image by JulieOh

I - Arrival

"Well, son, here we are, Deerfield Academy."

Seventeen year old Banks Brockton slouched down even further in his seat, glowering in silence at the imposing brick buildings that made up the campus of his new home. He could feel his father's eyes on him, but he refused to give the old Poodleman the satisfaction of acknowledging him.

"It looks nice," Travis Brockton ventured tentatively, pulling into the large circular driveway in front of the admissions and registration building. "I bet you'll make a lot of friends here."

'I had friends back at my old school,' Banks thought uncharitably, but didn't say it out loud. To do so would mean he was speaking to his father, and he had pretty much decided not to do that.

"Banks...."

Travis sounded tired and defeated. Banks almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Banks, this is a lot better than military school, and you know that's what your mother was pushing for. Maybe this will be a good experience! There are a lot of boys here your age, they all have the same... how should I put this... the same 'social advantages' that you do...."

Banks rolled his eyes. Social advantages, indeed. The old man thought that driving him here personally instead of letting the chauffeur do it was, like, a huge favor. Shyeah, He'd have rather dealt with Rollins.

"...and the sports here are highly respected. Their croquet team is undefeated!"

Banks finally looked over at his father, raising one expressive eyebrow.

Travis had the good graces to flush. "Well, okay, so maybe croquet isn't your thing. But there will be lots of other things to do, you'll see. Just give it a chance, Banks, please?"

Banks just rolled his eyes again and got out of the car. Croquet, indeed.

~*~

'Wanker... wanker... pansy... jerk... moron....'

Banks smirked to himself as he made a mental note of the boys gathered in the admissions and orientation banquet hall. They all looked just like the kinds of boys he'd liked to beat up on at his old school, which, of course, was part of the reason he'd ended up here in the first place. Really, was it his fault that Terry Morgan turned out to be allergic to strawberries? And besides, he kid had made it through, and all, so it wasn't as if he was a murderer, or anything. "Stupid pissant Terry Morgan," he muttered under his breath, scowling even deeper.

"So, what are you in for?" lisped a soft voice to his left. Banks turned, surprised. A tall, well-built boy with facial hair and longish, floppy hair was standing right beside him, smiling pleasantly.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I asked you first," smiled the boy, eyes twinkling.

Banks studied him quietly for a moment. The guy was obviously a fag. It was in his speech, his stance, the fit of his clothing... not that Banks noticed the fit of his clothing, or anything. Right. "I got sent here instead of military school," he answered, sullenly.

The other boy laughed. "You didn't look like the type to come willingly. My parents sent me here when they figured out I was gay. I'm supposed to be reformed."

Banks looked askance at him. "They sent you to an all-boys prep school to reform you?"

The boy's grin got even wider. "My parents aren't the sharpest knives in the drawer." He held out a limp hand. "Anthony Giovanni."

Banks eyed him suspiciously for a moment before accepting the hand and shaking it firmly. "Banks Brockton."

"Oh, you poor thing. May I call you 'BB'?"

"May I kick your ass?"

Anthony sighed. "Banks it is, then. So, have you met anyone yet?"

"Besides you? No."

"Well, come on, then." Anthony placed a hand on his arm and dragged him across the room. "I haven't met many people yet, either, but these guys seem nice."

"Wait...." Banks dug in his heels, resisting. "Why'd you decide to latch on to me? I was putting on my 'don't look at me, don't touch me, don't even breathe on me or I'll tear your throat out' vibe."

Anthony giggled. "Oh, honey, that wasn't a 'don't touch me' vibe!"

"It wasn't?"

"No!"

Banks wrinkled his nose. "What was it, then?"

"It looked to me like a 'throw me down, rip off my clothes, and fuck me senseless' vibe. Oooh, fruit punch! Want some?"

For once in his life, Banks Brockton was left absolutely speechless.

~*~

"Randy! Oh, Randy!"

Banks rolled his eyes and did his best to disappear into the floor as Anthony sashayed across the floor.

"Hey, Anthony," answered a youthful-looking boy with thick, curly, blond hair. "Who's the leprechaun?"

Banks felt his hands snap into fists. "Leprechaun?!"

"Randall Timberwood, meet Banks Brockton. Banks Brockton, meet Randall Timberwood. And, Banks, before you try to pound his face in, you should know that he's a star on Deerfield's basketball team, so he's stronger than he looks."

Timberwood looked Banks up and down, visibly unimpressed. "Hey."

Banks shot him a burning gaze of death. "Right."

"Where's Josh?" Anthony was craning his neck, looking around for someone else.

"Little girl's room," Timberwood answered, his eyes still on Banks. "So, you play?" he asked, his smirk giving away what he thought the answer would be.

"Yeah, I play." It was taking all of Banks' control not to wipe that smirk off the pretty boy's face. Leprechaun, indeed.

"Uh-huh. So, Tony, why'd you grab this guy? He's trippin'."

"Randy, don't you have eyes? He's hot as hell!"

Banks, much to his chagrin, blushed deeply.

Timberwood looked insulted. "Hot? Him? What about me? I'm hot!"

Anthony shook his head. "Sorry, honey. I know hot when I see it, and you're not it."

It was Timberwood's turn to scowl.

"You're cute, though," Anthony assured him. "Perfectly acceptable. Oh, there he is!" He threw a hand in the air and waved frantically to someone by the open doorway. "Joshua, over heeere!"

Banks grimaced. "Is he always like that?"

Timberwood nodded. "Apparently."

"Great." Banks slouched down onto a nearby couch as Anthony was joined by a tall, thin preppy with neat brown hair and prominent cheekbones.

"Banks, this is Joshua Chiffon," Anthony introduced them. "Josh, meet Banks Brockton."

Josh smiled shyly. "Hi, Banks."

Banks smirked at him. "Chiffon?"

Josh flushed. "It's French, okay? Like Banks is such a great name."

He grinned. "Better than a fabric."

"Now, boys, play nice." Anthony pouted theatrically. "Josh, if Randy can get along with him, you certainly can, too."

Josh threw a questioning look at Timberwood. "You get along with him?"

Timberwood shrugged as he snagged a seat next to Banks. "I guess. We're gonna shoot some hoops."

"Oh."

"Josh doesn't shoot hoops," Timberwood confided, leaning slightly toward Banks. "He'd rather hang out in the music room playing 'Tiptoe Through the Tulips' on the piano."

"I will have you know that I have never in my life played 'Tiptoe Through the Tulips,'" Josh retorted with mock-outrage.

Before he knew it, Banks had opened his mouth and begun singing the song in a perfect imitation of Tiny Tim's freakishly high vibrating falsetto.

The other three boys stared at him, wide-eyed, for a split second before they all burst into hysterical laughter. Banks felt himself beginning to smile. Maybe Deerfield Academy wouldn't be so bad, after all.

End

Screencap in the "Deerfield" image taken from *NSYNC: THEN AND NOW and used with permission. Many thanks to them!
"Deerfield" image © 2000-2001 JulieOh

Email: kittie.verdena@gmail.com