---

The unseasonably warm weather vanished under an Alberta clipper. When the clock-radio awoke him, the announcer was listing school closings because of snow. Brant sat up and looked at the whirling whiteness outside his window, then snuggled back under his electric blanket, turning the control up another notch.

He awoke a couple of hours later at his mother's call, "Brant, phone! Why haven't you gone to school? You're late."

He pulled on his robe and a slipper and stepped into the hall. "No school because of snow."

"I can't believe it. This is nothing."

He picked up the extension. "Yeah? ... Sure. Give me an hour. I gotta dress and eat."

He returned to his room to wash up and put on heavy clothing. When he went down for breakfast, his mother asked, "If school's closed, why are you dressed like that?"

"I'm going to Randy's. We're going to study German and practice."

"Just as long as you're not going to hang around here all day bothering me. I can't imagine schools closing with no more snow than this. Don't be late for dinner."

"I won't."

When Brant finished eating and stood to go, his mother said, "I don't suppose you could be bothered to ...." She stopped and looked at him standing between his crutches. "No, go on. I have to do everything around here myself."

"What?"

"Get the snow and ice off the steps and stoop. Lord knows it was hard enough to get you to do anything before. Now that you're a cripple ..."

"I can do that. I'll get the shovel."

"No, you won't! God knows it would be just my luck to have you fall and break the one leg you've got. Then you'd be twice as much bother. Go. I'll get Maria to do it, if she ever gets here. The way people here act you'd think a little snow was the seventh wonder."

Brant cautiously placed his crutches on the icy sidewalk before taking each step. He was about half way up the drive to Randy's house when a snowball hit him in the back.

"Gotcha!" Randy whooped.

Brant spun around, his crutches slipped, he landed squarely on his backside, looking up at Randy, towering over him and grinning.

"No fair!"

When Randy bent over to help him up, Brant hooked his leg behind Randy's and flipped him over into the snow bank beside him. They wrestled in the snow before Randy jumped up.

He helped Brant up and backed away. "I'll give you a minute, then I'm going to get you good." He scooped up a handfull of snow and packed it.

Brant dropped to his knee and grabbed a handfull of snow. Randy's ball whizzed by his head. He aimed and hit Randy on the chest. While Randy scrambled to make another, Brant hurridly crawled behind a low drift, just in time to duck the ball that sailed over his head. His next ball caught Randy on the ear.

"Ouch! That was icy. No fair ducking behind that drift, either."

"Fair as sneaking up on a one-legged guy. I can't make 'em fast as you."

Randy shivered. "Damn! It's cold. Let's get in."

"Heck, this is nothing. You should see what it's like in Minnesota. Then you'd know what cold is."

Randy pulled him up. Once Brant was secure on his crutches they went in to enjoy the day with music and leisurely study

Exempt from physical education, Brant usually spent the last period practicing or in the library. On his way to the library the day school reopened, he glanced through the glass pane set in the door to the gym. Once or twice he had seen Randy dribbling a basketball and making throws. He never seemed to move, yet one moment he was at the center line, the next under the basket to catch the ball which had made a graceful arc from his hands into the center of the basket, no matter from where he shot.

More often, as he was doing today, Randy worked out on the parallel bars. His broad shoulders and pumped-up arms superbly muscled, his chest showing more development, tapering to a flat rippled abdomen. His hips were little larger than his small waist, his legs thin enough to display whipcord muscle with each movement. Brant opened the door and watched in admiration until Randy looked up and paused to wave him in.

"You're good."

Randy grimaced. "Wish I were. I'm too damn tall. This is one thing where you little guys really stand out." He looked at Brant's compact build. "You're just the right size. Have you ever tried gymnastics?"

"No more than the coach required. That was before."

"You could still work out on the rings and the bars, maybe even the pommel. Why don't you give it a try? I'll help you."

Brant stared at him in surprise. "I didn't know you were so into this stuff. I mean you won't play basketball even though you never miss a shot."

"I hate their stupid team sports. I'm in it mostly so I can defend myself. Any of those jocks who see my build have second thoughts about taking me on, even when they know I'm into classical music. I wish they had lacrosse, I'd play that."

"Isn't that team?"

"Yeah, but it came from aneja which I learned to play on the reservation." He touched the small scar on the bridge of his nose and grinned. "Talk about rough! That's how I got my nose busted. Bring your stuff tomorrow and let's see what you can do."

"Okay, but you're asking for it."

Once the team had left the locker room the next afternoon, Brant slipped in and put on his shorts and a gym shoe.

"Take off your leg. It'll be in your way and I don't want you to get hurt." Randy said, walking up beside him.

"But ..."

"I'll help you." He carried Brant to the rings, lifting him so he could grasp them firmly. "Okay. Let's see what you can do."

Brant went through the basic exercises: inverted hang, backroll, and handstand without trouble. Under Randy's coaching he managed the extraordinary iron cross - hanging vertical with his arms stretched straight out from the side - and moved into the 'L' position by bringing his leg up and straight out in front of him for a second or two before his strength gave out. He called Randy to lift him down.

"Just drop; it's not that far. That was great."

Brant landed on his foot, balancing against Randy's arm. "I don't believe I did all that."

"Why not? Look at your arms."

Brant noticed the development. "How? I never work out."

"Your crutches, stupid. Didn't you think they'd build up your arms? Why don't you work out with me some? We've got this period free except for our practice time."

For several weeks, Randy pushed Brant into accomplishment he'd not thought possible. A sense of pride filled them as they watched each other develop skill in the strenuous exercises, seeing their arms become more defined. Brant quickly became enthusiastic about the exercises as the increased muscle tone made his already forceful playing so strong Randy commented that if he played any harder he would break every string in the piano.

Though still wary of Randy and now, also, of Brant, the students taking PE at seventh hour became used to seeing them working out together. One or two of the serious athletes occasionally watched with growing respect as they worked their way through the gymnastic routines, despite their handicaps. On the one occasion the team came in early from the field, no one dared a comment about Randy supporting Brant in the showers until a few days later when the coach called Randy aside.

"It's mighty nice of you to help that poor kid work out and take care of him in the showers. He'd be a really good gymnast if weren't for his leg."

"He's my friend. What did you expect?" Randy snorted and walked away.

The coach stared after him, shaking his head in amazement and muttering to himself, "I sure as hell didn't expect you to be nice to anybody, 'specially a little cripple kid."

A few weeks later, fifth hour English class was interrupted by a student who handed the teacher a note. She glanced at it and resumed teaching. When the bell rang, she called Brant and Randy to her desk and handed them the note from Mr. Nowell.

"Wonder what he wants?" Randy mused after reading it. "We were going to practice anyway."

Waiting for the boys, the teacher paced his studio pondering an unique opportunity. If the boys would cooperate, that is if Randy would, he had no doubts about Brant, perhaps he could bring off a 'first', not only in the school's history but, as far as he knew, in the entire state.

As soon as the boys were seated, he began: "As you know, Randy, the statewide music competition comes up next month. I want you both to enter, especially as there's a change in location. It's being held here for the first time." He smiled at Randy. "That means you can enter since we have an organ which none of the other schools have. I doubt you'll have any competition, so it's simply a matter of how well you play.

"Brant, you already have two of the required pieces for piano worked up and you're certainly good as, if not better than, anyone else who will enter. Now," he paused, bringing rapt attention from both boys, "there's a category for works for four hands. I can't remember it ever being used, but I'd like you to enter in piano, organ, and piano and organ together."

"But I don't play the organ." Brant objected.

"You certainly played the Hancock work quite well with Randy, so I want you to play it for the competition. It will be good experience for you both. It's asking a lot in a short time, but I know you can do it since we get to select the pieces you play together. The committee has never specified works for four hands as there have never been any entries in that category before, so I want you to think of pieces you'll feel comfortable with. I'll tell you if I think they're acceptable."

They stared at him in disbelief as he waved them out of his office to begin preparing for another student's lesson.

"We've got the Mozart for the piano and the Hancock for the organ which won't take much practice. All we'll really have to work on is the Dupre, unless you think it's too long." Brant said during the walk home.

"It only takes about twelve minutes and we got a lot of it down over the weekend. Work on your part tonight. I'll work on mine and we'll practice together at the house tomorrow. We can play it for him Thursday instead of taking our lessons."

"I wish I could have your piano for the competition. God, I love that instrument."

"I wish you could, too, but I'm glad I've got something you want."

"You stupid redskin, you know what I want."

Randy grinned. "That's all I need, a sex-starved paleface."

Brant raced through his reading assignments then practiced until his father flung open the door and yelled, "For heaven's sake go to bed. You're keeping everyone in the neighborhood awake with that pounding. There's no sense in it."

After classes the next day, they worked until Randy was satisfied. He cracked his knuckles and grinned at Brant. "I bet Nowell'll find a dozen things wrong, but I'm betting he lets us play it. Want something to eat?"

Brant glanced at his watch. "I'd better get home. The old man raised hell with me last night for practicing. I don't want him any more pissed off at me than he is now."

Randy had the piano in place and was waiting when Brant entered the auditorium. They went to the studio and stopped in the doorway for Randy to ask, "Mr. Nowell, would you come listen to what we've worked up for the piano and organ?"

Taken by the unusual excitement in Randy's voice, he followed them, settling himself midway the auditorium. Randy switched on the stage lights and took his place. Brant opened the piece with the melody line, followed by Randy repeating the theme in soft chords. The piano moved into an exposition with the organ coming in underneath and growing until the sound balanced. In the second variation, they let the volume of both instruments expand to thunderous levels then retreat into softness which lasted until the closing measures which built until Brant had to use all his strength to match the torrent of sound Randy pulled from the organ. The work finished, they sat looking toward their teacher, awaiting his reaction. In the silence, first Brant and then Randy began to fidget, both wondering if they had played so poorly that Mr. Nowell had nothing to say. At last he walked to the stage.

"You couldn't have chosen anything more beautiful. It might be just a little long and I can't begin to guess how the judges will react, but I say it goes. If you bring the other two pieces up to this same level as this, I have no doubt about the result. Bring all of your music for a joint lesson tomorrow."

"We will. We have the Mozart ready," Brant added.

Randy grinned. "For the organ, I'd rather do the Merkel Allegro con fuoco et Fuga than the Hancock Fancy. It's got a great pedal part and Brant's already played it with me a couple of times at home. We just need a little more practice together."

"It's awfully florid but it takes good technique and that accounts for half the grade." Nowell shrugged. "I doubt the judges will know it, so why not, if Brant doesn't mind."

Friday afternoon before the competition, Mr. Nowell insisted the boys go home and relax instead of practicing until the final bell, for Randy had become more waspish than usual. On their way to the parking lot they passed a couple of younger students loitering standing in the hall. Seeing Randy's arm draped casually over Brant's shoulders, one of them said under his breath, "Look at the fags."

His companion giggled.

Randy whirled around, fist balled, but his furious scowl had the two scuttling away before Brant's hand restrained him from chasing after them. "Forget it. They aren't worth it."

Randy dropped his arm. "Yeah. The little shits."

"Are you out?"

"You kidding? You've seen how they treat me because I'm Indian. You can imagine what it would be like if they knew I'm gay. There was a guy left last year because of death threats pushed in his locker and some of his books. He got roughed up pretty bad two or three times when he was here after dark for play practice. Even after his parents complained, the administration didn't do much about it. I guess they were glad when he left. I wish his old man had sued the school, but he didn't. I don't guess it would have made any difference anyhow."

When Brant entered the house he found things in turmoil, his mother near tears as she frantically tried to direct Maria and two people from the cleaning service in an already immaculate house while she talked on the phone to a caterer.

"What's going on?" He asked as she replaced the receiver.

"Your father decided at the last minute to entertain the bank's directors tomorrow night. As usual, he didn't give me enough time to do anything. Oh, just go away. I have so much to do."

"But the competition's tomorrow."

"That's too bad. I'm certain your father forgot, but you can see there's no way we could possibly go."

"He didn't forget. He doesn't give a damn."

She smiled at him absently. "Don't be upset, it's not really such an important thing compared to your father's position. Oh, no!" She screamed at one of the cleaning people and rushed off.

Brant threw some things into his backpack and walked to Randy's. His disappointment apparent as Randy opened the gate. "What's wrong?"

Brant shrugged. "The folks aren't coming to the competition. I guess I should have known they wouldn't."

"Do they ever?" He hugged Brant. "Hell, my old man won't be there either. We'll play for each other. Come on in."

Half an hour in the whirlpool eased most of their tension. They were eating sandwiches in the kitchen when a buzzer whirred. Brant jumped at the unexpected noise, his eyes following Randy's to see a flashing indicator lamp in a panel by the door.

"It's the gate. The old man's coming in."

While they finished eating, Brant, worried that his disappointment might affect his playing, begged Randy to run through the Dupre with him once more. They were playing the final chords when the door of the music room opened. Brant recognized Randy's father from the portrait.

Randy slipped from the organ bench when they finished. "Sorry if we disturbed you, father."

The stern face spread in a smile. "Quite the contrary, son. The music was delightful. It's a pleasure hearing the piano with you." He nodded toward Brant. "And who might this be?"

"Brant Petersen. We were practicing for the competition tomorrow, but we've finished."

Brant limped over to shake the man's outstretched hand.

Dr. von den Acker regarded him with a kind expression. "I'm pleased that you're here. It's nice to come home and not find Sequoyah alone."

"Randy's a good friend. You have a wonderful collection of artifacts, sir."

"Sequoyah's shown you the collection, then. You're interested?"

"Yes, sir." He glanced at Randy. "If I could learn something about Native American culture, it might help me understand Randy."

The smile broadened. "Have you done any reading on the subject?"

"No, sir. I don't have a lot of extra time and I couldn't find a history of the Eastern Band of the Cherokee in the library when I looked."

"I'm not surprised. Mooney's book is the major work for Cultural Anthropologists and quite readable, but it's difficult to find even in reprint. It's also rather lengthy. Come with me." He led the way into his study, crossing to a row of shelves behind his desk and took out a slender volume. "I believe you'll find all of the essentials here, without the length of an extended study." He sat at his desk and picked up a pen. "Your name again?"

He inscribed the flyleaf then extended the book to Brant. "With my compliments. I hope it increases your knowledge of the Ani-Yunwi-Ya and your friendship with my sometimes difficult son." He smiled at Randy. "Sequoyah, I hope you will have this young man over often."

At the apparent dismissal, they left the study for Randy's room.

"The old man's in a good mood; wish it happened more often. You impressed hell out of him when you said Native American instead of Indian, otherwise he wouldn't have given you a copy of his book," he said once they were in the lift. "Laid it on a little thick, didn't you?"

"I just told the truth. What was it he called you? Sequoyah?"

"Yeah. It's one of my names. Father named me Steef for my grandfather and mother named me Sequoyah for the man who invented our syllabary in 1817. But since Steef is Dutch and Sequoyah is Cherokee, they thought I ought to have an American name, so they added Randall. Most people can't pronounce Steef right and Sequoyah is too different, so I'm Randy to everybody except family and my godparents."

Brant looked at the book and then back to Randy. "This is about the Cherokee, but your dad called them something else."

"Ani-Yunwi-Ya. It means Real People. Anthropologists call us Tsalagi, which is what we call ourselves when we're speaking our language. It's the real name for our tribe. Except for the lower dialect, there's no r sound in our language, so Cherokee doesn't really mean anything."

"Don't all Cherokee speak the same?"

"No way. It's just like the variations in English, every section has a different dialect. There are three main ones spoken in the Eastern Band. I speak the Middle dialect which is also the literary dialect.'

"You can still understand the others can't you?"

"Yeah, but I have to think about what they're saying, 'specially if it's lower with the r sound."

The phone on Randy's desk buzzed. He lifted the receiver and listened, then replied, "Yes, sir, Brant needs it. I'll call tomorrow."

"What?" Brant asked when Randy replaced the receiver.

"Dad heard the lift when we came up. He told me to call the elevator repairman and get it serviced if we're going to use it."

"I didn't mean to cause you any trouble. I can use the stairs."

"Hard as stairs are for you, it's stupid when the thing's here. It just hasn't been used much for a long time and he wants to be sure it's safe. I don't use it because I can run up the stairs faster."

He opened his desk drawer and took out a small leather bound book, opened it at random, then handed it to Brant. "Look at this."

Brant's eyes widened at the exquisite symbols.

"That's the way we write," Randy explained. "It's my mother's journal."

"The letters are beautiful. Can you read it?"

Randy nodded. "And write it, too. Mother taught me before she died."

"Can you write it with a regular pen? I mean the letters vary in thickness like in calligraphy."

"Sure you can, but it's more accurate if you use a fountain pen with a calligraphic nib. I have two or three. They aren't letters, though; they're syllables. That makes it easier to learn than English. Other than the letters my grandparents and I write each other, I don't get much practice because until just the past few years there weren't that many who still spoke the language and there isn't much left that's printed in it except the Bible and a few hymns. Like I told you, most all Cherokee speak English. Dad can read it some, but not write it very well. That's the reason I want to be a cultural anthropologist like him; I can help expand the use of the language and maybe keep some of the old ways alive before they're lost forever."

"Tell me about it."

Randy dropped into his recliner and lit a cigarette. "If you must know ... About twenty years ago, dad was working in Georgia, South Carolina, and on the Quallah Boundry, that's the reservation up in the mountains, collecting data on us for his dissertation. That's when he met mom, like I told you. She had just finished college and was looking for a job. He couldn't read much of our language back then and he needed somebody who could organize all the material he was digging up, so he hired her. She was Ani-gilohi, so she could get the old-ones to talk to her when they wouldn't give dad the time of day. They worked together for a year or so and got married." He chuckled. "Mom told me my grandparents weren't any too happy about it, but a lot of the other full-blood members of the clan were really pissed about her marrying an unaka. Those who follow the old ways felt mother had brought shame on herself and the whole family when she married a man who wasn't Indian. Some of them wouldn't have anything to do with her after that, but my grandparents are fairly liberal even if they do follow a lot of the old ways. So after they found out the old man really respected Native Americans and wanted to help them preserve their culture it got better, because they admired him for letting mother and them teach me the traditional ways. It really thrilled him when the council voted him an honorary member of the tribe a few years ago because of what he's done to help them preserve their culture.

"Anyway, that's mainly why I'm more Indian than unaka, but a few of the full-bloods are still suspicious of me, especially the militant types. If you read the book, you'll find out we do it opposite from unakas. Our society is matriarchal. When a man gets married, he remains a part of his mother's clan. Since dad is unaka, he became a member of mom's clan like me. I'm Ani-gilohi since I'm half Cherokee."

"What's that?"

"It means People of Long Hair." His grin positively evil, Randy added, "That's why I don't cut my hair."

"Really?"

"Naw, I'm kidding you. But maybe that's why the old man doesn't bug me about it. I guess maybe at one time the clan did wear their hair longer than the others because in some tribes long hair means strength, you know, like Sampson in the Bible. But I do it just to piss those nerds who tried to vote in a dress code at school. It's a good excuse and the headmaster's so dumb he buys it. I mean I'm the only Indian in the school and he knows zip about us. Once or twice I've worn my hair in the two braids with an eagle feather and dressed in my buckskins when I was asked to visit some of the little kid's classes to tell them about us. I did it because I hoped it would make things better for us when the kids got older, but it didn't seem to. Of course I had to go to my classes like that because I didn't have time to change. You wouldn't believe the shit I put up with, all of 'em calling me Big Chief and that stuff. I couldn't get 'em then, because I didn't want to mess up my buckskins, but you'd better believe I got 'em back the next day." He grinned. "Trouble is I usually got sent home for fighting and the old man would get on my ass about it. The headmaster really hates it when I dress out because he knows what's going to happen, but he can't say much because the teachers at the grade school across the street are the ones ask for me. He's already run into the old man a few times when I complained about discrimination and he knows I'll bitch any time it happens. After he had a couple of rounds with dad, I don't think he wanted to take him on again.

"But you asked me why I push being Indian. Like I told you before, for ten or eleven years most of what I knew was Indian. I mean until the old man got his tenure at the U here, we lived wherever he was teaching in the winter, but summers I stayed on the reservation with my grandparents while dad and mom traveled. I learned the language and a lot of the traditional ways. That's about it."

"You still spend summers with your grandparents?"

Randy shook his head. "They're getting old. The summer after mom died, I stayed with them, but I spent the next one here with Maria. The past three, I've gone with the old man like I told you. I took notes and looked up references while he worked. It never took him more than five or six weeks to get the basic information he wanted. I'd bring it back home and transfer everything from the floppies I made on the lap-top to the computer in his study and print it out, then send the print-out to him so he'd have it for reference. That's when it really got lonely. There were the bills to pay and all that stuff, too. Once I got my drivers license, it was easier, but I had lots of time to practice and read."

"Do you wear your buckskins and stuff when you're on the reservation?"

"Oh, hell, no! Jeans mostly, like all the others. I dress out once in a while for a ceremony, but there aren't that many who still have the old buckskins, and all. Mine have been handed down in the family that's why I'm so careful when I wear them. Grandmother made moccasins for me while I was growing up and I have two pair she made that I can still wear. No way Indians look like the ones in Dances With Wolves." He yawned and looked at the clock. "Let's crash; tomorrow's going to be a tough day."

The eliminations began at one with the finalists to play again that evening. Contestants, teachers, and parents milled around uncertainly on the school grounds and in the auditorium. To escape the mob, Brant and Randy sought the quiet of the studio until Mr. Nowell pushed them out with an admonition to Randy. "Try to remember that most of those here are visitors, Randy. If you should hear any remarks about your hair, please don't get into a fight."

"Yes, sir."

"G'luck," Randy growled, hugging Brant once the door closed behind them.

"You, too. Keep cool."

There were polite smatterings of applause as each contestant finished, the performances varying from fair to extremely good. Knowing that his piano piece had been no more than adequate; Randy put extra effort into his organ performance.

When Brant finished playing, he felt satisfied though he knew a girl representing another school offered him strong competition for first place. He hoped that his playing the work from memory while she used music would give him an edge on first place. He found his seat, his hand seeking Randy's for reassurance.

"You were good, buddy," Randy whispered.

"So were you, but did you hear that girl?"

"You were a lot better."

"I'm not so sure." Brant nibbled at a fingernail. "Let's get out of here."

They slipped quietly through a side door and got drinks from a machine in the hall. "I'm dying for a cigarette," Randy commented.

"You shouldn't smoke."

"It's too late to worry about stunting my growth. Besides, who do you think gave Sir Walter Raleigh tobacco in the first place?" He shrugged. "I don't unless it's in a traditional ceremony on the reservation or if I'm uptight like now."

"What are you uptight about? It's not like you had any competition, except in piano, and you don't care about that."

"For you, babe. I couldn't care less myself, but you deserve a First."

The sound of applause drew them back into the auditorium to hear the pronouncements of the judges. Randy, as he expected, did not place in piano, but achieved a Superior for organ, Brant and two others gained finalist status in piano. With the play-off between the finalists and the works for four hands to be played at the evening session, Brant and Randy left to relax in the whirlpool.

After a sandwich with Randy, Brant went home to change into a suit required for the evening performance. His parents were dressing for their own affair when Randy rang the bell.

As his eyes traveled up to see the face of the young man towering over him, Brant's father became aware of the dark tailored suit of superior woolen fabric, the crisp white shirt, narrow-striped silk tie. He recognized the sharp features of von den Acker. "You must be Randy."

Randy nodded. "Is Brant ready?"

"He should be in his room. You know where it is?"

Back in their bedroom, he snarled at his wife. "Why would Brant ask Randy over tonight? Didn't you tell him we were entertaining the board?"

"They're going to that contest at school I told you about."

"Good. The way Randy was dressed, I thought Brant might have asked him to the party. I thought you said the boy went around in rags."

"He does. It's disgraceful."

"'I don't believe it! My god, that suit he's wearing is gorgeous. The way it fit, it had to have been custom tailored. I know it cost a fortune," he said with open envy. "I hope Brant will keep up his association with him. It certainly can't hurt as long as he doesn't make a fool of himself in front of von den Acker."

Randy opened the door to Brant's room. "You look beautiful," he said, then burst out laughing.

Brant gawked at him. "What's so funny?"

"I hope you're not going like that." Randy pointed to Brant's feet.

On his right foot was a perfectly polished black shoe, but on the prosthetic foot, one of the worn Reeboks he wore to school. Randy pushed him down on the bed and untied the shoe. When he saw the large hole in the heel of the black sock, he pulled it off as well and held it up. "Don't you ever change the sock?"

"The guy who made the leg said it would be best if I stuck to one color, then I wouldn't have to mess with changing it unless it wore out. I mean it's not likely to smell or anything."

After Randy replaced the sock, he asked, "Where's your other black shoe?" When Brant pointed down, he rummaged under the bed retrieving the shoe and tied it in place. "Now you're ready."

Brant grinned ruefully. "Thanks. I forgot all about changing it. I'm glad you caught it because everybody would have cracked up."

The auditorium was about half filled with music teachers, expectant parents, relatives and friends of the final contestants. Those few who had survived the earlier judging engaged in nervous bedlam backstage, barely conscious of the entreaties of their teachers. Brant and Randy found Mr. Nowell seeking refuge in his studio. He looked up as they entered. "Sit down and relax. I swear I'll never do this again. It's giving me a headache." He held up a copy of the program. "You appear last in each category since we're the host school." He popped a couple of aspirin in his mouth and gulped down the last of his coffee. "I'd better get out there and see if I can make some kind of order."

Once Nowell closed the door, Randy picked up the program with a trembling hand. Seeing his nervousness, Brant stood behind him, his fingers kneading Randy's tense shoulders. "Loosen up. If you can play a festival Mass and it doesn't get to you, why should this?"

"I can play a Mass almost from memory, but what if I should do something really stupid out there and throw you off?"

"You think I'm not thinking about that? It works both ways." An impish grin spread Brant's lips. He leaned over and whispered in Randy's ear, "Want to know what I'll really be thinking about?"

"I might have known," Randy growled. "You're good for me, at least most of the time. Let's go get it over with."

The last of the finalists in piano to play, Brant had only a few seconds rest after his solo piece before playing the Mozart with Randy. He looked longingly at him across the other piano and shut out everything but the music and Randy's smile. They played as one, bringing the audience to its feet at the conclusion.

While the unfamiliar organ-piano piece by Dupre brought a lesser response, they knew they had done well. An expectant hush fell as Brant limped to the organ and slipped on the bench next to Randy.

Only Randy was aware of the split-second tardiness in beginning the rapid pedal cadenza, for as he swung his long legs in front of Brant's to reach the upper notes on which the run began, he almost pushed Brant from the bench. Having hooked both feet over the toe-rail under the bench, Brant recovered his position quickly, both of them unaware of the gasp that ran through the audience. In the closing measures, he placed his right foot firmly on the additional pedal note, holding the final chord until Randy gave a slight dip of his chin for release. Randy's arm went around him in a victory hug, the roar of approval for the showy piece bringing them to the floor to take brief bows before fleeing into the wing to a jubilant Nowell.

Both Brant and the girl whose playing he'd mentioned received a Superior rating in piano. Randy squeezed Brant's hand to alleviate his disappointment at not having surpassed her. After awarding Brant and Randy Superior ratings for both the organ and piano duets, the senior judge remarked that on occasion one and one are greater than two and brought the crowd to its feet once more when he announced the rarely awarded Outstanding for the Dupre. Flushed with success, they took bows with the other winners, holding their joined hands high.

When they left the stage, Brant's happiness faded into disappointed envy as Randy cried out, "Father!"

Dr. von den Acker stood next to Mr. Nowell awaiting them, his pleasure evident in the way he embraced his son and shook Brant's hand. "You might have asked me to be here," he said on their way to the parking lot.

"But you were invited to the party at Brant's and you have that material to organize for your new book. I thought you'd be too busy," Randy said.

"I've been involved in too many things without regard for you, son, and I regret it. This young man helped me realize that when I heard the two of you practicing. Fortunately, Mr. Nowell called me at the office and insisted that I come tonight. You are vastly more important than a cocktail party or another book."

He squeezed Brant's hand again. "I'm sorry your parents let the party conflict with this. They should have heard the magnificent way you performed together." He glanced at his watch. "I doubt they've broken up yet. Meet me there."

The three of them walked into the Petersons' living room just as the guests were beginning to ready themselves to leave. Their late entry focused attention, especially when von den Acker lifted two glasses of champagne from a tray and handed one to each boy, then took another for himself and announced in a commanding voice: "I have just been privileged to hear these two young men play in competition in a way comparable to any concert at the university. I wish to be the first, then, to express my appreciation for their hard work and take pleasure in announcing that they each received four awards of distinction. To Brantford and Sequoyah!" He drained the glass in a single swallow and hurled it into the fireplace.

As soon as the other guests responded to the toast, there was an immediate babble of demands for the boys to play, but Randy's father held attention. "There are no instruments and they have worked enough for one day. I regret that you have missed such an outstanding event." The tone and words being dismissive, the guests drifted away after congratulating Brant and Randy.

Brant's mother's face remained frozen as von den Acker bowed stiffly in her direction. Brant's father, anxious to placate his superior, was conciliatory when von den Acker shook his hand, saying, "You must forgive me, but I find it impossible to express my gratitude for the way Brantford has made me aware of what I was missing. You have raised an exceptional young man, and both Sequoyah and I hope he will visit us frequently."

Delighted by the approval, Brant's father glowed with satisfaction as von den Acker walked down the steps, arm around his son's shoulders.

Having seen his mother's expression, Brant slipped quickly out of the room for his own, but even through the closed door the words came clearly.

"The absolute nerve of the man, barging in here and breaking up a lovely party and embarrassing us in front of such prominent people over something as trivial as a grade school contest. Did you see him deliberately smash my crystal champagne flute? I wish I'd told him what an ass he is."

"He didn't barge in! And I'll remind you he's chairman of the bank's board. Besides, he was most complimentary of Brant, so he wouldn't have been upset if we'd shown some interest in what he was doing. Why the hell didn't you tell me that competition was so important?"

"I tried, but you didn't listen, as usual, then you blame me! Damn it, you always blame me for everything that goes wrong with your precious plans."

Robbed of the joy he'd shared with Randy and his father and knowing from experience the battle would rage on, Brant changed clothes and eased quietly down the stairs. A few minutes later he pressed the bell-push at the gate.

The light fixtures on the gate posts flashed on. Randy ambled down the drive, munching on a slice of pizza. Seeing Brant's expression, he quickly swallowed the last bite, opened the gate with the remote control he held, and hugged him.

"What's the matter?"

"The folks got into it after you left. I can't take it when they fight."

Randy led the way around to the back door. His father sat at the table in the small kitchen, a steaming pizza and a bottle of imported Dutch beer in front of him. He smiled when Brant came in.

"I'm delighted you've come to celebrate with us. I would have invited you, but I thought your parents might wish to talk over the competition with you."

"They were fighting when I left. Can I stay over with Randy?"

"You're always welcome in this house. I hope I'm not the cause of their disagreement."

"Not really. They were mad because you were at the competition and they weren't, not that they'd have gone anyway. Mom called it a little pissy-assed school thing."

"Try not to get caught up in your parents' ambitions. I'm coming to know Sequoyah again and I'd like you to be with us, because you made it possible."

Randy gave Brant a smile as he set a bottle of beer in front of him and passed the pizza. After they had gone to bed, Randy moved closer and wrapped his arms around Brant. Brant closed his eyes in warmth and security; Randy in the love he so needed from the two people who mattered.

Randy rolled over and stretched longly, hands pressed against the headboard, feet thrust into space beyond the mattress. His long hair curled about his head and shoulders, sooty against the pristine sheet. He yawned and opened his dark eyes, staring intently into Brant's and rumbled a contented purr as he hugged him.

"What are you so happy about?" Asked Brant.

"You being here and the old man."

"What about him?"

"The way he acted so proud of me and you for winning the competition. I mean it's the first time since mom died that he's even noticed something I've done, except for what I did on the dig.' He glanced at the clock. "It's nearly ten. Let's get dressed. I'm hungry."

Randy's father came into the kitchen while Randy was cooking the waffles and ate with them. When Brant started to leave for home after they had finished eating, Randy's father insisted that he stay and accompany them to dinner.

They practiced for a while then watched television until time to leave. As Brant was dressed in the soccer shirt and jeans he'd worn over the night before, Randy dressed the same, and his father appeared in a knit shirt and slacks instead of his accustomed suit.

The Bentley given over to the parking attendant, he led the boys inside the faculty club. Brant had not expected the opulent but sedate decor nor the deference shown Dr. von den Acker by the staff, but he felt more at ease when he noticed several other young people also wearing jeans. He became conscious of his crutches only when he followed Randy to the buffet table. He was about to ask Randy for help when one of the student waiters fell in unobtrusively behind him, taking his plate and holding it for him to fill, then carried it to the table Randy indicated.

Since hardly a meal could be eaten in the presence of his parents without a barrage of complaint about his manners, Brant wondered what acid comments his mother would make as he watched Randy and his father eat European style, their forks held in their left hands, tines down, knife in the right, ready to cut another bite of the prime ribs.

When Brant entered the house later that evening, his mother's irritation resurfaced. "Just where have you been? Who told you you could stay out all night?"

"Nobody. But you and dad were fighting."

"We never fight!" His father slammed his drink down on the table. "We were having a discussion about the embarrassment you caused us. If that damned contest was so important, why didn't you tell us?"

"I tried to, but you yelled at me for practicing."

"Watch your voice, young man. I'll not tolerate any disrespect from you. You might have at least told me von den Acker was going to be there."

"I didn't know. It was a surprise for Randy."

"Considering the amount of time you spend with them, you should have had some idea. Instead, you let the man make me look like a fool in front of the other board members."

"He and Randy are a bad influence on you," his mother added. "Did you see him smash my crystal wine glass? You'd think someone supposed to be so cultured would have a little respect for other people's belongings."

"Oh, shut up about that damned glass; I'm sick of hearing it. Go buy another one. Hell, buy a dozen. You'd think the damn thing was irreplaceable the way you carry on." Petersen retorted, then whipped back to Brant, noticing the neat shirt and jeans. "I hope you didn't go anywhere looking like that."

"Like what?"

"Like a common laborer! Why you persist in wearing those damned jeans when you have decent clothes, I don't know. Where's your leg?"

"Upstairs."

"I've told you a thousand times to use it if you go out of the house. You're never going to get used to it if you don't wear it."

"It doesn't fit and it hurts! You know the guy at the clinic said I shouldn't wear it too long before getting it refitted."

"I'm sick and tired of your whining! It's just an excuse. You could wear it if you made up your mind to do it, and if you think I'm going to put out that kind of money after you've had this one not even a year, you're crazy. Now, answer my question."

Brant stared at him. "What?"

"Where'd you go besides their house?"

"Doctor von den Acker took us to the faculty club for dinner."

Petersen slapped his forehead in disgust. "I can't believe he took you there when he hasn't even invited your mother and me yet. That's the most restricted place in town and you actually had the nerve to go in there dressed like that and on crutches! My, God, you've completely disgraced us. Get out of my sight!"

Brant fled to his room. Lying on his bed, smarting from the unfairness, he wished his father had hit him instead of yelling. That would at least mean they accorded him some measure of worth. The thought of a hug from either of them was beyond imagining, but a warmth stole over him when his thoughts turned to the way Randy's fierce prolonged hugs infused him with the love that had been missing since Jack.