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He felt a surge of pleasure on leaving his next piano lesson when Randy called, "Wait up. I found these duets for organ. Want to try one?"

Brant slipped onto the right side of the bench and looked at the music. Randy had positioned himself to play the secondary part and the pedals, while he could concentrate on one keyboard. The music swelled around them as Brant tried to match Randy's skill. At the end, he instinctively looked down to locate the additional pedal notes and turned slightly to the side to bring his right foot down firmly, holding the last chord until Randy nodded for release. The smile Randy turned on him threw shock-waves through Brant, its radiance transforming the villainous face into one of beauty that the photographer had never captured. Randy draped a long arm around his shoulders and squeezed.

"Fantastic! You don't know how long I've wanted someone good enough to play this with me. Let's work it up for Mr. Nowell."

"I've never played an organ before."

"Then how'd you know to play those pedal notes? All you'd need to learn is a smooth legato touch and pedal technique."

Brant shook his head slowly. "I can learn the touch, but I can't use both feet."

"You can learn."

"No way!" He fired back, words sharper than he'd intended. "I'll do the duets if you play the pedals, but that's it."

"Be that way, then."

Brant cringed seeing Randy stiffen, the dark eyes go icy, but unwilling to be dismissed now that Randy had shown a hint of friendship, he waited. They walked without speaking until they reached the walk to Brant's house.

"Our cook said she was going to make some apple jacks today. Want one?"

His mother was at her desk writing a letter when they entered. She gave Randy a censorious look at Brant's introduction and waved them on to the kitchen without speaking. When the cook reached around him to place his glass of milk on the table, Randy looked at her for the first time and sprang up. "Maria!"

"Sequoyah!" She cried and hugged him.

With his dazzling smile, Randy hugged her back, lifting the small woman from the floor, and broke into voluble Spanish as Brant looked on in amazement.

Randy talked mostly to Maria while they ate, but his smile remained when he thanked Brant and went down the sidewalk whistling.

His father was just unfolding his napkin at dinner when Brant's mother peevishly demanded his attention. "I thought we were in a better neighborhood or at least we had taught Brant to be more discriminating."

Irritated at her interruption of his own thoughts, his mouth pulled down in exasperation. "What's he done now?"

"I can't imagine what kind of slum Brant's been in to find that boy he brought home today. I've never seen anyone so dirty and vicious looking, and he had the coldest eyes I've ever seen, not to mention his being foreign. I couldn't understand a word he said when he was talking to Maria. His clothes were rags and his hair was longer than most girls'. He was disgusting!"

"Who was he, Brant?"

"A friend from school."

"Friend, indeed! They certainly wouldn't let anyone like him in the school you're attending. I doubt he goes to school at all, but if he does it's Central. He's probably on drugs," his mother exclaimed.

"Is he?" His father demanded.

"Is he what?"

"Messing with drugs?"

"No."

"What's his name?"

"Randy."

"Randy what?"

"von den Acker."

His father's eyes riveted on him, a critical comment died on his lips. "Did you say von den Acker?"

Brant nodded.

"Does he live in this neighborhood?"

"In the historic district, I think."

"My God!" Petersen turned on his wife. "Didn't you realize who that boy was? Doctor von den Acker is a major stockholder in the bank, chairman of the board, and a distinguished professor at the university. I'm told he's the preeminent authority on Native American culture. That's one of the oldest, most prominent families in the city." He swelled with pride as he turned back to Brant. "I'm delighted you've made such a friend. I hope if you're invited to their home, you will act accordingly."

"He looks like a criminal and I won't have him in this house," Brant's mother snapped.

"That's enough! It's important that Brant make such friends and you will encourage the boy to visit."

Brant stared at his father. He had expected his mother's reaction, but his father's enthusiastic approval left him stunned.

At the same time Brant's parents discussed him, Randy stood in the kitchen of the old mansion fixing a sandwich. His mood was dark with envy of Brant, remembering how good it was when light and laughter were frequent in the house, where no corner crouched in darkness, to have a mother, and a father who came home to share the good meals Maria had fixed. His thoughts turned to Brant. Brant's eyes captivated him, those and the long-fingered hands, almost grotesquely large for such a compact frame. 'If ever hands were made for keyboard,' Randy thought. 'How can anyone like him be lonely when he has everything.'

He picked up the sandwich and a Pepsi. Without switching on a light, he climbed the back stairway in the near darkness, his feet surefooted, inaudible save for an occasional squeak from the old stairs. He dropped down in his desk chair and switched on the lamp, then jerked the tab on the drink can. It snapped off. "Scheisse!" He slammed the can down on his desk and grabbed an old ballpoint pen jabbing at the indentation until it popped open. Pepsi spewed out. Snatching a towel from the back of his chair, he wiped the spill, then flopped down and raised the can, sucking the foam down to liquid before taking a bite of the sandwich and lapsing into thought.

He closed his eyes for a moment, Brant's face filling his vision. Too beautiful by far. The pale skin would never tan, while the sunlight cast a halo aura over the thick blond hair. The cute little nose, slightly tipped at the end with a light sprinkling of freckles, the lips less full than one might expect. But his eyes. "Oh, God," Randy sighed, seeing in his mind the pools of jade-green so deep one might drown in them. Only this once had he seen such a color, intensified by the blondness. Shy innate gentleness seemed to envelope whatever they embraced. He opened his eyes, recalling the slight shudder Brant had given when he'd first seen him under the glare of the stage lights; the shocked expression of Brant's mother. "God, why do I have to be so ugly?" He asked the scowling reflection in the mirror on his closet door. Aware of Brant's offered friendship and having seen Maria, his solitude crushed in. "I wish I'd never laid eyes on him," he murmured, regretting the visit. He finished the sandwich and forced himself to study for the English exam.

He awoke the next morning in a tumult of emotions. Remembering the look Brant's mother had given him and her attitude, he knew she would ruin any chance of friendship. 'Not that it's not happened before,' Randy thought bitterly, realizing that the warmth and joy he anticipated would make rejection crushing when it came. 'Finish it now,' he argued with himself, 'and save yourself more hurt.' But Brant's offer of friendship and his desirability battled reason. Enough, then, that he refused to look at Brant in class and, rather than sit with him at lunch, went to the gym to work out.

Confused and hurt by the sudden change in Randy, Brant made careless errors on his English test and earned a sharp reprimand from Mr. Nowell when he stumbled awkwardly through a piece by Liszt he could have played perfectly from memory. When the bell rang, he ran as fast as he was able in hopes of finding Randy, only to see nothing of him. Dejected, he boarded the school bus, enduring the rowdiness of the others.

Brant lived through his classes next morning anticipating fifth-hour English and the beginning of the new mini-course. When he entered the classroom, he spotted Randy already seated in the far back corner, the seats around him untaken. He walked the length of the room and dropped his books on the desk beside Randy's with mixed emotions.

The teacher seeing Randy turn away, his scowl deepen, moved quickly toward Brant. "You're new here, aren't you?"

He nodded.

She looked askance at Randy then back to him. "Wouldn't you rather sit near the front? There'll be plenty of room since the class is going to be small."

"Thanks, but I'd rather sit here unless you have assigned seats."

With a worried sigh, she returned to the front of the room and called the class to order. When the bell rang at the end of the period, Randy was out of the room before Brant was aware.

During his piano lesson, Brant could occasionally hear the roar of the organ. At the last bell, he tossed his books into his locker and headed out the door. The sun blazed down in welcome warmth of Indian summer as he dawdled at the corner, waiting. When Randy strode by without slowing, Brant ran awkwardly to catch up, seeing anger contorting Randy's face.

"What's wrong?"

Randy spun around. "Wha'cha you want from me?"

"Nothing. I was waiting to walk with you."

Randy grabbed his arm roughly and pointed to the groups of students leaving the school grounds. "What 'cha see?"

"Guys?"

"No, damn it! What-do-you-see?"

"Just guys like us."

"Like us? Like you, maybe!" Derision poured from Randy. "Look at 'em! They're white! You're white! All the others are at Central, but a lot of the whites are here in a beat-up old building that should be torn down and they're proud of it. They say it's the Barton tradition. Tradition, hell! There 're maybe fifty black kids here, a few Hispanics, and some orientals, that's all. You've seen how they stick together. I have nobody and I made it that way, but you can't leave a guy alone; you push and push. What do you want from me?"

"But ... but you're white."

Randy thrust a bronze forearm against Brant's. "Look, damn it! Does that look white? I'm red." He paid no attention to Brant's puzzled expression. "I'm here only because my godfather and the old man pulled some strings. I belong at Central with the gooks and spics and niggers. I'm a stupid dirty Injun."

Trying to understand Randy's rage, Brant touched his arm. "I thought you said you were Dutch, but it's great if you're Indian. I'm ..."

Randy's open hand slammed against his cheek, knocking him to the ground. Randy glared down, but seeing the dazed expression realized Brant's words had carried no racial intent.

Brant felt himself being lifted by Randy's arms, then hugged. He struggled against the embrace, his hands pushing against Randy's chest to free himself, but Randy's arms closed about him tighter as the words tumbled out. "Oh, God, I didn't mean that, Brant. Please. Please, I didn't mean to do that."

Brant shook his head to clear it and pulled back enough to look into Randy's stricken face. "Why?"

Randy grabbed his hand and pulled him along until they reached a low stone wall abutting a raised lawn. He dropped down on the wall and pulled Brant down beside him, forcing himself to look into the questioning face where the crimson imprint of his hand glowed redly against the pale skin. "God, you don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"You can go anywhere and find someone like yourself. Blacks can go most anywhere and find other blacks, but where can I go and find someone like me?"

"Aren't there some other Indians around? There were a few where we used to live."

"Yeah, but they won't have anything to do with me if they're passing for white, and a lot of the older ones are drunks. I know some on the reservation, but hell, I don't fit there either."

"Why not? I mean if you're Indian ..."

"I'm not! I'm Native American. Cherokee. Indians come from India. Just because Columbus was so fucked up he didn't know where he was, we get tagged with a dumb-assed name which doesn't mean a thing. Besides, I'm a breed; half Native American and half European. Sure, I'm on the tribal roll, but a lot of the bloods call me 'Apple.'"

"Why apple?"

"Think, damn it. It means red on the outside, white on the inside, like some blacks are called Oreos. I don't belong anywhere." The bitterness in his voice pounded at Brant. "Even if I did, most people think a Native American is shit. Nobody wants me. Including my old man," he added, dropping his head.

Brant forced his hand under Randy's chin and lifted until he could look into Randy's eyes. "You think I've been able to make any friends in this place? Maybe I don't have it as hard as you, but I'm alone, too, and I don't give a damn what anybody thinks about my friends or me. It's great you're In... I mean Native American. Your people were here a long time before anybody else, so maybe you have a reason to hate whites, but it won't keep me from liking you."

"So if you can't do any better, it's be nice to Indians week." Randy sneered.

Brant jumped up. "Screw Indian week! You make it impossible for anybody to like you. I wanted to, but if you don't care, then neither do I. To hell with ya!"

As Brant limped away, Randy remained seated on the coping, lost in thought. Brant really didn't seem to care that he was Native American, just needing someone as much as he. He cringed recalling his words, but the slap had finished it. Brant would never forget or forgive that, his handprint neon red on the cheek of the smaller boy. He sighed as the desire that had frustrated and scared him from the first time Brant had entered the auditorium pressed in. He slouched homeward on dragging feet.

He opened his eyes, struggling into consciousness, then groaned as the recollection of the afternoon before and his dream pulled him back to the pillow to escape in sleep, but the insistent buzz of the alarm assaulted his ears. His long legs inched across the sheet into space and dropped, feet hitting the floor, momentum propelling him upright. He slapped at the alarm button and staggered into the bathroom, avoiding his reflection in the mirror, wishing it were Saturday, that he could avoid Brant.

Brant left home early to arrive at school before Randy, who walked onto the grounds just as the first bell rang. As he tried to pass, Brant grabbed his arm and hung on despite attempts to brush him off.

"We've got to talk. I'll see you in the cafeteria. Be there."

Randy sat at his solitary table when Brant entered and made his way through the room. Before setting his tray down, Brant looked directly at him. "One time and that's it. Can we be friends?"

Randy lifted his eyes to meet Brant's, feelings in disarray. "Haven't you got it yet? If you're friends with me, you can forget about everybody else."

Brant took his seat. "So what? I mean you're the only one I know that likes music and reading like me."

"I guess." Randy's faint attempt at a smile faded. "About yesterday ... I ... I'm really sorry."

"I shouldn't have leaned on you when you were pissed off."

"It wasn't that; it was a lot of things all at once."

"It's okay. I get lousy moods, too."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Brant grinned. "Next time, just don't hit so hard."

"There won't be a next time!" Randy replied in a voice that carried. Aware of the sudden quiet and wary glances from students seated near by, he scowled at them and lowered his voice. "Look, it's okay if you call me Indian. I mean we've been called Indians so long, we mostly call ourselves that unless we're speaking our own language."

While Brant waited for Randy to finish practicing, he noticed Randy's playing had a lightness he hadn't heard since they had done the duet. Randy flashed his rare smile when he came through the door.

They walked homeward together, stopping at a corner to wait for the traffic light. Randy said something lost to Brant in the roar of an accelerating van.

"I didn't hear you for all the racket. Talk louder."

Randy's eyes fired with anger. "I can't. Thanks to some unakas."

"What's unakas?"

"It's what we call whites and that's what it means."

"You really speak Cherokee?"

"Hell, I'm Cherokee. What did ya think I'd speak? Anyway, when I was a little guy, I went to the park to play with some other kids after school. I liked the swings for the older kids, because they had heavy wooden seats and would go high. When this big kid got out of one, I figured he was going to let me have it." Randy grimaced. "He let me have it, all right. He pulled it back as far as he could and shoved it at me. It came so fast I couldn't catch it and it hit me in the throat. I'd probably died if a cop with EMT training hadn't seen it happen. He had oxygen in his car and gave it to me while he drove me to the hospital. I couldn't talk for over two months, and when I could, I sounded like now." His raspy voice caused every sound to emerge in a low growl. Brant noticed that anger deepened the pitch to the same rumbling bass with which he had spoken to Maria.

"Is that why you growl all the time?"

"Yeah. The doctor told my folks it was a miracle I could talk at all, no matter how I sounded, and I'd never be able to talk any louder."

He laid a hand on Brant's shoulder. "You're the first unaka my age that's ever liked me just for me, so if I like get mean for no reason, it's not you, it's all the other things. I guess that's why I spend so much time on music, it's something I can do by myself."

"I'm sorry."

"For what? You didn't do it."

The low morning sun splashed light across the kitchen tiles. His dog waited expectantly by the pantry door, tail wagging. The closed window did not obscure the twitter of birds splashing in the top bowl of the fountain. Randy opened the window, used a fist to erase the final traces of sleep from his eyes, and breathed deeply the unseasonably warm air. The corner of his mouth turned up with effort, the lines in his forehead smoothing out as he thought of the warmth and caring that emanated from Brant. He filled the dog's bowl with fresh water then poured dry food into another, before fixing his own breakfast.