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He raised on his toes and leaned over the basin to get a better look in the bathroom mirror. Eyes of intense jade-green stared back at him, appearing darker against the clear pale skin of a still softly contoured adolescent face. A heavy sheaf of wheat-blond hair fell over his forehead. He stared at his reflection, brushing the hair back with unusually long fingers, then stroked his jaw line wondering if he should shave.

"Brant, for heaven's sake come on. You'll be late for school and I've got too much to do to waste time on you." His mother's exasperated yell shattered his musing. He dropped down on his heels with a sigh. Just like it is every time we move, he thought as he picked up his jacket and went down, clinging to the banister and taking each step tentatively.

"Why didn't you get up in time for breakfast?" She demanded as she started the car. "Didn't you set the clock?"

"I was trying to get my room set up last night. I didn't think it would hurt to miss one more day."

"You're fortunate to begin on a Monday and get the full week, but if you think I'm going to carry you to school after you get a bus assignment, you're mistaken. You're certainly not going to use my car."

I already know that, he thought. Hell, if it hadn't been for drivers ed I wouldn't know how to drive, much less have my license.

"Considering how much I have to do, you might be considerate enough to get up and get your own breakfast and get to school without bothering me."

He tuned her out, wondering what the school would be like. Each move they had made before had been during the summer, but now at the third week of October it would be tough catching up on schoolwork and making friends.

When he got out of the car, he stood on the sidewalk looking up at the three-storey structure as his mother sped away. He cringed at the sight of the faded red brick and spaced windows. Looks like a prison, he thought, wishing they had never moved or at least that he was going to Central High with its modern single-storey buildings and college-like campus. But for one of the few times he could remember, his father had been excited when he'd come in from work a week after his new position had been confirmed.

He waved the envelope clutched tightly in his hand. "When I asked about schools during my interview, Barton was praised highly. I had the principal inquire about your entering, Brant. They require entrance exams because Barton is for the academically gifted in arts and science and they take only the top ten percent of students in the area. They are sending copies of the entrance exams for you to take here. You will do your best because this is your chance to attend a school of excellence. The prestige of graduating from a school like Barton means you will have acceptance at any university you choose."

The next Saturday morning he sat at a desk in the principal's office. Even with his photographic memory, he sweated profusely through four hours of timed examinations, with only a brief break mid-way. He walked home in a mental fog, unaware when people spoke, to fall exhausted across his bed and sleep until dinner.

Amid the two-week chaos of packing and getting ready to move, the first question his father asked on arriving home each evening was, "Have you heard?"

Weary of the incessant question and no longer caring by the time the letter arrived, he held out the unopened envelope from the school and braced himself for a tongue lashing at having failed the exams. His father snatched it from his hand and tore it open eagerly. He scanned the page and looked at Brant.

"You've been given provisional acceptance for the first semester. You should have done better, but you will make good grades if I have to sit in your room and make you study."

He limped to the steep flight of steps and grabbed the handrail, pulling himself up, thinking of what he was missing by not being back in the smaller school in Hillston with his friends and enjoying the exalted status of a senior.

After near an hour with the counselor who planned his classes around a variety of specialized mini-courses and piano instruction, he limped through the halls, schedule in hand, to find his classroom for the period. He already dreaded the climb to the third floor for his next class and the crush of students in the stairways, the building too old to have a lift.

At lunchtime he stood with his tray looking around the cafeteria for a vacant place, enduring the curious stares accorded any new student. He finally put his tray down and pulled out the chair at one of the few untaken places. The others at the table glanced in his direction then resumed their conversations without speaking to him. He picked at his lunch then left.

When the bell for fifth hour rang, he took a seat near the back of the English classroom. With such a small class he expected more of a seminar, but when there was none of the informal give-and-take he'd so enjoyed at his former school, he stared out the window at the falling leaves until the class ended and the teacher called him to her desk to give him a stack of handouts. After asking her for directions to the music studio, he made his way back to the first floor and down the long hall to the far wing of the building.

He pushed against the heavily padded door of the auditorium and stopped in surprise, for the dimness was broken only by a light on the music rack of a large organ console at one side of the orchestra pit. From an ornate grillwork at the left of the stage, light glowed and two notes wavered in pitch. There was a faint tapping and the pitch came true.

He walked down the carpeted aisle, stopping beside the console and looked at the tall figure seated on the bench. "Are you Mr. Nowell?"

Though his face remained in the shadows when he turned, Brant remembered seeing him sitting in the back of fourth hour 'Civ' class and felt easier until the boy demanded in a low raspy growl, "What are you doing in here?"

"I need to see Mr. Nowell about piano."

"What are you doing, Randy? I said next!" A voice called from the darkness above.

"There's a kid here to see you." Even raised, the coarse voice did not achieve normal loudness.

"What?"

Instead of replying, Randy ran a short descending scale on the keys.

The voice called, "I'll come down when we finish this rank. Next."

His cold unblinking eyes fixed on Brant, Randy moved a finger to the next note and the tuning continued. Propped against the orchestra pit railing, Brant returned the stare without looking away.

"Try a scale," the voice called.

The gaze from his impassive face never wavered as Randy listened intently for any out of tune note, his long fingers flicking up the keys in octaves.

The light behind the grillwork went out, a door slammed, and seconds later a slight middle-aged man, puffing from exertion, came down the steps from the stage to stop in front of Brant.

"What can I do for you?"

"I want to sign up for piano, sir"

"How long have you studied?"

"Thirteen years."

A broad smile creased the man's face. "May as well hear you play, then. Did you bring any music with you?"

"No, sir."

The teacher plundered in his briefcase, extracting two volumes. "Have you done any Franck?"

Brant shook his head.

"The Prelude, Fugue, and Variation for organ and piano is one of the few things I have to work on with Randy. With that much experience you should be able to sight-read the Prelude. Randy?"

Randy left the console to switch on the stage lights. As he turned the grand piano to face the console and raised the top, Brant stared at him in fascination for Randy stood at least six foot nine or ten. His worn jeans fit so snugly that Brant wondered how he could sit without splitting the ragged denim. A bleached-out denim shirt open to the third button exposed a gold chain and religious medallion glinting against a broad, deeply tanned, hairless chest. His was a sharp-featured face, the high broad cheek bones prominent beneath narrow obsidian eyes, the sooty brows tilting upward at the outer ends. His straight nose gained distinction from a minor dislocation and a small scar at the bridge; the nostrils flaring little above a thin-lipped mouth. A thick mane of ebony hair cascaded below his shoulders. A faint woodsy aura encompassed the space around him. His fluid insolent movements hinted at violence, while his expression had grown even more fierce. "You'd better not be wasting my practice time," he hissed in a low voice, the black laser gaze lancing into Brant.

Brant played the opening measures of the piece, repeated by Randy. During a few measures that Randy played alone, he glanced at him to see the fierce expression easing; even so, the face remained evil. At the end of the prelude, Nowell called out enthusiastically, "Excellent. Are you sure you were sight-reading?"

"Yes, sir. My teacher back home was a bear about it."

"He did you a favor. Try the rest of it."

Again the opening measures fell to him. While the paced tempo of the fugue made it easy for him to anticipate each change, once they began the variations Randy seemed to push, especially in the complex closing passages. At the conclusion of the piece, Brant followed Mr. Nowell into his studio. With his schedule of lessons and practice arranged, Brant left the studio, relieved that Randy had vanished.

For several days during lunch period he started to take vacant seats at tables with others he recognized from classes, only to be told the seats were being saved, or being totally ignored if he made an attempt to join the conversation. Remembering how he and his friends had treated new students at his former school, he realized that old friendships and cliques did not welcome his intrusion. Each lunch period he saw Randy eating alone, other students waiting for seats rather than sit at the table with him. Those students who seemed to have nothing in common went their separate ways, with Randy, the most visible of the unassimilated, maintaining a maverick existence.

At seventh hour, Brant pushed through the crowded halls to the studio and dropped his folio on top of the piano, delighted by his teacher's friendliness and inspired by his enthusiasm.

Mr. Nowell thumbed through the music, setting a couple of pieces on the music rack, and asked Brant to begin. Unlike most piano teachers, he crossed the studio and settled into a worn overstuffed chair to listen. Only after Brant had played both pieces did he move to the piano and begin to analyze each piece point by point. Awed by the man's memory for detail, Brant attention faltered as Mr. Nowell pointed out each error in phrasing, each slighted note, frequently illustrating by passing his arms above Brant's and playing the passage.

He placed a volume of Mozart on the rack and seated himself at the other grand piano facing Brant. "Let's try the B Flat Major for four hands. It's excellent for focusing attention on what someone else is doing as well as yourself."

At the conclusion he nodded. "Considering that you're sight-reading, you did exceptionally well. I wish you'd try to make friends with Randy, because I'd like for you to work together. He hates piano, but he needs to work with someone to develop discipline. He's determined to interpret music his own way without regard for the composer's intent."

"Why's he so mad at everybody? I mean nobody goes near him."

Nowell shook his head. "I wish I knew. He's a very capable musician and at his lessons he's as nice as you could want. I know it's asking a lot of you to try to make friends with someone as independent as he is, but ..." He broke off with a shrug as the bell rang.

Hearing the rumble of the organ blower starting as he left the studio, Brant moved quietly through the darkness to the rear of the auditorium and took a seat. Looking at Randy, he felt something that teased, eluding recognition.

Before he played a note, Randy spun around on the bench and rasped, "Who's there?"

Brant scrunched down in the seat.

"Damn it, I know you're there! Who is it?"

Brant pulled himself up. "It's me."

"Look, I don't screw up your practice time, so you don't screw up mine."

"I wanted to hear you play. I didn't think you'd care."

"Right! You didn't think!" Randy snarled. "I always know when somebody's around and I don't like it. Get out!"

Brant tried several times over the next week, but Randy always seemed aware of his presence. Even if he stood outside the auditorium door and pushed it open just enough to hear, Randy seemed to sense his presence and yelled.

Intrigued by the coldly angry boy, Brant noticed they also shared the German class. He would have been unaware of Randy's scowling presence had he not entered the room at last bell, for Randy always sat in the far back corner of each classroom, isolated from the others. Teachers never called on him for recitation.

During lunch a few days later, the chatter of the other students at the table stopped mid-sentence. Brant looked up to meet Randy's furious glare.

"Why'd you ask Nowell for me to play that four-hand stuff with you?"

" I ... ugh, I didn't ask. He said he wanted us to do it, but I figured he'd forgotten."

"Well, he didn't. Get off my ass!" Randy stalked away.

Aware of the eyes focused in his direction, Brant felt his face flame. One of the girls at the table picked up her tray. "I don't want anything else," she remarked to her friend.

"Yeah. He's weird. You never know what he might do. Let's get out of here."

Discomfited, Brant finished eating and returned his tray, only to be stopped just outside the cafeteria by a boy he recognized from English class.

"Good going, man. I was sure he was going to flatten you, but you didn't back down. No way I'd cross that guy."

"What's his problem?"

"Who knows? He's Indian and Indians can get really mean over nothing. Like he's been suspended for a week already."

"For what?"

"Coach tried again to get him to go out for basketball. I mean we've seen him shooting baskets in the gym and he can make it from anywhere, never misses. When coach leaned on him a little, he slapped the ball out of his hands and told him to stick it up his ass. Man, if I was you, I wouldn't screw around with that guy."

Brant walked on, lost in thought. 'Mr. Nowell thinks we could work together and maybe even be friends, but everybody else sure seems scared of him.'

When Brant entered the music studio on Monday, a sullen Randy already sat at one of the pianos, a book of Mozart on the rack. "C Major," he snapped.

At his teacher's request, Brant had purchased the music and practiced several hours over the weekend. He began at a furious tempo which Randy worked to match. At the conclusion Randy's thin lips twitched. "Think you can do it any faster?"

"Wanna try?"

"If that was a race between you, you won easily, Brant. Now, do it the way it was written. All I could hear was Mozart spinning in his grave." Their teacher had come in unnoticed.

The music flowed, both of them exacting. When they finished, Nowell's face was radiant. "Marvelous! Even here, I'm not often lucky enough to have two equally matched students at the same time. There's not much I can give either of you in technique; study and interpretation, yes. Brant, must you always play like there's a fire?" He did not miss Randy's smirk. "As for you, Randy, why do you think it's called a piano-forte? It plays soft as well as loud. There are soft stops on the organ, too. Now, get out of here, both of you."

As he picked up his music, Randy's thin lips twitched upward enough for Brant to see his gleaming teeth. "What a put-down. I didn't think you were good enough to make me work, but you did."

"Maybe, but you played better."

Randy walked away without replying.

Having acclimated himself to the different teaching methods used and completed back assignments, Brant relaxed with a book he'd been wanting to read. When his father came in from his office that evening, he tossed a magazine to him. Brant knew he got it only because his father received a free copy as the bank was one of the heavier advertisers and provided financial assistance to support the slick locally produced journal of the arts and events.

He flipped idly through the pages of ABOUT TOWN then his fingers quickly turned back a few pages. He stared at the full-page color ad for a men's clothing store. There was no mistaking Randy dressed in a tuxedo and leaning casually against a mantelpiece, a slight smile on his lips as his eyes gazed into the distance. On the facing page Randy, clad in slacks and a sports shirt, stood in a garden setting. Taken by the open appeal the photos essayed, Brant put the magazine down and rummaged through the stack of magazines his mother had placed in a basket for the previous issue. On the first page, Randy modeled a navy blazer above tweed slacks in a lighter shade of blue, while on the facing page, he was propped against a split-rail fence wearing crisp jeans, a denim shirt open three buttons, revealing the gold medallion. Where in the other pictures Randy was posed almost full-faced and most of his long hair had been air-brushed out of the print so that he appeared to wear it in a shorter style, in this one his long hair flowed. Brant took both issues up to his room and removed the ads, pinning them to the corkboard above his desk.

After his mother, still rearranging furniture, had made it clear that his presence downstairs was unwelcome, Brant spent most of the time in his room practicing, reading, or listening to CDs. He looked at the ads often, wondering what he found appealing and familiar about Randy. Getting to know him would mean being drawn into the emotional storm that seemed to center around him, yet he felt unable to resist the allure of the angry boy.

On Monday, he stood with his lunch tray looking for a seat. Seeing Randy sitting at a table alone as usual, he remembered his third day in the German class when Randy had come in late and taken his seat. Two or three students had picked up their books and moved to seats further away. He walked over. "May I sit here?"

Taking the grunt as affirmative, he sat down. When Randy's expression softened a little, Brant understood what Mr. Nowell had meant; Randy's evil expression was mostly physical. Pity for the cruel-faced boy flashed through him.

"I still don't know your full name."

"Randall von den Acker, if you must know." His expression eased the sting of his harsh voice.

"I'm Brantford Petersen."

Randy grunted.

"You're a great model."

"I'm no model."

"Sure looked like it in the ads. You were beautiful."

"Scheisse! You read that rag?"

"Yeah. I didn't believe it was you at first."

"It's just a way to get some good threads cheap. They let me keep some of the stuff I model and give me a discount on anything else. Tall as I am, Flythe's the only store in town that carries anything I can wear. It's no big deal."

"The heck it's not. I'm surprised you don't have to beat women off with a stick. The one with you in jeans leaning against the fence was pure sex."

He gave Brant a brief grin. "I did have to fight off one or two at the U. I ducked into the old man's office."

"How'd you get started?"

"I went in there one day to get a pair of jeans and the photographer from the magazine was there. He asked me to let him take a shot, and Mr. Flythe liked it, so it went from there."

He seemed suddenly aware that he speaking in personal terms, his mouth snapped shut, the scowl returned. He wolfed down the rest of his lunch and bolted from the room. After he had gone, several others joined Brant at the table.

A stocky guy wearing a letter jacket looked across the table at him. "That took guts."

"What 'cha mean? I just asked if I could sit here. He was okay about it."

"I'm surprised he didn't put a hurtin' on you. Don't nobody sit here 'til he's gone, 'cause this is his table. I wouldn't tangle with that guy for anything; he's a sneaky sonofabitch. I mean there's nothing he likes better than to get you from behind and he's like super strong. Last year he picked a guy up and dunked his head in a toilet just for saying something he didn't like."

Waiting for the fifth hour bell, Randy walked briskly around the track amazed at Brant's courage and wondering why he'd suddenly been so open. Too, why the gaze he had placed on Brant in the auditorium had been returned without some display of emotion. He had been well aware of the expectant hush that had fallen over the students seated nearby when Brant sat down at the table with him, but he hadn't reacted because the little guy always limped, most times heavily, and his look begged friendship. "Hell, I know all about that. Anyway, why would a cute kid like that want to be friends with an Indian?" He muttered to himself, remembering bitter lessons from long before.

With the memory of Brant's lack of reaction to the look, he began to watch Brant in class. Each time Brant became aware of his gaze he would smile and each day sat with him at lunch, seldom speaking, but showing interest. Randy found himself beset with doubt. Was the kid just curious or was he really interested in being friends?

With two divergent cultures represented in his home life, Randy eased from one into the other without thought as occasion demanded. By the time he was ten, he began to note consciously the dissimilarities and exploit them. The look evolved from time spent on the reservation with his grandparents, for they frequently corrected him for being disrespectful when he looked directly at someone. But remembering his other grandfather's stern admonition to 'look at me when you're speaking, boy,' he would sit impassively, the black laser gaze intent on the person opposite. He was often chided gently by his mother for this, but accidentally discovered its usefulness one evening when his parents entertained one of the university's faculty at dinner, a man he disliked. He'd begged to eat in the kitchen with their cook Maria, but found himself seated opposite the professor at the dinner table. He waited until desert had been served and the man began to expound on a pet theory to give him the look. Before long the man's eyes began to dart from one object in the room to another, but always returning to Randy's direct unblinking gaze. His fingers toyed with his wine glass; his discourse becoming disjointed. By the time desert had been finished, perspiration beaded his forehead. When the stem of the wineglass snapped in his fingers, he hastily took his leave. Knowing he'd found a weapon, Randy smothered a grin as his parents puzzled over their guest's behavior. It had never failed him until Brant.

He'd noted, too, that Brant had never approached any of the other minority students. What kind of hang-up did the kid have? It's for sure somebody's told him I'm Indian. He closed his eyes envisioning himself as he thought Brant might, wearing the feathers and buckskins common to the Indians depicted in TV westerns.

Both Brant and Mr. Nowell became so engrossed in the lesson that Brant missed the school bus. Rather than wait for the city bus, he began to walk home, knowing he dare not complain later of the pain. After a few blocks he saw a familiar figure slouching along. "Randy! Wait up!" He caught up, panting. "You live out this way?"

"Yeah."

"Never seen you on the bus."

"Like to walk. Drive if the weather's bad." Randy shortened his loping stride to match Brant's halting gait. After they had walked some distance, Randy broke the silence. "Why're you taking German? Most kids opt for Spanish."

"My aunt wanted me to. She thought it would help me in music. What about you?"

Randy's thin lips twitched. "Crip course."

"You're crazy. There's nothing easy about it."

"It is when your old man's Dutch. It isn't the same, because Dutch is a form of plat Deutsch, but it's close enough so if you understand one you can get along in the other."

"You speak Dutch?"

"Yeah. Grandfather preferred it to English."

Wary of Randy's unpredictable temper, Brant dared not ask the questions running through his mind. He turned into the sidewalk at his house. "See ya."

Midway dinner that evening, his mother started in. "You haven't brought a single friend home to meet us. Jack practically lived with us in Hillston and here you just mope around the house."

"The kids at school are a bunch of snots," Brant mumbled under his breath.

"Don't you dare answer your mother that way," his father snapped. "It's obvious you haven't tried to make friends. You'll never succeed at anything until you stop being so hesitant about asserting yourself. Just because you didn't want to move here you're determined to make us miserable. I remind you, young man, that it wasn't up to you. I made a considerable advance when I was named president of the bank here, and the increase in income makes this house, the swimming pool, and the rooms over the garage you have for yourself possible. I don't understand why you can't see the advantage. I'd think you'd be happy to be in an area where there's some culture. It's a relief to get away from those hicks I had to deal with in that dinky little town. With an excellent university here, you can continue school and live at home. Just keep in mind that I promised you a car at graduation if you decide to do that. Now you improve that rotten attitude."

Brant nodded and excused himself from the table to slump on his bed remembering the good times back in Minnesota with Jack, wishing it could be the same with Randy.