International Exchange Concert

"In order to cover his skull after the surgery, they had to pull the edges of his scalp together; a big chunk of it was missing. It pulled his eyebrows up. He lost parts of both ears and they ended up pointy. I have no idea how many surgeries it took to fix him, but there were a lot of them. Mom's a nurse on the pediatric floor and she said his head was both squished and slashed to pieces at the same time.

"Robby was in the hospital for a year learning how to walk and talk again. That was when he took up the piano. The idea was to improve his fine motor control and eye-hand coordination. It's just dumb luck he's so talented a musician.

"When he came back to school, he wasn't the same. He had to wear a hockey helmet for a year while his skull healed. Aside from the forearm crutches he had to use for a year, his face was a mass of scars. He went back to the hospital for cosmetic surgery like, three or four times. Eventually they got him put back together. He looked almost the same as before the crash, except for the eyebrows and the ears.

"But his personality changed. Before, he used to laugh and tell jokes. Since, he never smiles. I mean, he never smiles. And I haven't heard him laugh since I don't remember when. It's like his sense of humor is broken.

"He went all scholarly, too. I mean, do you know anyone who owns hard copies of the Encyclopedia Britannica and the unabridged Oxford English Dictionary that takes up a whole bookshelf and reads them for fun? His memory is nearly photographic, which scares some people. Add in the eyebrows and ears and it's kind of inevitable he'd be called Mister Spock. He's probably smarter than most of the teachers in this dump. There are times when I wonder if Robby really thinks he's a Vulcan.

"His face can be downright frightening sometimes. You can always tell when he's mad or embarrassed, because his scars show up red and he looks demonic. He practices yoga and karate to help control his emotions so his scars don't appear. The only reason Robby doesn't get picked on more than he does is the bullies here know he can beat the crap out of them. He's done it more than once, and when he fights he's merciless.

"Sometimes I see him watching people. It's as if he's trying to decipher a puzzle. He's very forthright, and the concept of 'little white lies' does not seem to exist in his universe. I think he doesn't always understand how people are expected to behave. Maybe that part of his brain was damaged in the crash too." Cyndy glanced at her watch and the trio drifted back towards the auditorium.

They walked through the stage door and absolutely not to the surprise of Debbie and Cyndy, found Robert sitting behind the organ, a full score open on the music rack. His right index finger was beating time as he studied it, lost in his own world. They walked on to take their seats, but Inga paused by the keyboard. She touched his shoulder and was startled as he spun around, hands rising to a 'ready' karate stance.

"Excuse me! I wanted to apologize for my rudeness earlier, but now I'm not sure I should!"

"I think when it comes to apologies, we're even. I suppose looking intently could be taken as rude or creepy. I apologize if my dropping into a defensive posture scared you. It's just that I've had too many spiders, mice, snakes and rude signs put on me over the years to presume someone touching me is being friendly."

"You have something against spiders?"

"No. But finding a tarantula on your shoulder when you don't expect it is, shall we say, disconcerting?"

"Let's start over. Hello, my name is Inga. I'm first chair first flute with Kensington."

"Hello, my name is Robert. I play keyboards and percussion with Buckthorn. How do you do?" He offered a hand and she took it, noticing lines appear on his face as they shook.

"Do I frighten you, Robert?"

"No, Inga. But I'm not used to girls touching me, even to shake hands."

"You should be. Not all of us are heartless bitches. Oops, gotta run, the Doctor is in." She hurried to take her seat as Dr. Wycombe strode toward the podium to resume the rehearsal. As it progressed, stopping and starting to go over sections of the music and work with the instruments separately, from time to time Inga peeked over at Robert. Most of the time he was either studying his part or the score, but once he caught her eyes. The corners of his mouth turned up and one eyebrow rose. She didn't know quite what to make of that.

The rehearsal broke up at 10:30, the kids putting their instruments away and chatting as who would ride with whom was worked out. Longstanding custom going back at least forty years was for any Buckthorn musical group that had a late rehearsal, be it the Precision Field Band, the Stage Band, the Jazz Ensemble, the Wind Ensemble or one of the chamber groups, to go for pizza at Bertolucci's. Those who had cars ferried those who didn't and dropped them at home later. Debbie caught up with Robert as he was racking the mallets he used on the xylophone and the bells in the box he had built for that purpose.

"Spock, could you take Inga, Brad and me to Bertolucci's?"

"I assumed you'd be riding with Brad. Where's his car?"

"Something's wrong with it and it's out of commission until he can fix it. So can you take us, please?"

"Of course. It'll be a tight squeeze, but I'm sure we can manage. I'll be in the parking lot." He closed the box and headed for the Percussion Closet, actually a storeroom, to shelve his sticks before walking to his car. He was waiting when the two flutists and Brad Crawford, the lead tenor sax player, joined him. Inga was surprised at what she saw.

"This isn't what I'd have pictured you driving at all," she said.

"Debbie, Brad, you get the back seat, such as it is. Inga, if you'll come this way?" Robert led her around the front of the Jaguar XKE 2+2 coupe to the front passenger seat while Debbie flipped the driver's seat forward and she and Brad took their places in the back. Settling in behind the wheel, Robert turned the key and waited as a light came on in the dash. It winked out and he pressed a button. Instead of the varoom Inga expected, a diesel engine rumbled to life. Flipping on the headlights, Robert studied the gauges for a few seconds before dropping the car into gear and moving out. He shot a glance at her and again she saw his eyebrow rise. Turning into the street in front of the school, the Jag smoothly accelerated away.

Without taking his eyes off the road, Robert said, "Before you ask, yes, that's a diesel under the hood. Father gave me the car when I turned 15. It was his when he was in college and it was his pet. He hung onto it even after the engine seized up. He said if I could get it running again, I could have it. Trying to find the 5.3 liter V-12 engine it had up front originally is next to impossible. So I talked to Duke Taormino about what I could use instead. We thought about a Chevy V-8, since that conversion has been done before. Then a wrecked Mercedes diesel that got rear-ended came into his dad's auto graveyard. We measured and found the engine would fit if we modified the hood a little, so I bought the wreck's engine. It took us two weeks to install it and redo the hood because we had to reposition the engine mounts and mount the turbo, but it wasn't that hard, really. This may be the only diesel-powered Jaguar on earth."

She studied him in the dashboard lights as he maneuvered the sports car through streets he knew well, the coupe surprisingly quiet. As with the engine, the dashboard was not Jaguar standard but had been carefully made and fitted. Extra gauges gave the trained eye detailed information about how the car was running. Clearly Robert cared about his ride.

They arrived at the restaurant and went in. The owners of Bertolucci's had long ago figured out it was worth keeping at least one oven hot and paying an extra hour or two to the necessary staff on rehearsal nights, calling the Godfather's secretary to find out the schedule each week. The amount of pizza and soda the student musicians went through was enough to make it worth their while, but the goodwill they generated by staying open late was worth even more. Tonight with the Canadians in tow, the place was almost as full as on nights when the Buckthorn Rangers Precision Field Band (the name for the combined concert band and Wind Ensemble during football season) rehearsed its halftime show for the weekly football games. Debbie snagged a four-seat table for them. Robert seated Inga, which raised eyebrows, and took the seat next to her, which set some of the girls to whispering. While Robert always came for after-rehearsal munchies, he didn't sit with the other high school kids unless he was invited. He seldom was.

They agreed on pizza and argued about toppings, and Brad placed their order. While they waited for the waitress to bring it to the table, Robert and Inga went back and forth about the merits of venison, beefalo and buffalo as opposed to beef.

"I'll tell you, there's nothing that beats a deer that's had the run of the cornfield for a month. It's sweeter than beef," Robert said, "and you can do more with it. You can't make good sausage out of buffalo, it's too lean -"

"But it's much better for you, "interjected Inga. "If the buff has been raised on sweet grass and hasn't eaten too much wild onion the meat is flavorful and tender."

"Excuse me," said a voice behind them. They ignored it as Inga went on, "What's your favorite game recipe, Robert?"

"My favorite is venison stew, I suppose, with lots of potatoes, onions and slivered sweet red peppers for flavor. But there's something to be said for buffalo jerky done with teriyaki sauce -"

"Oh, you're not a vegetarian, then?" This with a smile that took the sting from her words.

"Unlike my namesake, I'm an omnivore. I'll eat anything that's standing still or even moving slowly -"

"Kroykah!" Startled, Robert turned in his chair to find Joyce Karlassian looking down at him, their eyes almost level despite the fact he was seated. A petite girl of Armenian extraction, she was also the de facto social director of the Wind Ensemble and not used to being ignored when she spoke.

"Spock, it is not polite to keep a lady waiting," she said, in the cadences and accent of Celia Lovsky's T'Pau.

"It was indeed rude of me. I ask forgiveness."

Eyes sparkling with amusement as they played out a shtick they'd done together since elementary school. Joyce replied, "The cause was sufficient. Let us speak no more of it." Dropping the accent, she went on, "I've got dibs after the combined ensemble performance. Halloween yours?"

"In costume, I think. Father will be out of town. Is Ms. Phoebe acceptable?"

"They've never complained before. Right, then, it's on. I'll publish. Eight to when?"

"Midnight. It does fall midweek. Covered dish potluck. Acceptable?"

She raised her hand, the fingers parted in the Vulcan hand salute. "Agreed. Live long and prosper, Spock."

"And you also, Joyce," Robert replied, returning the gesture. Joyce moved on, stopping to chat at another table. Inga looked at him.

"Would someone tell me what that was all about?"

"Joyce and Spock just agreed on who would host which party where and when, Inga," said Debbie. "She has the big do after the final concert two Saturdays from now that will run from about 10:30 to whenever; and he's hosting a Halloween costume party next Wednesday from 8 to midnight. Everyone attending is expected to bring something to share, which means it will be heavy on desserts, chips and dips. That's all."

"I've known Joyce since kindergarten," Robert explained. "We've known each other for so long, we can speak in shorthand and fill in the gaps. She also endured Trek-related teasing because her name is very close to one of the races that regularly visited Deep Space Nine. After my accident, we turned it into a double act and eventually they let up on her. Joyce can't help her family name."

The pizzas they had ordered arrived. The four teens fell on the food, conversation temporarily suspended. Inga observed that Robert ate much more sedately than Debbie, Brad or herself, his eyes constantly moving, using the mirrors on the walls to watch his back. She wondered what had happened to him or been done to him that he felt the need for that high a level of situational awareness.

Debbie's hands suddenly rose to her throat. Her lips moved but no sound came out. Robert was out of his chair so fast it fell over, hauling Debbie to her feet as his hands slid under her breasts.

"What do you think you're doing?" yelled Brad, trying to pull Robert away from her. Robert's expression didn't change as his right hand spun Brad around and then firmly grasped him at the base of the neck, long fingers digging in through his shirt. Brad gave a little squeak and dropped to the floor, out cold.

Debbie's face was turning blue. Robert repositioned his hands and yanked under her diaphragm hard enough to lift her off the floor, once, twice, three times. She coughed and a blob of pizza crust, cheese and sauce splattered onto the table. She made a rasping gasp that silenced the room before collapsing into Robert's arms.

"Oxygen!" he snapped, his tone of voice making it an order. Cyndy pushed past the cashier into the kitchen, emerging a second later with a green oxygen tank, unrolling the line with its attached mask as she hastened to the table. He held the mask to Debbie's face as she opened valves and looked at the flow gauge. Debbie's color returned to normal.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Better," she croaked. "Thanks."

"See if you can swallow some liquid." He held a glass to her lips and she took a suck on the straw, grimacing as it flowed down.

"It hurts like hell, but I think I'm okay," she said hoarsely. Robert looked at Cyndy.

"Keep her on oxygen, 1 liter per minute for at least five minutes. Don't let her eat anything. When she comes off the oh-two, have her try drinking again. She still might have to go to the ER. Someone throw a bucket of water on Crawford and bring him around. Excuse me." He turned and moving quickly, vanished through the outside door. Cyndy pulled the strap of the mask over Debbie's head to hold it in place and splashed a glass of something on Brad, which brought him spluttering awake. Taking in the scene, he moved to take the oxygen tank away from Cyndy, holding Debbie's hand, looking worried.

Inga looked at Cyndy. "Where's Robert?"

She shrugged. "Out in the parking lot throwing up, I expect. It's his way. I've seen it before. When it comes to the crunch, he does whatever needs doing and doesn't let anything stop him. Afterwards, he tosses his cookies and shivers for awhile. He'll be all right. Just let him be."

She looked at Cyndy disgustedly for a moment. Then Inga picked up a glass of soda and headed for the door.

Outside, she stood still and listened. Retching sounds came from her right, so she walked slowly in that direction as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She found Robert around the corner, leaning on a dumpster with a puddle of vomit by his feet, trying to clear his mouth of residual nastiness.

"This might work better," she said, stopping out of his reach and extending the glass to him. Not looking at her, he took a sip from it and swirled it in his mouth, spitting it out before taking another that he swallowed. He set the glass on the dumpster.

"Thank you." He walked to the trees at the edge of the asphalt and leaned on one, shaking with reaction as the fight or flight reflex faded. Inga came to him and put her arms around him, holding him as he shivered and stroking his back to calm him.

"It's okay, She's all right. Cyndy and Brad are seeing to her. You saved her life."

Robert shivered even more. She held him tighter, pulling him into her. After a minute his hands came up from his sides and wrapped around her as she adjusted her position so they fit more naturally. The tremors abated, but she continued to hold him, seeing the scars bloom on his face. They stood like that for a while before she felt him trembling again. Her hands continued to stroke him gently and his breathing deepened. He looked down at her, and she slowly brought her face to his for a chaste kiss on the lips. She could feel his erection pressing against her. Apparently he felt it too, for he eased away from her. She let him, but caught his hand so he could not turn away.

"Robert Jabez, how many times have you ever kissed a girl before tonight?"

"Less than once, actually."

"I'm surprised. No one should have to cope with stress always by themselves, and everyone deserves comfort and human contact. You did a brave thing in there. Come here." She pulled him to her again, caressing his back, feeling his hands begin to move over her back. They kissed again, lips still closed, but with a sensuous feeling nonetheless. They stood wrapped around each other, his hands instinctively stroking her hair, until she said, "We ought to see how Debbie is getting on." They started back for the restaurant, to Robert's surprise holding hands. She let go of his just before they walked in.

Debbie and Brad were sitting at the table, Cyndy next to them with the oxygen tank. They looked up at Robert and Inga, Debbie with gratitude, Brad with embarrassment.

"I think it's time to go home," Inga said before anyone could say anything. Tossing money on the table, the four walked out the door, the buzz behind them increasing as they left. Brad was dropped off first. He and Debbie cuddled the whole way to his house, according to Robert's occasional glances in the rearview mirror. The drive to Debbie's was silent. They arrived, and Robert got out and came around to open the door. Inga and Debbie got out.

Debbie looked at him. "Thank you," she said simply.

"Any time," he replied. The two girls started up the driveway to the back door. They paused for a moment, and Debbie went inside. Inga came back down the drive to Robert.

"Let's talk for a minute," she said. He leaned against the Jag. She looked at him in the pale glow cast by the streetlight two houses down.

"What exactly did you do to Brad?" she asked slowly. "I always thought the Vulcan Nerve Pinch wasn't real."

"It isn't. The subclavian nerve pinch is, however. My sensei taught me how. You can only do it on skinny people because it involves pressing the nerve between your fingers and the collarbone just so. Done properly, it drops someone like they've been hit with a taser. They'll only be out for a few minutes, but as it was tonight, sometimes a few minutes are all you need."

"But why did you do it?"

"Debbie was choking to death. When someone is choking, seconds count. I did not have time to deal with macho boyfriend chest-pounding, so when Brad got in the way I took him out of the equation. He's had a chance to think things through by now and realizes I did the right thing. I won't bring it up again if he doesn't."

"You're some kind of hero, you know that?"

One corner of his mouth quirked up. When he spoke, his tone was bitter. "By the time the rumor mill gets through with this, it'll be Cyndy who saved her, or maybe Brad. I'm not socially acceptable as an heroic figure." He looked away.

Inga closed the gap between them and took him in her arms. "Well, you're a hero to me, Robert. Or do you prefer Spock?"

"My friends call me Robby. What few friends I have, that is."

"And how many is that?"

"Very few."

She smiled, saying softly, "Well, you have one more now. Go home and get some sleep." She kissed him lightly. "Good night." She walked up the driveway, his eyes following her narrow waist, swaying hips and shapely legs until she disappeared through the door.

Morning found the visitors sitting in the stands of the football field as the marching band rehearsed for its Friday night halftime show. The fact the Canadians would be performing a solo concert, presenting a musical and then a combined ensemble concert with their American hosts over the next two weeks didn't relieve the Buckthorn Rangers Precision Field Band of its responsibility to put on a halftime show at the football game on Friday. Regular band and Wind Ensemble rehearsals were scheduled for the first period after homeroom. Politicking years before by the Godfather had transformed the two instrumental groups into their own homerooms, thereby giving them another 20 minutes a day for rehearsal.