“Do tell me how to properly jerk you off, Ev,” Tommy laughed.
“We’ll have the room to ourselves this afternoon while Bond and McNamara are at football practice.”
“That’s hours from now. You want me to have a hard on for three hours?” And then, in the dark of the broom closet, he realized that this was exactly what Everett wanted. “What is the matter with you?” he asked, but it came out all breathy and wanting.
“You are, you miserable bastard.” And, Jesus, hearing Ev swear had gone straight to his dick.
They had managed to wait until they were back in their room, even though Everett had made a big show of needing to put his books on his desk and hang up his jacket and then take out his pen and make a note to himself.
“If that note doesn’t say ‘let Cabot play with my dick,’ I’m never speaking to you again.” Everett had giggled, actually giggled, and let Tommy push him onto the bed, let Tommy strip him with deliberate care, kissing every slice of skin he exposed.
That, Tommy realized later, much later, when it was far too late for epiphanies to count for anything, was the day he had—he desperately wanted to say something maudlin and dopey like lost his virginity, even though he had technically accomplished that task the following summer with one of the girls his brothers brought to the summer house. It was the first time that they had taken their time with it, the first time they actually planned the thing in advance instead of acting like it was a matter of happenstance when they found themselves jerking one another off.
Now Tommy drew in a breath of cool fall air and dragged his gaze away from Everett’s wrist. “It was kind of you,” he repeated. “Thank you for that.” And then, because maybe he was a bit of an asshole, and maybe he just didn’t want to leave until he had some sign that Everett was really still there underneath all the starch and stiffness, “I know strong emotion is difficult for you.” It was true, though. Everett had always blushed and turned his head away when Tommy got sappy on him.
“What the—”
“Thanks, Ev,” he said, cutting the other man off. He rose to his feet and made his way down to where Daniel was watching the game with a few of his friends. “I’ll see you Friday,” he said, leaning in. Daniel waved his goodbye, and Tommy walked home.
Chapter 3
“Dr. Sloane?” asked a tentative voice from across the dining table. “Dr. Sloane?”
Everett looked up to find ten pairs of eyes fixed on him, and gathered that the children had been trying to get his attention for some time. “I apologize,” he said, putting down his empty fork. “Woolgathering, I’m afraid. How can I help you—” he struggled to remember the name of the red headed sophomore who had spoken “—Mr. Maclean?”
“Well, you know how you have that transistor radio,” Maclean said. “And it was awful nice of you to let us listen to the World Series in your office.”
“Even though Rourke drank all your root beer,” said a freshman, earning himself what sounded very much like a kick under the table.
“It’s just that some of us were wondering if you might like to listen to football, too—”
“The Giants are on a tear—”
“And we’d hate to break the rules by using Rourke’s radio.”
“We love following rules,” said the freshman.
“Rules are our favorite.”
Everett tried to look suitably unamused by all of this. The fact was that he had every intention of listening to the game anyway. He just had no interest in sitting in his tiny office with ten loud and sweaty adolescents. The World Series had been bad enough. When he had agreed to take this position at Greenfield, his only thought had been getting a job that paid decently and was within driving distance of his mother. He had received the expected offers from a handful of universities, but the prospect of having to adapt to a new set of department quarrels and academic rivalries left him cold. He had had never minded instructing undergraduates and thought that maybe he could try his hand at teaching slightly younger students. On a whim, he wrote to Greenfield. His single stipulation had been that he would teach only sixth and seventh years; this, he thought, would prevent him from having to interact with actual children. He had no nieces or nephews. None of his friends in Oxford had been parents. He was fairly certain he had never talked to a child since he had been one.
What he had forgotten was Greenfield’s tradition of assigning dinner tables at the beginning of the year: each table sat ten students of various ages and one faculty member. Attendance was expected each weeknight. Everett had gotten used to the routine by now. The students mostly preferred to ignore him and carry on their own conversations. From where Everett sat, he could see the Latin teacher with a book open in front of him, and two of the younger teachers carrying on a conversation with one another from their separate tables. Everett’s only recollection of these meals during his time as a Greenfield student was bolting his food as quickly as possible in order to get back to more interesting things.
“I did plan to listen to the game this Sunday,” he said. “But don’t you think you’d be more comfortable listening in the lounge of your dormitories? I know radios are allowed there. At least they were twenty years ago.”
The table erupted in a chorus of protests. From what Everett could gather, one housemaster insisted on rooting for a rival team, another housemaster required quiet in the lounge, and yet another had an infant daughter who cried when the cheering got too loud.
Everett very nearly suggested that they take their contraband radio and listen behind the boathouse or under the bleachers or in one of the perpetually empty study carrels on the top floor of the library, which surely was what half their peers did if they wanted a bit of time to themselves. But the red headed sophomore—Maclean, he remembered—did not look like the type to willingly violate rules. Having to hide behind the boat shed would completely ruin the fun for him. Everett had been much the same way before Tommy had gotten his hands on him.
“You could come to my rooms,” he said. Teachers had dinners and coffees and card parties in their rooms, he knew. Listening to a football game wasn’t so different. “I’ll get root beer and…” he struggled to think of what children ate. “Candy. I’ll get candy. You’ll need to clean up after yourselves and all your homework needs to be done before the game,” he added, feeling like he ought to at least extract some minor concessions for his largesse.
After the children left the table, Everett realized he would need to go into town and get root beer and candy. He had three days before the game, but at this time of year snow could start at any time, and he figured he ought to make the trip while the weather held up. It was already dark, the autumn sun having set over an hour ago. But he had a flashlight in the pocket of his coat, and he knew the grocery store didn’t close until eight. He supposed he could have driven, but it seemed a hassle to get the car started for such a short trip.
Half an hour later he stepped into the A&P, his glasses fogged and his fingers tingling with the returning blood flow. He didn’t bother taking a cart, instead looping a wire basket over his arm. When he found the candy aisle, he realized the US candy industry had been busy while he was overseas. He recognized M&Ms and put some in his basket. He could not remember having ever seen Peanut M&Ms, but the concept seemed both straightforward and praiseworthy, so they went into the basket as well. A few Hershey’s bars. Perhaps some licorice. There. Now all that was left was to find root beer.