International Exchange Concert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Smart decision, Mr. Spock."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do we have a problem here, Spock?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Robert Jabez!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the first combined-ensemble rehearsal. He as usual had been on the far end of the percussion section at stage right, the xylophone, glockenspiel and his electronic organ arrayed around him as he sat on a high stool, watching Dr. Wycombe as he prepared to lead the group in sight-reading Sir William Walton's "Crown Imperial." From where he sat, he could see the backs of heads in the clarinet section and the faces of the flute section. The flutes were sitting two and three to a music stand, and one of the Canadian flutists in the open space between two stands caught his attention.

She'd hung her blue blazer on the back of her chair. Even the Kensington school uniform of blazer, white blouse, school tie and gray pleated flannel skirt could not disguise her looks. She had jet-black hair that to his eyes looked like a dye job, a pretty face, erect posture, waist rather narrower than average, firm, high tits rather larger than average and long, slender legs and arms. She caught him staring at her but instead of glaring back, smiled and arched her back a bit as if to say, "Yeah, I'm all that."

"Excuse me," interrupted a sarcastic voice, "But if it's not too much trouble, Mister Organist, do you mind if we start this run-through?"

"Not at all. My rig and I will be ready when you hit Number 17."

"Oh really? Do you expect any difficulty?"

"No, sir. We're playing the Fennell transcription, easily the best version of the number."

"Really?" asked the Canadian conductor acidly. "And how many versions of 'Crown Imperial' do you know?"

"Five. Two really abysmal orchestral versions, one belonging to the Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields and the other to the Czech National Symphony; the Black Dyke Band's brass band interpretation, which leaves much to be desired because woodwinds, particularly the high winds, are necessary and Black Dyke has none; the Royal Marine Band's score by Walton himself; and Fennell's transcription for the Eastman Wind Ensemble which adds an organ and a cannon to Walton's military band arrangement. In my opinion it is the best arrangement of the piece."

Wycombe glared as the Buckthorn students chuckled. It wasn't the first time their Mister Spock had crossed swords with a conductor. He didn't know one rock group from another, but when it came to classical music his knowledge was extensive and detailed, especially concerning the numbers in their repertoire. Wycombe raised his baton, instantly silencing the ensemble, and on the downbeat they began to play.

When he gave the groups a break 90 minutes later, the girl with the black-dyed hair had walked up to Robert, who when not studying his part had passed the time looking at her. At first it had been amusing, but amusement had changed to irritation as she found him looking at her every time she glanced his way.

"Why don't you take a picture? It'll last longer!"

She had been surprised when, with no change of expression, he took a cellphone out of his pocket and did exactly that. "Thank you. Although I'd prefer something of higher quality, if you would consider posing for me." With a sardonic lift of one eyebrow, he turned away and walked stiffly toward the corridor outside the stage. The Canadian girl looked at Debbie Province, Buckthorn's lead flutist, with whom she was guesting.

"What's his problem, anyway?"

"Don't be too hard on him. He's weird, but it's not his fault."

"Is he a head case? He acts like he has brain damage or something."

"You're not far wrong," said Debbie as they headed for the girls' bathroom. "He was in a car crash and that's how he ended up. Cyndy has known him longer than anyone; she can tell you the whole story. Hey, Cyn! Got a sec?" A wholesome-looking blonde looked up at the sink where she was touching up her makeup and came over.

"This is Inga. She's staying with me. Cyndy Blanchard, Inga Gustafson. She wants to know about Spock."

"It's kind of a sad story," Cyndy said as they ambled toward a courtyard where many of the musicians were milling around, chatting, stretching their legs, a few smoking. "Robby and I live close by. His dad and my dad were roommates in college. We played together when we were little. We went to the same preschool, elementary school, swim classes, things like that. He's kind of like - oh, I don't know, like my cousin, I guess; though we aren't related.

"Uncle Win married late. His wife was almost young enough to be his daughter. Mom said once she was a greedy gold-digger with the morals of a bitch in heat. When Robby was six and a bit, she was having an affair. What Mom heard was, she was on her way to drop Robby off for a school trip so she could meet her lover at a hotel when she got into a car crash. She was killed. Robby got thrown through the windshield. He was a real mess. Fractured arms and legs, fractured pelvis, broken ribs, skull fracture, internal injuries, you name it.

"At first they thought he was going to die, but his dad is Chief of Emergency Services at Buckthorn General. He knows medical people all over the country and who the best in their field is. He flew some hotshot neurosurgeon in to put his head back together, an orthopedist to rebuild his arms and legs, and plastic surgeons to patch him up. And Uncle Win hired a physical therapist to work with him for hours every day, seven days a week. But that was later.