and Robby seemed fascinated by his father's account of the cut and thrust of a grant proposal meeting, but there wasn't a lot of warmth showing. 

"I had a chance to study both of them while we ate. Dr. Winston Jabez has black hair and hazel eyes. Robby's blond and blue-eyed. His father has a chin you could shave with. Robby's is rounder and cleft. His father's face is shield-shaped. Robby's is more oval. But it's the eyes and the hair that are the real clues. His mother was a blue-eyed blonde, but I know from biology class that if you mate a blue-eyed blonde female with a brown-eyed, black-haired male, you usually end up with a brown-eyed child with black hair. 

"There's something else. The photos on the wall of the Doctor's study that I presume are Doctor Jabez's parents all have black hair. The conclusion is obvious: Winston Jabez is not Robby's biological father."

"Does Robby know?"

"I don't know. I've never asked him. And please, don't you bring it up. Let's keep this just between us, okay? Robby's been hurt enough; he doesn't need any more."

The car was silent for a couple of minutes as Inga digested this new information. As the Jaguar turned into the restaurant's parking lot, she said, "Carissa, could our going out for a late dinner be taken as a date? You and Duke, me and Robby?"

Carissa nosed into a parking space and shut off the engine. "I think that would be up to you. But I'll offer one piece of advice, and one warning. 

"First, the advice. If you're interested in him, you're going to have to make the moves. He won't. I don't think he knows how. You'll have to take the lead in anything romantic.

"Now, the warning. Don't set him up and then humiliate him the way Sally Slut did. He wouldn't do anything if you did that, he's too nice a guy - but I'll see to it your body is never found. When it comes to romance, he's completely clueless. He's never had a girlfriend. He doesn't know the rules. If you try to hook up and you don't click, that's one thing. But using him and then dumping him is something else. He doesn't deserve that, and I won't have it. Do we understand each other?"

"You really think I'd do that to Robby?" Inga huffed indignantly.

"Inga, you're an old friend I just haven't known very long. Robby likes you. That speaks volumes. He doesn't like many people and seldom lets his guard down. I just wanted to get everything out front. Okay?"

"Okay. Shall we join the boys?" said Inga, jerking her head toward the two boys waiting by Robby's Jaguar. The two girls walked to join them. The Duchess slipped her arm into Duke's. Inga took Robby's hand and gave him a quick but unhurried kiss. Robby blushed, scars springing out on his face. 

Anthony's Trattoria was a restaurant in the Neapolitan style; stucco, wrought iron, white tablecloths and napkins, big wine barrels behind the well stocked bar, comfortable chairs and square tables in the middle, banquettes around the edges with worn leather that molded itself to the body, and lighting low enough to encourage intimacy without requiring a flashlight to read the menu. Although the house specialty was seafood there was a wood-fired grille that could do steaks and chops if that was your pleasure. The air inside was heavy with the odor of well-prepared food. As they came out of the foyer, they were intercepted by an older version of Duke in a tuxedo, who hugged his relative and planted a kiss on Carissa's cheek.

"So nice to see you both again! I haven't seen you since my son's christening. But who are your friends?" Introductions were performed and Anthony, Duke's cousin and the proprietor, showed them to a banquette. He distributed menus and left them to it. Carissa and Duke didn't open their menus; they already knew what they wanted. Robby and Inga studied theirs.

"What do you recommend?" she asked.

Duke started to open his mouth but closed it again at a warning look from Carissa. Robby answered, "This time of night, I'd avoid the lobsters. They'll have been picked over by those who got here before us. Personally, I think the crab cakes in lemon butter sauce can't be beat. That's what I'm ordering, maybe with Anthony's special bacon-wrapped oysters in puff pastry as an appetizer. I could make a meal just of those, they're so good."

Inga shut her menu. "That suits. Tell you what: let's order the tray of mixed appetizers and we'll split them among the four of us, eh?" The Duke and the Duchess nodded agreement.

"Only if you let me pay for it," Robby said.

"Done!" The waitress in white dress with black hostess apron came and took their orders.

When the appetizer tray arrived, Inga took the initiative. After eating a couple of the treats herself, she dipped a bacon-wrapped oyster without the pastry into the cocktail sauce and held it out to Robby. Sensing that he was expected to eat it off her fork, he leaned forward and took it. Following her lead, he selected a lobster puff and held it out to her. She guided his hand and ate it, her fingers lingering on his. 

Until the appetizers were gone, neither ate one unless the other selected it. Carissa and the Duke, their eventual marriage an understanding between them long since, watched the courtship behavior with quiet amusement. Dinner arrived, and all four devoted their attention to the very good seafood, eating every last bite. When coffee was served, Inga excused herself to powder her nose and motioned Carissa to follow with her eyes.

In the ladies' room, she asked her, "I really don't want to end this evening by simply driving back to town. Is there some place where we could, you know, have some privacy?"

"How much privacy are you talking about?"

"Someplace where we could be alone. But not so alone that we might get - into trouble."

"Parking, not hooking up, in so many words." Carissa pondered the problem. 

"There's a place a quarter mile down the road that used to be a restaurant before it burned down a couple of years back. The parking lot is still there. Duke and I have gone there a time or two when we wanted to be private where nobody would think to look for us. Turn left off the road at the whitewashed boulder and go in about a hundred yards and you'll come to it. Park in the right rear corner and no one will see you."

Duke and Robby were at the cash register paying for dinner. Robby paid the tab with a credit card and Duke handed him his and Carissa's share of it in cash. Popping a complimentary mint into his mouth, Robby said, "Duke, I need your advice, please."

"What about?" he asked as they walked toward the entrance to wait for the girls.

"Well, this is rather awkward. I'd like to take Inga someplace where there's some, shall we say, privacy. I can't take her to my house for the obvious reason -"

"- So you want to know if there's somewhere the two of you could go to watch the midnight submarine races. A place where you won't be disturbed at the wrong moment, where no one can see how things turn out." He thought for a minute. 

"Back down the road a little ways there's a white boulder on the left next to a driveway. Turn onto that road and drive slow and careful, there aren't any lights. There used to be a barbecue joint there years ago. A fire in the kitchen got out of control and it burned to the ground. The owner couldn't afford to rebuild and just abandoned the place. As far as I can tell, almost everyone's forgotten it's there. Carissa and I go there sometimes when we want to be alone, if you get my drift."

"Thanks." There was no time to say more as the girls rejoined them. They walked to their respective cars and with a wave at them, Duke and the Duchess drove off. 

Inga slipped her arm around Robby's waist and leaned against him. "Is there any reason we have to go straight home, Robby?"

"Not if you don't need to get back right away," he said, tentatively reaching to stroke her hair. "Do you?"

By way of reply, she took out her cellphone, scanned down the directory, selected a contact and texted for a minute before closing up the phone. "All set. Shall we go?" 

A couple of minutes later the Jag turned left onto a blacktop road crumbling at the edges, leaves old and new drifted across it. Inga looked at Robby with wise eyes as he guided the car slowly through the gloom.

"It seems great minds think alike."

His eyebrows quirked up. "Let's just say I was... hopeful."

The driveway emptied into a parking lot in a poor state of repair with windblown piles of leaves and deadwood from twigs to large tree limbs scattered about, and a ruin that by day might have inspired horror-movie dread but by starlight was somewhat romantic. The Jaguar parked on the far side of an uprooted tree whose bare branches broke up the car's outline and camouflaged it from curious eyes. He shut off the engine and turned to Inga. 

Before he could say a word, she leaned forward and caressed his face. He closed his eyes and her hand behind his head pulled his lips to hers. She kissed him softly, taking her time as she felt him relax. His arm found her shoulder and drew her toward him as her lips opened on his and the very tip of her tongue flickered along them. She touched her tonguetip to his as his lips parted and he sighed. Opening her lips still more, she pressed deeper into his mouth. Inga pulled as closely against him as the bucket seats of the Jaguar allowed, which wasn't very. She broke the kiss but didn't release him. 

"Let's get into the back," she whispered throatily. "We can be closer there."

Getting out of the car, they rearranged themselves, ending with Robby sprawled along the back seat and Inga sort of lying on top of him. She snuggled close and stroked his face as his hands shipped up under her jacket to explore her back. Taking his face in both hands, she lightly kissed his eyes and the tip of his nose before settling onto his lips and kissing him again, sighing as his tonguetip found her open mouth and he tentatively initiated a kiss of his own. Their tongues began to duel, an oral bout of lunge, parry, riposte and counter. As she expected, Robby was clumsy but very sincere in his intentions. She twined fingers into his hair and pressed against him. His hands slid to her buttocks and squeezed gently through her skirt in response to her pressure, and she wriggled against the lump in his pants. A soft moan escaped her lips and she began to rock over him. One hand moved up to her boobs but could not find its way inside her costume. His tongue thrust hard into her mouth and she groaned softly as a tiny orgasm fluttered her insides. 

Breaking the kiss, she looked at Robby. His scars were visible in the low light, and he was breathing hard, but he made no move to try and get her clothes off, though one hand still squeezed her derriere.

"That was nice," she said. "Thank you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You just gave me a little orgasm, Robby. It felt good."

"I did?"

"Yes, you did. I'd like to do more with you, but this car is so cramped! If I'd thought we'd end up here, I would've changed out of this corset into something more... accessible." She twisted and settled against his chest. "A burlesque corset is so not the thing if you are going to make out. Almost makes me wish Paula Chomsky got the part."

"Who's she?" he asked as his hands wandered lightly over her body, exploring what he could.

"You know the girl who plays the sax in the cabaret band?"

His mind flashed back to the rehearsal, recalling a doughy, thick-legged girl in a middy blouse, unflattering shorts, pasty white skin and Liza Minelli hair. He had noticed her glare hatefully at Inga more than once as the blocking had been modified because of Buckthorn's stage lighting setup. "Yes. She doesn't seem to like you very much."

"That's because I stole her thunder. Paula's a better singer than I am and she knows it. She's been taking singing lessons since she was six. She's going to the conservatory at McGill next year. She spent last summer interning with the opera company in Toronto, filled in with the chorus a few times onstage and even sang a minor role in rehearsal when they were doing La Boheme. This was supposed to be her year in the theater arts program, eh? But when the school hired a new teacher after her mentor retired it kind of put a crimp in her plans for stardom. 

"Mrs. Snowden had tailored this year's schedule to play to Paula's strength, her voice. Everything she scheduled was a costume show: Jesus Christ Superstar, 1776 and Les Miserables. They all have leads Paula could play in loose costumes or hoopskirts. Ms. Norton dumped all three in favor of staging Cabaret, Cats and The Producers, shows which absolutely require female leads with gobs of sex appeal who can dance without looking like the hippos from Fantasia. Paula may have a Broadway-caliber voice, but she comes up way short in the sex-appeal department.

"She didn't or couldn't see what the changed schedule implied when it was announced on the KSS website over the summer. Paula was so sure she'd be playing Sally Bowles that she got her hair cut in a 1920s bob before she came back to school, you know? I could have told her she wouldn't get it. I heard her audition. Paula couldn't sing in a corset."

"I don't get it."

"You've seen the movie, eh? In all of Sally's big numbers, she's wearing a corset," Inga said, tapping hers for emphasis. "But they constrict your diaphragm if you aren't used to them and you don't get used to one overnight. Ms. Norton made all the girls try out in a tight-cinched corset. 

"Aside from the fact Paula would look like a caricature of a 1930s society matron, even assuming Wardrobe could find something that might fit her, she couldn't suck in enough air to project properly in the cincher she auditioned in. I was the only girl who could belt out a number while wearing a corset, so I got the lead. Paula was livid when she found she'd been bumped back to the chorus."

"So how is it you can sing wearing one?"

She snuggled closer and laid her head on his chest. "Robby my dear, I've been tightlacing since I was fourteen. I wear cinchers and bustiers most of the time, though I prefer an underbust corset to this burlesque style. I think they are the sexiest piece of women's clothing ever invented. Surely you noticed I have a small waist and erect posture?"

"I thought that was just you."

She kissed him lightly, batting her eyes. "Flatterer. They make me feel feminine and sexy as hell. If I were wearing one of my own instead of this body armor, I'd show you just how sexy they make me feel. But since I'm not, let me coach you in the kind of things girls like when they are in this situation. If that's all right with you, that is."

"I place myself in your very capable hands."

Inga had an enjoyable time writing a guide to sexual relations and sensual pleasure on the tabula rasa that was Robby. Carefully, knowing how delicate his ego was in interpersonal matters between males and females, she coached him in how to please a girl. She taught him how to use his lips on hers, where and how to kiss her skin, when to use his tongue when kissing, and the importance of not drooling no matter how excited the girl made the boy. She explained about the importance of touch, not just the where and the when, but the how, and allowed him to experiment on her to learn the 'butterfly touch' that done properly at the right time can drive a girl wild. She gave a quick lecture on the difference between caressing and getting grabby, pointing out that grabbiness will not only turn a girl off but earn the guy a bad rep, with a sidebar on female locker room and powder room conversations that made Robby blush. When she'd done all this, the two of them engaged in a game of tonsil-hockey and mixed wrestling that, when they broke apart, had both of them panting hot and heavy for more that they knew they could not have there and then.

"We'd better head back," Robby said at last.

The drive back to Buckthorn was quiet, but a comfortable quiet. Their relationship might not exactly be that of boyfriend and girlfriend, but it was much more than platonic. At Debbie's house, Robby walked Inga to the door. They kissed goodnight, an extended kiss that Inga had to restrain from turning rugged. She unlocked the door and went inside.

She took off her shoes and tiptoed up the stairs to the guest room, but before she could undress there was a soft tap at the door and Debbie slipped in. She looked at Inga and Inga instantly knew that Debbie could tell there was more to her getting home this late than a post-rehearsal dinner.

"And what have you been up to? A romp though Cupid's grove with great agility, perhaps?" she teased.

"No. But we did go parking for awhile."

"You're kidding! You and Mister Spock? Last time I checked, he wasn't in pon farr. I wouldn't have thought he knew what to do with a girl!"




International Exchange Concert



Inga gave Debbie a warning look. "Robby's as human as you are. Just because he has pointed ears doesn't make him a Vulcan, eh? He may not know what to do with a girl yet, but he's unschooled, not stupid. We're working on that."

"You aren't kidding, are you."

"No," Inga said, putting words to her feelings for the first time. "I like him. He's smart and straightforward. I think he's a natural leader. He doesn't follow the herd, and not only because your high school herd has rejected him. Do you know what I mean?"

"I think so. He does what's the right thing to do because he thinks it's the right thing to do, no matter what anyone else may think. I know the Godfather was madder than hell at him for a while on the USO tour we did this summer. A unit out in the boonies borrowed him for something that was supposed to take a few hours, but he was gone for a day and a half, didn't check in and almost missed a show. The Godfather was ready to send him home, he was so mad. Then an officer showed up and smoothed it over. I don't know the details. I don't think anyone but Spock and the Godfather do, and neither one is talking. Maybe he'd tell you? I'm not the only one who wants to know how he escaped from that jam. Dr. Sella has thrown people out of the Wind Ensemble for less than that. We maintain professional discipline, but Spock broke the rules and got away with it. It's, like, unprecedented, you know?"

"If I find out, you'll find out," Inga promised, with a significant look at her bed. Debbie took the hint and left.

The next day was Friday, with final rehearsals for the Friday night football game's halftime show. After school, the Godfather ran the group through the numbers and showpieces one at a time, and then once with no waits and no breaks. They finished with the instrumentalists in three dense blocks across the field from the 20-yard line to the end zone. He raised his voice and addressed them from where he stood. 

"All right, it's time for you to learn who the three 'periods' are going to be this week. For the benefit of our Canadian observers, we always end our halftime shows by forming the school letters, separated by periods. The 'periods' are members of the group who have done something noteworthy in the preceding week.

"This week, the three periods are: Mark Thomaston, for winning his light-heavyweight wrestling match and putting Buckthorn over the top against Rockingham; Andrea Porter, for being accepted at Ohio State, my old alma mater; and Robert Jabez, for saving Debbie Province from choking to death on a slice of pizza."

There was applause for the three. A sharp peep from the Godfather's whistle brought instant silence. He looked significantly at the drum major, who raised his mace to the 'ready' and blew his own whistle, then brought it down sharply. The Rangers began to move, to the tune of the "French National Defi" march.

The trademark number of the Ohio State University Marching Band is their script 'Ohio' done to a custom arrangement of the "French National Defi." What the Rangers were doing was not script, though to those in the know the connection to OSU's signature evolution was plain. The drum major didn't lead the line as Ohio State's did; the marchers moved on their own, three lines of Rangers moving across the field toward the eastern goalposts. As the upper line leader hit the far 30-yard line, he made a left flank turn and headed for the north sideline. He made a right oblique movement and began to draw a curve. The rest of his block followed him and formed the letter B. 

While the first block was forming the B, the second block marched to the 45-yard line. The sax player leading the line made his flanking turn and headed north. The line followed him, splitting twice; one halfway up the left leg with the marchers heading right and splitting again at the far 45 yard line to alternate left and right turns to form the second leg of the H, with the Rangers at the end of the block completing the bottom of the left leg.

The third block reached the near 35-yard line and turned north too. The clarinets, flutes, piccolos and low winds split apart and made two curves to form a letter S. The color guard at the end of the block split left, reached the center of the H and as one did a right flank and marched down 15 yards toward the south sideline. 

The flags and interspersed rifles began to move in a double file. Breaking off from the first and third blocks of instrumentalists, they underlined the letters. They stopped, and four beats later three musicians broke out of their letters and high-stepped their way to the spaces after each letter to become the 'periods,' so the letters on the field read, "B.H.S." Each took of his or her hat and bowed, then resumed playing. The "Defi" concluded, and there was a pause.

The Rangers exploded into sound. As one, they stepped off toward the sideline and swung into the finale of "The William Tell Overture," the Buckthorn High School fight song. The number ended with the letters collapsing into blocks as the drum line set a fast street beat for them to clear the field. The Canadians were impressed. They were a good parade outfit, able to hold the rigid ranks and files required of a marching band on the street, which isn't as easy as it sounds; but the Kensington musicians were not accustomed to the exotic evolutions of precision field work.

The band halted. The Godfather nodded to the drum major, who about-faced, raised his mace, and ordered, "Dis-MISS!" as he brought it down. The mass of musicians paused for an instant, and then dissolved into an amorphous crowd, walking for the stadium exits. Inga caught up with Robby outside the stadium.

"It's about 4:15. What happens between now and game time?"

"That depends. Some of us go home for dinner. Most of us stay here and eat takeout. A couple of kids will take orders and run to the burger joint to bring back food. Then we get into uniform, and heaven help anyone who isn't in uniform with spit-shined boots, instrument in hand, ready to go at 6:30. We march out and do the pregame show at 6:45. Kickoff, heaven help us, is at 7:05 sharp." They reached the Jag and Robby put the horizontal bells and harness into the trunk.

"What do you do about eating?" she asked.

"Usually I run home. I'd rather eat Ms. Phoebe's cooking than fast food any time." He paused. 

"Would you like to come home with me for dinner?" he asked hesitantly.

Inga smiled. "I'd love to. Let me text Debbie." They both pulled out their phones and two minutes later were on their way to Robby's house.

It wasn't far from the high school, a large, old Stockbroker's Tudor bordering on mansion size built as a three sided square, with a huge slate patio opening onto an old cobblestone courtyard with a small stable and carriage house converted to garages opposite it. A glassed in swimming pool off to the right of the patio opposite the ex-carriage house and a conservatory that were obviously later additions spoiled the symmetry somewhat, but Inga felt instantly at home. Robby parked in the courtyard and led Inga in through a side door off the patio.

"What's for dinner?" he asked as they walked into a large eat-in kitchen. A wiry, slender black woman with a Halle Berry hairstyle turned from the pot she was stirring and fixed Robby with a gimlet eye.

"Robert, I've taught you better than that. Do please introduce me to your friend."

Robby blushed and his scars sprang out. "Yes, Ms. Phoebe. Inga Gustafson, please permit me to introduce you to Ms. Phoebe Davis. She's our housekeeper, the only mother I've ever known. Ms. Phoebe, this is Inga, who is first chair first flute from Kensington High, in Canada."

"I'm pleased to meet you," said Inga, extending a hand. Ms. Phoebe shifted a wooden spoon from right to left and took it, looking her over with a swift, probing glance that made Inga feel as if she'd been deep-scanned before breaking into a smile and giving her a nod of approval.

"A pleasure to meet you. You're the first girl Robby has ever brought home for dinner. Supper will be early because Robby has to change for the game and get back. Robby - oh, good. Don't forget soup bowls; I've made gumbo tonight." Robby, without being asked, was setting the table by the fireplace. Inga moved to stand near him as he spread a fresh tablecloth and dealt flatware, napkins, cups and saucers, plates, bowls, and stemware with the ease of long practice.

"Do you always set a formal table?" she asked.

"This isn't formal," Robby assured her as he set a silver butter dish on the table and added a small silver pepper grinder and salt shaker. "If you'd like to feel useful, you could fill the water pitcher from the water cooler over there. Ice is in the fridge. Father says there's no point in having linens, silver and crystal if you don't use them. The formal china, silver and crystal are in the dining room. Our family's lived here for more than a century. When a family is in the same house for generations things do accumulate."

"They certainly do," agreed Ms. Phoebe. "The folks from Cash in the Attic would have a field day in this place! As far as I can tell, the Jabezes never throw anything away." Inga helped carry the food to the table and the three of them sat down to eat.

She reflected Robby had good reason to prefer home cooking to fast food. The gumbo was followed by salad, barbecued chicken breast, baked potatoes, sweet peas, ice cream and tea. As they rose from the table, Inga made as if to carry the dishes to the sink, but Ms. Phoebe waved her off. 

"Don't bother; I'll take care of the dishes. Robby, why don't you show Inga the house? But keep track of the time so you aren't late."

"Yes, ma'am." They left the kitchen and walked through a swinging door into a pantry separating the kitchen from the dining room. Inga whistled as she took in an antique mahogany table that could easily seat the 12 chairs that lined it, with more neatly lined against the wall and French doors that opened onto the patio. 

"My great great-grandfather and great-grandfather were bankers who dabbled in politics," Robby explained as they turned right and passed through the two sliding doors that led across the hall to a formal sitting room with a concert grand by the leaded glass bay window that overlooked the semicircular drive and a lawn that sloped gently to the street. "Father told me that Great-Grandfather bought that piano for his daughter, my grandmother. It seems I get my musical talent, such as it is, from her. She was a minor concert pianist in the 'Teens and the Roaring '20s. It still plays well, which is all that matters to me." 

Robby leading the way down the passageway, they passed a couple of guest rooms on the front side of the house, and a library and a gun room on the left. Robby brought Inga into it and she stopped. Animal heads from three continents hung on walls decorated with Zulu shields and spears, Sudanese broadswords, North African jezail muskets, stretched tiger and leopard skins and Indian howdah pistols. Glass-fronted gun cabinets lined two of the walls, and two locked gun safes flanked a worktable on a third. The guns in the display ranged from old double-barreled shotguns to modern military rifles, with all sorts of bolt actions, vintage firearms, over-and-under shotguns for trapshooting, and what looked to be war souvenirs. Thinking back to her conversation with Carissa, she said, "So which one of these is Natasha?"

Robby's eyebrows rose and his mouth quirked upward at the corners. "I can't believe you remembered that! Here she is." He opened a cabinet and took out a rifle with the external magazine that hollers "sporterized military rifle" to the cognoscenti. The Monte Carlo stock with its high cheekpiece was made of walnut, and a large, powerful scope sat over the bolt. The iron sights had been removed and a cylindrical muzzle brake adorned the business end of the gun. Robby opened the action to confirm it wasn't loaded and handed it to Inga with the air of one presenting a jewel. Inga checked the action, closed the bolt and smoothly brought it to her shoulder, looking through the scope into the yard past the pool, whistling as a tree spring into sharp relief.

"She's zeroed for 200 yards," Robby said casually, "and I know the adjustments for everything out to 1,000 yards. But at 200 yards she'll put five rounds into a 2-inch circle. That's good enough for most purposes."

"I'll say. Dad's old .303 Enfield wouldn't do that well." She handed Natasha back and he reflexively checked to confirm the rifle wasn't loaded before racking it again. They continued on the tour.

Passing through an octagonal greenhouse the size of the dining room with its mix of fresh vegetables, herbs and flowers, Robby paused by a rose bush and clipped a tea rose, which he presented to Inga with a flourish. She smiled and tucked it behind a hair clip as they walked on through to the glassed-in pool.

"Father had this put in after my accident so I could swim and strengthen my arms and legs, and do in-the-water aerobics. He calls it his aquatic tax write-off because all three of us use it for exercise as well as for fun. The wall on the courtyard end folds back for parties; it turns the pool and its apron into an extension of the patio. I'd say the chances are about 50-50 that someone will fall in at the Halloween party." He glanced at his watch. "I'd better go upstairs and change into uniform."

They went up the staircase in the front hall by the living room. Robby waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. "Down that way there's a solarium and storerooms, the stairs to the attic and a servants' staircase that comes out in the kitchen, and Ms. Phoebe's apartment. Over this way," with a wave down the corridor that paralleled the one below, "are another guest room, Father's library, his study and the master suite. My room is here at the head of the stairs. Excuse me, I won't be long." He ducked into his room and closed the door.

Inga turned and walked down the hall to the right. She saw what had to be Dr. Jabez's study from the Duchess's description of it and went inside, looking at the pictures on the wall. They ranged from an oil painting of a man with a pencil mustache in turn of the 20th Century morning clothes that hung over the fireplace to 8x10 color photographs of Robby and a tall man with a sharp, jutting chin posing proudly beside an elk, rifles in hand. She spent a minute looking at that one, comparing the faces. Not one facial feature matched up, and as Carissa had said Robby's blond hair was in vivid contrast to the Doctor's jet black with silver threads sprinkled through it. 

Before she left, she stepped over to the Doctor's desk and looked at it. There was a computer screen that could hook into a laptop, and a lamp, and a bronze inkstand; but perhaps significantly, not a family photograph. She walked back up the corridor, considering, before she ducked into a guest room for a minute.

Robby came out of his private bathroom - all the bedrooms in the house had their own baths, thanks to what had been radical thinking on plumbing when the house was built - bare-chested and freshly shaved. He had already donned the dark green trousers of the Buckthorn Rangers' field band uniform with the black stripe running down the side. The black-frogged green tunic and black English-style kepi that went with it were sitting on the chair by his desk. He found Inga sitting on his bed. She gracefully rose to her feet and glided across the room to him.

"Do we have to rush back?" she purred, trailing her manicured nails over his pectorals as she slowly circled him. He caught her hand and drew her in.

"No, I don't have to be back just yet," he said softly, voice trembling. A pair of silk panties dropped to the floor from Inga's other hand. 

"Good," she whispered. "Kiss me."

She wrapped herself around him as their lips met, already parted. Their kiss turned hot instantly. Tongues dueled and hands roamed over each other's bodies, seeking and stimulating. She strained hard against him, her big boobs flattening against the hard planes of his chest, moaning as his hands slid down to her small, tight ass cheeks to pull her close. One hand slid under her skirt to discover that no panties barred its way. She pulled him to the bed, falling half across his lap as they dropped onto it.  

His hand tentatively touched her mound. Her hand covered his and instead of pushing it away, pulled it to where she wanted it. He found her slit.

"That's right, darling! Finger me! I want you to! Finger-fuck me! Please!"

His hand parted her nether lips as they kissed with the passion of teenage lust. First one finger and then another slipped between her labia, dipping into Inga's honeypot, feeling an aroused woman's wetness for the first time. They moved in and out of her, slowly at first and then with more confidence when she didn't stop him. She moaned against his mouth, her hips starting to rise to meet his hand as they squirmed on the three-quarter bed. She gasped as his thumb instinctively found her clitoris and brushed against it.

"Yes! Oh, yes! Right there! Like that, Robby! Just a touch, not too hard! Don't stop! Please, don't stop! Stroke it! Yes! Just like that! Oh! Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh, y-e-e-s-s-s!"

Her hips bucked against his hand, forcing his fingers deeper into her pussy as moisture leaked out of her. She pulled his head down, finding his mouth and locking hers to it, her nails digging into his scalp as she controlled the kiss, accepting the stiffened tongue he thrust into her mouth. With one last push, she arched her back and screamed into his mouth as she came, her velvet trap clenching and spasming on his fingers as orgasm took her. After a minute, she relaxed against him and he withdrew his hand while hers caressed him.

"Thank you, darling. Thank you for that." She took the hand that had masturbated her to climax and sensuously licked the fingers clean, an act Robby found incredibly erotic. "You may not be experienced, but you're going to be a good lover. A girl can tell."

"You really think so?" he asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"I can tell," she repeated. "And if we had more time, I'd do more than just tell you. But I'm afraid we need to be leaving. Dammit."

A glance at the clock was all he needed to confirm it. She swung her legs off him and Robby quickly scrambled into t-shirt, tunic and hat. When he was dressed, Inga came to him and kissed him again before cuddling against his chest.

"We're going to be here in Buckthorn for days yet. I'm sure someone as clever as you can arrange for time and privacy where we can be together without having to worry about being caught. Think about it, darling - if you want to."

"Oh, I want to," he said. "You don't know how much I want to!"

Holding hands, they walked down the front stairs, cut through the dining room and out the French doors onto the patio. A minute later the Jaguar's engine came to life and they were on their way back to the high school, holding hands between their seats.

They arrived at the school with time to spare and parked by the back fence. They got out and leaned against the trunk, arms around each other, simply enjoying the physical contact, so still that the people arriving for the game didn't even notice them. At last Inga kissed Robby gently and said, "If you don't get going you're going to be late. I'll catch up with you after the game." She helped him hook up his bells and with a final caress of his cheek headed for the stadium.

Robby fell in with the drum line in the courtyard, sticks in hand, just before the Godfather's whistle blew Attention. The other percussionists gave him questioning looks. Mr. Spock never arrived just before the Attention, ever. Before any of them could ask why he'd almost been late, the Godfather was talking.