Just Asking For It

OR

The T.A. and the Student

The class filed in, chattering nervously as they took their seats. Mr. Bricard’s first year Professional Ethics students had entered their classroom for the last time this semester, and today they would get their final papers back. It was all or nothing this time. The grade on this paper would reflect their grade for the course.

“All right, all right, everyone settle down, lots to do today, lots to do,” Professor Bricard commanded out of habit. Truthfully, there was not much need for such a direction. Aside from a few last minute whispers and giggles as they dropped into their chairs the students sat in rapt attention. Their ears were, of course, not much interested in what the professor had to say. It was the last class after all. They knew, however, from previous experience that Professor Bricard would not hand anything back until the room was completely silent, and their eyes were riveted on the two T.A.’S who flanked the professor on either side. Specifically, their eyes were focused on the pile of papers each assistant held.

The T.A.’S were young and empathetic, theoretically. Though, at the moment they couldn’t possibly have appeared more cold or detached to those they had been mentoring all semester long; appearances are not always what they seem. They were second year Law students, and had been assisting Professor Bricard’s undergraduates this term in an attempt to ease the financial burdens Law school inevitably brings. Throughout the course they had assisted lost students in class, graded papers, held office hours for anyone who had sought them out, and as burdened as they were with their own work, they had become personally invested in the performance of their young protégés. For one of them at least, the class had become about much more than the stipend he was getting to teach (for he WAS teaching, and really the professor had shockingly little to do with the matter). He cared about all his students of course, and wanted them to do well, but that was not what distinguished him from his friend, Mike, who was also assist . . . that is, teaching. Though, he would not yet admit it to himself, Professor Bricard’s young T.A. was falling in love.

He waited tensely now, too, projecting an air of cool tranquility that he did not feel. The eyes of his students were on him, seeking hungrily for some small sign of reassurance. Chris’ palms began to sweat, and he subtly wiped them one after another on the side of his jeans, shifting his stack of papers from one hand to the other as he did. He held in his hand the futures of these beginning scholars. At least, that’s how it felt to them, he knew. He once again dodged their eyes, and clutched the stack of papers tighter. If he wasn’t careful he would wrinkle them.

Another moment and his students would have the answers they wanted, or in some cases the answers they didn’t want. Some of them would be elated, and others, devastated. Most would just be happy that they had passed. The majority of them deserved their grades, and should have a good idea of what was coming either way. There was only one he was really worried about, just one. His hands were sweating profusely now, and he shifted his papers once again to swipe them. His heart was thumping and he continued to look straight ahead, avoiding the eyes of all and especially the eyes of the one, the one whose deep, revealing green eyes were seeking desperately to be met by his own.

Mike’s students too silently sought his encouragement, and just as vainly. He looked around evasively, searching for a safe place to rest his eyes. He glanced at his friend and smirked. To his practiced eye, Chris looked petrified, and Mike knew why. He and Chris had spent many long nights bonding over this class, and all had come out. Well, perhaps not all. Perhaps, Mike did not know quite as much as he thought he did.

Professor Bricard, who was enjoying the suspense perhaps just a little too much, finally nodded at his assistants and quietly they began to pass out the papers. “I commend you all on the fine work you have done this past semester,” he began as Chris and Mike made their way up and down the aisles. “I think most of you will be very pleased with the results. If you are not, you may certainly feel free to make an appointment with either Mr. Dugan or Mr. Flanagan to discuss the matter. If you absolutely must talk to me I will be available . . . .,” the professor droned on and on, and nobody heard a word he said. Andrew Grazier certainly was not listening.

He looked down at his desk, a blush spreading over his face as he heard Chris turn up his aisle. His heart began to beat faster, and he concentrated very hard on the text book in front of him. The twenty year old business major had been smitten right from the beginning of the semester, and was now barely one step away from drawing hearts and composing mini odes in the margin of his notebook. His stomach fluttered in excitement as Chris came up beside him, but alas, too soon, way too soon the moment had passed. As Chris placed the paper face down in front of him, his hand brushed Andy’s and Andy’s heart leapt. Eagerly he looked up in another attempt to catch the older student’s eyes, but Chris had already moved on. Disappointed, Andy looked back at his desk. Had it been an accident, he pondered, or could it just possibly be that Chris felt some of what he was feeling? Wistfully, he sighed and picked up his paper.

The next moment, as he turned the paper over, Chris was all but forgotten. He felt flutters in his stomach of an entirely different kind, and the blood drained from his face. The words: “See me, please. Ten o’clock am, Tuesday. My office,” were circled in red at the top of the page. There was no grade, and the note was not from Chris. It was from Professor Bricard. Andy’s stomach turned violently and he pressed his hand to his head. ‘Fuck!’ he thought. No wonder Chris had avoided his eyes. The slight moment of euphoria as their hands had touched was no more than a distant memory now, a distant bittersweet memory.

‘I’m sure he hates me,’ Andy agonized as tears blurred his vision making the page in front of him seem fuzzy. He swallowed hard in an effort to force them back, and then shakily took his bag from the floor. In one single second, the only stabilizing force in his life right now had been removed. He had to get out of here. He brushed quickly at his cheeks, willing the tears to stay back just a few moments more as he placed his book, notebook, and the offending paper inside his bag. He shrugged into his coat and zipped it, and then with as much grace as he could manage he got to his feet. He lifted his bag to his shoulder, and with his head bent low, he made his way quickly to the door.

There were nearly fifty students in the class, and Andy was not the only one making a somewhat hurried exit. Most of the other students were too preoccupied with the grades and comments on their own papers to notice what their classmates were doing. The same could not be said for either of the T.A.’S. They were both painfully in tune with the feelings of those who were leaving.

Chris was bent over another freshman who was asking him a question, but he was only vaguely attentive. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Andy as his young student began to pack his bag, and his stomach curled. He tried to focus on the question he was being asked, but it was no use and as Andy made for the door Chris stood up, intending to go after him.

“Mr. Flanagan, may I see you for just a moment, please?” Mr. Bricard called his assistant to his side, and Mike looked up from where he too was helping a student.

Chris hesitated, following Andy longingly with his eyes. Unlike the youthful object of his affection, however, he was guided more by rationality than by impulse, and after a moment he turned reluctantly towards the professor’s desk

Professor Bricard looked seriously at Chris as his young aid came up beside him. “Let it go,” he cautioned in a low voice. “You have other students who need your assistance.” Chris bit his lip and looked again towards the door. “I mean it Chris,” the professor regarded him gravely over the rim of his spectacles. “If you would like to keep your job for next semester, you need to let him go.” Chris swallowed, and his stomach flip-flopped as he weighed his options. His heart was once again in a war with his brain, and though the battle was hard fought and exceptionally long (for him), his brain was once again victorious. He needed this job. “Are we clear?” the professor was asking him.

“Yes, Sir,” Chris managed finally.

“All right then,” the professor replied not unkindly, “go on. I see some hands that need your attention.” Chris nodded tersely and with an air of recalcitrant resignation turned back to face the sea of hands that now awaited him.

“Everything ok?” Mike asked quietly as Chris passed him.

“Yeah, great,” Chris responded sarcastically, and Mike bit his lip, but there was no way he could pursue the conversation further right at the moment. His attention too was needed elsewhere.

For the next fifteen to twenty minutes Chris wandered absently from student to student, wherever he saw a hand in the air that he recognized. He tried hard to focus on the questions they were asking him, but he wasn’t having much success. He was barely cognizant of what he was saying in response, and his mind kept drifting to Andy. ‘Damn it, Chris,’ he chastised himself. ‘You knew he was struggling! Why didn’t you help him?’ ‘I didn’t know he was struggling that much,’ he defended himself. ‘I never thought he’d do something like this! Never!’

Finally the professor stopped the question answer session and informed his undergraduates that Mr. Dugan and Mr. Flanagan would be holding office hours for another couple of days, and if they still had questions, they could make an appointment or drop by during these times. He then dimmed the lights, preparing to start his last lecture on the overhead projector and Mike and Chris took their seats in the back of the classroom. Chris sank with relief into his chair, looking pensively at the door. It was fairly nearby and Chris looked briefly back at the professor, but then he sighed and straightened his legs, slumping miserably over the desk. He didn’t dare attempt it. He might be stuck here for the moment, he pondered, but at least he was free to think, and think he did about Andy and all that had led up to the moment of anguish that had just occurred for both of them.

If Andy only knew; it was because of Chris that he had gotten a summons to the office of the professor instead of a big, red F circled on his paper. In fact, it was because of Chris that Andy was facing Professor Bricard tomorrow and not the Dean. The thought didn’t make Chris feel any better.

All semester Andy had been coming to him. Monday, Wednesday, Friday 5-8 pm were Chris’ office hours, and Andy was always there, first in line, even on Fridays. Quite frequently (especially on Fridays) he would be the only one to seek him out and their allotted half hour would turn into three hours. At first it was just business of course, and Chris was very protective of his time. When 8 o’clock rolled around that was it until next session. Chris couldn’t even say when that had changed; when he had stopped keeping track of the time altogether; when their sessions had begun to extend themselves long past the eight o’clock hour; when the subject stopped being Professional Ethics all the time; when he had actually started to anticipate Monday, Wednesday, Friday nights with genuine pleasure, and when he began to feel robbed by other students who cut into their time on rare occasions. All he knew was how he felt now. Andy was the most intriguing, exceptional person he had ever known, and the pleasure of seeing him frequently was one Chris was loath to give up.

From the first he had been impressed by Andy. His intelligence, his apparent work ethic, his desire to do well were qualities that made him stand out, in Chris’ mind, from the rest of his peers, but he struggled. He had struggled so hard, all semester, with the concepts Chris had tried to teach him. It was frustrating for Andy who tried so hard, but never quite got it, and it was absolutely maddening to Chris. He couldn’t understand it at all. How could this intelligent young man, with such a willingness to learn, be so incapable of grasping what, to Chris, seemed like the most basic fundamentals of business and law.

Then one day the boiler had gone out in the building where Chris’ office was located. He had cancelled his office hours to all but his most dedicated students. These few he had called to find out where he could meet them as an alternative. Andy of course had been among them. Eagerly, the younger man had proposed that they meet in the Art Studio, and Chris had readily agreed. One place was as good as another as far as he was concerned.

A flushed and enthusiastic Andy had met him at the door, so very unlike the pale, anxious, pencil chewing Andy he usually met with, and as Chris stepped inside he had known immediately that he was in Andy’s world. His young student was unusually talkative and, having no wish to quell his enthusiasm, Chris let him talk. He followed Andy from painting to painting, duly impressed by the artwork he was being so enthusiastically shown, but it was not the art that Chris was most focused on; it was Andy’s face that he couldn’t get over. Finally, he was able to get a word in edge wise and he used it to create the one sober moment of the evening. “Why on earth did you ever become a business major, Andy?” he asked softly.

Andy’s face wrinkled and he shrugged. “My mom has struggled all her life as an artist,” he replied quietly. “She wants me to have more options.” Deep sadness resonated in the young man’s voice now, where moments before there had been nothing but excitement and warmth.

‘You idiot, Chris!’ the young tutor reprimanded himself, casting about desperately for something, anything that would bring back Andy’s zeal and fervor. His eyes fell on a painting Andy had not yet shown him, and he asked about it, redirecting the younger man’s attention and watching his face hopefully. Slowly, but surely the color came back, and the more questions Chris asked, the more ardent Andy became once more. Chris never once looked at that particular painting and to this day he could not have told anyone what the subject of it was. He was captivated by something else entirely. Andy prattled on and on and happily Chris listened. They didn’t talk much (or truthfully at all) about Professional Ethics that night, but in those couple of hours of unbridled vivacity and passion Chris began to understand who Andrew Grazier really was, and perhaps it was in those couple of hours that Chris began to love him.

‘Why?’ Chris agonized now. ‘Why would he do this?’ Why wouldn’t he come to me?’ They were questions he had been asking himself since last Friday, since Professor Bricard had called him in and shown him the paper Andy had turned in.

“Can you explain this?” the professor had thrown the paper down in front of him as he stood in front of the desk, and confused, Chris had picked it up and looked at it. His stomach knotted as he saw Andy’s name on it. He skimmed through the first page and turned to the second, buying himself time, his thoughts whirling.

Finally he swallowed and looked up to meet Professor Bricard’s stern eyes. “It’s not the paper we were working on,” he asserted quietly.

“So there was another paper?”

“Yes,” Chris acknowledged softly.

“So, he went behind your back, turning this one in?”

“No . . . .”

The professor raised his eyebrows.

“I mean . . .yes, technically, I guess he did, but I’m sure he had a good reason.”

“Yes, I’m sure he did too,” Professor Bricard responded derisively. “He left everything to the last minute, didn’t finish the paper you helped him start, and he took the easy way out. You needn’t look so surprised, Chris,” he counseled his thunderstruck assistant. “Andrew is just living up to the lazy, deceitful qualities that unfortunately characterize a very large percentage of his generation.”

“He is not lazy!” Chris responded defensively before he could stop himself, and Professor Bricard raised his eyebrows once more, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, he’s been coming to see me regularly all semester long and he’s been working very hard,” Chris explained quickly, shifting uncomfortably as the professor gazed at him over his spectacles. “I know he’s not lazy,” he repeated quietly. “And as to being deceitful, what he did was dishonest for sure, but it doesn’t mean his character in general is deceitful. He’s just having a really hard time. I know he’s been really overwhelmed . . .,”

“Are you involved with him?” the professor interjected quietly.

“No, Sir!” Chris responded a little too emphatically, and Professor Bricard eyed him skeptically. “He should never have been a Business major, Sir,” Chris pronounced his opinion quietly after a minute.

“But he is a Business major, Chris, and this class is an essential part of his degree.”

“What are you going to do?” Chris asked softly.

“Well, what I had intended to do before I called you in, and what I really should do is turn him into the Dean,” the professor responded just as quietly.

“But?” Chris asked hopefully.

“But,” Professor Bricard replied in the same undertone, “you seem to have taken a shine to this young man, Chris, and I know that you are almost as hard to impress as I am. I respect your opinion. What do you think I should do?”

Chris swallowed hard, thinking carefully before he spoke. Professor Bricard was well known as a “hard ass” among the student body in general, and he was paying Chris quite a compliment by asking his opinion on such a serious matter, but Chris was not thinking about that at all. He was merely contemplating how he could use this slight toe-hold he all of a sudden found he had, to help Andy out of the extremely large predicament he had gotten himself into.

“Just give him a chance, Sir,” he replied softly after a minute. “Give him a chance to tell you why he did it. There must be something going on. He’s not a cheater.”

“Well, technically, Chris, he is.”

“I know, but I meant . . .,”

“I know what you meant,” the professor cut him off, looking seriously at his young assistant. “All right, Chris,” he took Andy’s paper from the edge of the desk where Chris had laid it. He pulled it back towards himself and taking up his red pen he wrote: See Me Please. 10:30 am Tuesday. My office. He circled it and laid it face down on top of the stack of already corrected papers. “I’m taking your word on this one.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Chris responded with obvious relief as Professor Bricard looked up at him once more.

“Understand, I’m not promising anything,” the professor replied, “but I will hear what he has to say. I know that good kids sometimes get caught up doing stupid things. If that’s what’s happening here, and if he convinces me he deserves a second chance, I’ll give him one.”

“Yes, Sir, I understand. Thank you,” Chris replied.

“All right, then. Thank you for your help. You may go.”

“Yes, Sir, thank you,” Chris repeated, and he turned to leave.

“Chris,” the professor called as he reached the door, and Chris turned to look at him once more. “If you would like to be present for that meeting, and Andy wants to have you there, it is ok with me.”

Chris swallowed as he met the professor’s eyes and he felt his cheeks growing warm, but he nodded, “Thank you, Sir,” he said again, his voice tight. Professor Bricard nodded his response, and with a red face and spinning head Chris made his way out the door into the hallway.

That had been on Friday evening, and his emotions had been in a complete state of disarray ever since. Since the semester was essentially over, Andy had gone home for the weekend to visit with his mother. Chris had been in his office, using the time he normally spent with Andy to try and catch up with some of his own work when the professor called him in. After the meeting he could not concentrate at all. He was dreading Monday morning. He so desperately wanted to talk to Andy, but the Professional Ethics class met at 9:00am. There would be no time.

"You ok?" the soft voice that reached Chris' ears seemed to be coming from a great distance, and it barely penetrated the fog of thought that had wrapped itself around him. "Chris, Man, you allright?" Someone was gently shaking his shoulder. The lights were
coming on, and students were collecting their bags, chattering their way noisily to the door. Class was over. "Come on, Man," Mike squeezed his shoulder once more, "let's go." Slowly Chris got to his feet, and after collecting their own coats and bags from the
front of the classroom, he and Mike made their way out amidst the last of the straggling freshmen.

They walked in silence for a while. Chris' head was down, his mind still occupied with its previous subject. Mike was looking at him thoughtfully. "What's going on, Man?" he finally asked as they exited the building. Chris didn't respond. "Did he fail?" Chris shrugged as hot tears stung his eyes, and with an embarrassed glance in Mike's direction, he brought his hand up to wipe them away. Mike was a great friend, but the last few days had been taxing. Chris' nerves were frazzled with all the end of semester wear and tear and this business with Andy was certainly not helping. He just wanted some time to himself, some time to talk to Andy, some time to get this all straightened out.

"You did everything you possibly could for him," Mike continued, failing to understand just how much strain his friend was and had been under. "You can't blame yourself." Still, Chris remained silent. "Forget it, Man," Mike tried again. "Let's go get some lunch or something. Why don't we go to that . . . ."

"I can't, Mike!" Chris cut him off in exasperation as the cork finally blew. Mike stopped, staring at his friend in surprise. "I'm sorry," Chris quickly apologized as he too came to a halt, "I didn't mean to snap. It's definitely not you!" he assured quietly as they began to walk once more. For a few moments, Mike was silent. He didn't really know what to say.

"You can't help him, Chris," he finally returned in the same quiet tone his friend had last used. "What's done is done just let it go . . . ."

"Look, Man," Chris started evenly, "I know you're just trying to help, and I don't want you to think I don't appreciate it or anything, but I have to talk to him. Things aren't as simple as they might seem. He has worked his ass off this semester, and even if he was nothing more to me than just another student, I would owe it to him to see him through this." Chris met his friend's bewildered eyes head on now. "This is serious, Mike," he said
softly. "Andy's in real trouble. I have to find out what's going on with him."

Mike was about to reply, but just then one of his undergrads approached them and without pausing to realize that he was interrupting, he immediately began to question Mike about his paper. The timing, as far as Mike was concerned, was extremely
inconvenient, and reluctantly he dropped his eyes to the written comment the student was pointing at. To Chris, however, the timing couldn't have been better and when Mike looked up again, having answered the question, he saw that his friend was already hurrying off in the direction of Howland (Andy's dorm). "Call me!" he shouted after him.

Chris turned, and gave his friend a little half wave to acknowledge that he had heard, but he did not intend to call as requested. None of this was any of Mike's business. He readjusted his bag on his shoulder and continued to walk as his preoccupied daze
continued. `What am I even going to say to him?' he wondered. He didn't know, but he had to see him, had to make sure that he was all right. Of that much, Chris was certain.

Chris entered the dorm quietly and made his way up the stairs. The silence and stillness made him shudder. He knew many of the younger students had already left for their holiday break, but the building seemed practically deserted, and it just didn't feel right. Nothing felt right at the moment. He sighed. It had been a long time since he'd been in a dorm. He glanced at the empty bottles and cigarette butts that littered the floor, and wrinkled his nose as the smell of sour beer and stale smoke overpowered him. He definitely did not miss this. `What the hell am I doing?' he thought. `I don't even know where to go.' He stopped and stood for a moment. This was madness. `What can I even say?' he thought again despairingly. `Why would Andy even want me here? I'm just going to make things worse!' He brought his hand to his eyes again. He was tired, he was
stressed. Maybe he should just call Mike after all, and take him up on his offer. He could deal with a beer right about now. This really isn't any of my business, anyway,' he thought. `It is your business, Chris!' his inner voice argued. `It is!' `Ok! It is,' he
acknowledged, `but what can I do about it?' He stood for another moment, looking desperately up and down the hallway for someone who could point him in the right direction, or at least to the right floor (there were four of them). Mercifully, at that moment, a door opened behind him and two students emerged.

"Hey," Chris called to them as they closed and locked their door. They turned to stare at him. "Do you guys know Andrew Grazier?" The two freshmen exchanged glances and smirks.

"Andy?" one of the guys asked. "Yeah, we know him. He's in our marketing class. Shut up, Pete!" he hissed, poking his friend in the ribs as the second of the two freshmen started to snigger.

"Is there a problem?" Chris demanded icily.

"No, no problem," the same young man assured him.

"Well, can you tell me where his room is?" Chris asked, eyeing them distastefully as they continued to simper at him.

"He's down there," the same guy answered, pointing to the corner behind him. "His is the door on the left. But you may not want to disturb him right now. He's in kind of a mood."

"As usual," Pete snickered again and Chris' brow darkened.

"Sorry," the first boy apologized as Chris continued to glare at them. "Andy's a good guy, and everything, but he does have a tendency to overreact at times. Pete and I are going to go out and celebrate tonight. You know, it being the end of the semester and all. We were going to ask Andy to come, but he blew by us about two hours ago . . . he was in a real huff about something. He slammed his door and we haven't seen him since." Pete snorted and his friend poked him again. "Sorry," the first boy muttered in response to Chris' irate expression. "He's down there," he pointed again.


"Thanks," Chris bit back the rest of his reply but his tone combined with the frosted look he gave the two boys as he brushed by them effectively quelled their disparaging behavior. They really didn't mean anything by it. They were just giddy with end of the semester excitement. They followed Chris with their eyes, exchanging glances and smirks once more at his obvious indignation. After a moment, however, they resumed their previous conversation, continuing on their way down the stairs and out of the dorm as Chris made his way to Andy's room.


Outside the door, Chris hesitated. He had never been in the younger man's room and he was feeling a little shy about showing up unannounced. Tentatively he brought his hand up and tapped lightly. There was no answer. He waited for a minute, his heart banging
against his chest, and then he knocked a little louder. Still, there was no answer. He swallowed hard. "Andy," he called softly. No response. Chris bit his lip, and then with slow timidity brought his hand to the knob on the door. It turned easily and his heart began to beat faster. This was the most presumptuous thing he had ever done, but he couldn't help it. Gently he pushed the door open and peeked in.

His eyes took in the disheveled state of the room with instinctive disapproval, but the shredded remains of what he could only assume had been Andy's Professional Ethics paper caused his stomach to tighten and reminded him that Andy's living habits were at the moment unimportant. Andy was lying face down on his bed, gripping the pillows tightly, and as Chris' eyes fell on him, he lost his heart completely. "Can I come in?" he whispered, still standing in the doorway. Andy shrugged into the pillows and did not look up.

After a moment, Chris stepped further into the room and closed the door softly, locking it behind him. He was reasonably sure that Andy's roommates had already left for the break; he thought he remembered Andy telling him that they had, but it was better safe
than sorry. Awkwardly, he stood there, looking at Andy and contemplating what to do. He couldn't tell how welcome his presence really was. He looked around for something resembling a chair, and finally spied one, barely peeking out from the mountain of dirty laundry it was under. Gingerly, he picked his way over to it.

He lifted the clothes off of it and looked wistfully at the closet. A moment later, however, he resignedly dropped the new pile on the floor and took the chair in his hands. He lifted it over yet another mass of unidentifiable items, and somehow managed to set it down again on the other side without tripping. He cleared enough space for the chair to have a stable resting place, and set his bag down on the floor. He then took off his coat, and, hanging it on the back of the chair, he sat down to once again contemplate the young man he was beginning to love. Andy had made no further movements of any kind.

"Are you ok?" Chris whispered after a minute. Andy shrugged again, and Chris paused. "Why didn't you hand in the paper we were working on?" he asked finally in the same soft tone.

"BECAUSE!" Andy sobbed. "It was crap!"

"No it wasn't, Andy."

"Oh yes it was!" he responded. "It was complete and utter crap!"

"It wasn't crap," Chris repeated firmly. "You were working very hard on that paper." He waited, but when he still received no further response he added softly, "It was at the very least your own work." There was another long pause.

"How did you know?" Andy sobbed, finally.

"I didn't," Chris sighed. "Not until Professor Bricard called me into his office on Friday to show it to me. He has a program that catches all that stuff nowadays, but even if he didn't, it was evident that the writing wasn't yours. It wasn't your style at all," he added gently.

"In other words, I can't write worth shit and my style is crap!" Andy repeated in frustration.

"That is not what I meant!" Chris retorted. "The bottom line is, Andrew, that it wasn't your work. Why would you hand something in that wasn't yours? That's cheating," he tried to say it gently, but the rebuke fell hard on Andy's ears. He grasped the pillows harder and his response was rendered almost incomprehensible by the shoulder shaking sobs that forced their way forward.

"It just got hard, Chris! It got so hard. I just don't know what I'm doing in this class. I don't understand it at all! I can't do shit without you and it's all stupid, anyway! All the numbers and shit! Who the hell gives a crap about this stuff!?"

"Why didn't you come to me?" Chris asked softly. "You know I would have helped you."

"Because, it was the end of the semester, and you had enough of your own work to do. You had enough to worry about without adding me to the list. You helped me write more than half of it already! I just wanted to finish the damn thing on my own! I wanted you to be proud of me, Chris! I didn't want to disappoint you!" Andy continued to cling to the pillows, and Chris placed his head in his hands. He was trying hard to understand Andy's logic, but he was not having a whole lot of success.

"What made you think I would be disappointed if you asked for help?" Chris asked finally. "Have I ever been disappointed when you've come to me in the past?"

"No," Andy sobbed, "but everybody has their limit! You're so smart, Chris, and I'm so stupid . . . ."

"You are not stupid!" Chris countered crisply.

"I just couldn't get what you were saying to me! I tried so hard! Really, I did! But you practically wrote three quarters of my paper for me already . . . ."

"No I didn't!" Chris insisted. "You did the work. Just because I
helped you, doesn't mean it wasn't yours!"

"Then how come I can't put two words together without you?" Andy demanded. "I just wanted to do something on my own, Chris! I wanted to show you that all your time and help paid off, that I got what you were saying, but when I looked at it on Thursday it all
just seemed so confusing!"

"Why didn't you bring it to me on Friday, then?" Chris cried in exasperation, "Or even call me on Thursday?"

"I couldn't, Chris! I just couldn't! The paper was almost done. I thought it would be easy to write the rest and I waited. I waited too long. It was Thursday night before I even looked at it. I was up all night and hadn't written more than a paragraph. It was
obviously going to take a weekend's worth of all nighters to finish it, and I didn't want to impose on you!" There was another long silence as Andy balled his fists in the sheets and clutched the pillows tighter, burying his face and sobbing. He was mortified at the moment by Chris' presence, and absolutely desperate to make him understand.

"When have you ever imposed on me?" Chris demanded sharply. "It was my office hours anyway for Christ's Sake!" He was trying to maintain his patience, but Andy wasn't making sense at all.

"I'm sorry!" Andy sobbed. "I had already planned to go home this weekend! I had to go home, Chris! I just couldn't change my plans!"

"Why the hell not?" Chris snapped. "This is your degree that we're talking about, Andrew. What you did is called plagiarism. It's a federal offense. I doubt they'd actually throw you in jail, but you definitely could get thrown out of school! The semester ends in a week anyway, and then you have a whole month's break! What was so special about this weekend that couldn't wait?"

"I've been planning it forever!" Andy cried.

"Well plans change, Andy. Why couldn't you change them?"

"My mother is sick! Ok?" Andy screamed.

Chris looked up as his heart froze. "What do you mean, `sick?'" he inquired anxiously.

"What do you mean, `What do I mean?'" Andy sobbed. "I MEAN she's fucking sick! What the fuck do you think I mean?"

"How sick is she?" Chris asked softly, ignoring the outburst.

"Really sick!" Andy wept. "And I don't even know what's wrong with her! She won't tell me! I don't even know if she knows! But she's so tired all the time, and she's never hungry anymore. She eats like a fucking bird, and even when I make her favorite foods she doesn't finish everything on her plate. She looks thinner and thinner all the time and so pale! Something is really wrong, Chris! Something is really wrong! We've been planning this weekend forever, and I just couldn't disappoint her! That's why I couldn't change my plans! I'm sorry!" he sobbed. "I know I let you down! I'm so sorry!"

A wave of guilt washed over Chris; this was something he could definitely understand. In one single, fluid movement he moved from the chair to the bed and propping himself against the wall gathered Andy in his arms, holding him tightly as Andy pressed his face into his chest and sobbed. "All right, Baby, it's all right. Come here," he whispered.

"I know that you think I'm a horrible person," Andy continued as Chris held him and stroked his hair.

"No, I don't, Baby!" The term of endearment rolled naturally off his tongue and Chris half laughed at the absurdity of the statement as he looked down at the young man who was clinging to him now as though he'd never let him go. All the implications of the current situation seemed to be passing over Andy's head at the moment. "I don't think you're horrible at all," he assured gently. He cuddled Andy closer, and let his chin drop to the top of his head.

"But I'm a cheater!" Andrew sobbed, "And cheaters are the worst kind of people!"

"The fact that you think that, Andy, shows that you're not one," Chris returned gently. "You just made a mistake." Andy looked up at him and Chris met his eyes, brushing his cheeks tenderly with his fingers in an effort to dry his tears. "It was a terrible mistake, Baby, but that's all it was. You felt backed into a corner, you felt desperate, and you made a bad call. Believe me, we've all been there." Chris tightened his arms as the younger man buried his face once more. "I cheated once," he finally went on softly, almost as if he was reminding himself.

"You did?" Andy sniffled miserably without looking up.

"Umm hmm . . .," Chris admitted in the same dulcet tone.

"When?"

"I was a senior in High School."

"Did you get caught?"

"Yes," Chris acknowledged quietly. "It was the end of the quarter, I was doing poorly in my Calculus class and I needed a good grade on the final exam to even have a chance at passing. I, however, did not feel like putting in the time to study, and by the time I opened my book the night before the exam it was too late. Like you I felt panicked and trapped. Though, unlike you, I had not even been trying," he hugged Andy closer as Andy pressed his face into his chest. "Anyway, I knew I HAD to pass the class and I felt my best chance of doing that was to copy the answers off of some other poor, unsuspecting kid's paper. Unfortunately, he was no Einstein either and we both got called into the principal's office for a grilling session that I'm sure would have easily matched the intensity of the Spanish Inquisition. Both the principal and the Math teacher were there and after an hour of questioning, they finally produced tears and apologies from me. The innocence of the other boy was established and he was allowed to go. Boy was I envious!" He was quiet for a moment, remembering.

"What happened then?" Andy finally prompted softly. His tears had slowed now, and he clutched Chris tighter. "Did they call your parents?"

"Well," Chris continued thoughtfully, "I actually lost my parents when I was very young. My dad died when I was four and my mom died from cancer when I was just nine. My sister, Eliza, and my brother, Alex, at just 19 and 20 years old were left to raise me, my other brother Kyle, and my two sisters, but, yes they definitely called them. In fact, I had to call Alex at work, explain what had happened and tell him that the principal wanted to meet with both him and Liz at the end of the day. I cried the whole time I was talking to him. Alex listened very quietly, said he would come and promised to call Liz. I knew he was mad, but he didn't say anything at the time. He just asked me if I was ok. He
and Liz were just starting their careers, and neither one of them could really afford to take off work, but they did. They both came. I sat in the main office while they met with the teacher and the principal, and then they called me in at the end. Alex instructed me to apologize to the teacher which I did immediately with what was by then absolute, genuine contrition. I was in fact devastated, knowing the embarrassment and hassle I was creating for my older brother and sister. I started to cry again and Liz put her arm around me. Alex assured the teacher and the principal that I was a good kid, that I had just made a bad mistake, and that he was confident I would never repeat it. My previous conduct supported that assertion, and so, for all the good it did me, I was granted a second chance. I had to retake the exam first thing the next day, just me by myself in the principal's office, with the principal standing over me. The highest grade I would be able to achieve was a C. I knew I was doomed to fail it anyway, and that's just what happened. I had to take the class over again in summer school."

"What did Liz and Alex do?" Andy questioned fretfully. He had calmed considerably now, and Chris was captivated by the look of wide eyed innocence on his face as he looked up at him.

"Well, they weren't happy with me. I can tell you that," Chris replied softly. "Never before or since that car ride home can I remember either of them being so silent."

"What happened when you got home?" Andy prompted again breathily.

"They sent me to my room for a while, so they could talk, and I sat there and fretted. I honestly didn't know what to expect. I could hear their voices occasionally, coming from downstairs, though I couldn't hear what they were saying. At times I could tell they
were arguing and at one point my sister started to cry. A short time later Alex came up," Chris involuntarily squeezed Andy's shoulder as he remembered the scene, and he swallowed hard, "he had my mother's wooden spoon in his hand," Chris whispered, his cheeks burning now.

"He spanked you?" Andy breathed incredulously.

Chris nodded. "I know he didn't want to," he assured as he looked at Andy's stricken face. "I started to cry immediately when I saw the spoon, and I could see how reluctant my brother was to do it. He held me in his arms for a while and lectured me about honesty,
and trust. He told me he didn't want to punish me, but that I had made a bad mistake that demanded serious consequences. He said that he and Liz had discussed it and agreed that I had earned it. He asked if I understood why I was being punished and when I told him I did, he told me to pull down my pants and underwear. He had me lean on the desk in my room and then he spanked me."

"Did it hurt?" Andy asked timidly. No one had ever spanked him before, so he just didn't know. Chris almost laughed again as he kissed Andy's forehead once more.

"Yeah, it hurt," he answered softly. "I didn't sit comfortably for the rest of that day, I can tell you." Andy was quiet for a minute as he pondered this, and Chris pressed his flushed face against the top of his young love's head. Never had he shared that story with anyone before. Even his other brother and sisters didn't know about it. He wasn't sure why he had felt so compelled to share it now, except that he just had a feeling Andy needed to hear it

"Did it help with the guilt?" Andy looked up, now, again, his own face as flushed as Chris'.

"Yes," Chris replied gently, "it helped with the guilt." Another silence passed.

Then at last, Andy spoke again quietly. "Are you going to go with me to my meeting tomorrow?" he asked.

Chris brought his hand once again to Andy's face, looking intently at him as he answered. "Do you want me to?" he whispered, and Andy nodded. "Then I will." They laid in silence for another few minutes as Andy worked up the courage to ask his next question.

"Are you going to spank me?" He looked up into Chris' adoring blue eyes, and Chris looked back. He was quiet for a moment as his fingers brushed Andy's cheek once more. What trust this handsome, intelligent, innocent young man was placing in him.

"Do you need me to?" he whispered, and Andy nodded, burying his face in Chris' chest as tears began to streak his cheeks once more. Chris remained silent for another moment, contemplating his next words carefully. "I will if you need me to, Baby," he replied at
last, "but I think we should talk more about all this. There is so much happening right now, and we both need some time to think about what we want. Ok?"

"But I can't stand the guilt, Chris! I can't stand it!" Andy sobbed. "I let you down, I let my mom down, and now I'm going to fail, if I don't get kicked out of school! God, Chris! That would just kill my mother! It would kill her!" Andy was becoming hysterical again and Chris held him close.

"Listen to me, Andy," he murmured, pressing his lips to the top of Andy's head. "Are you listening?" Andy made an effort to calm himself as Chris' soothing tones reached his ears, and he nodded. "I know how bad you feel," Chris went on when he felt Andy was calm enough, "and we are going to fix this, Baby. I promise. I think there is a very good chance that we can persuade Professor Bricard to give you an incomplete for the semester based on your mother's illness. You will have to do the paper over again, but I will help you. I'm also going to help you with your class schedule for next semester, so you don't end up in classes that are going to stress you out to this extent. I'm going to do everything I can to help you, Baby," he squeezed Andy's shoulder again and Andy clung to him, "but it's going to take time. We can't just jump into this without making sure that we understand each other clearly. Do you understand?" Andy was crying too hard now to answer, but he nodded. "We'll talk some more about this after the meeting tomorrow and we'll go from there, ok?" Again Andy nodded. "One way or another, I'm going to help you, Andy, I promise," Chris whispered.

Andy just clung tighter and cried harder. He had been holding things together for so long on his own, and it felt good to let go. It had been a long time since he had had the kind of support Chris was offering. Maybe he had never had it. His sobs became more and
more tempestuous as he released all his stress and worry, and Chris just continued to hold him until finally the storm began to pass.

The thunderclaps melted into sobs, the sobs became hiccups, and Chris whispered them away into nothing more than a soft, cleansing rain. Andy rubbed his face against Chris' soft, fuzzy, wet sweater as his eyes began to droop, and finally with his new partner to hold him he drifted off into the most peaceful sleep he had had in months.

Chris smiled gently down at him, kissing his forehead and brushing his hair from his face. He too felt drowsy. Moving slowly, so as not to disturb Andy, he kicked off his shoes and snuggled down further on the bed. He looked once more at the peaceful expression on the younger man's face and he sighed. `Should he spank Andy
tomorrow?' It was a tough question to sort out. He really didn't want to. He tightened his arm around the young miscreant whose bottom was in question and cuddled closer to him. `What purpose would it serve?' he wondered. Andy was already sorry, Chris didn't
think he would ever do this kind of thing again and there was certainly nothing about the current situation that a spanking would help solve. `But a tangible consequence might help to alleviate some guilt,' Chris admitted to himself, `and more than that, Andy
had been asking for it.' He sighed again. It was too much to figure out right now. He was tired. The worries of the past few days had taken their toll on him. He yawned and smiled to himself, closing his eyes as he hugged Andy closer. In the midst of all the stress, he had found something wonderful he thought. It was something he had wanted for a long time, and now that he had it, he didn't intend to ever let it go. Those were his final thoughts as, with his arm clasped snugly around his young love, he too sank into sweeter
dreams than he had known for some time.

There were no doubt future storms ahead that the unsuspecting young couple would have to face. Storms, after all, are a natural part of life. Thunderclaps sound scarier than they are, however, and can often be chased easily away by the gentle whispers that follow. In
the midst of the greatest storm to ever shake up his life, Andy had somehow found his way to Chris. He clung to him now, tenaciously, even in his sleep, and Chris held him tight. Chris knew well the pattern of life's most tumultuous storms and he was prepared, each time dark clouds threatened their horizon, to be the rock for Andy to cling to, the shelter that would protect him, and the cool gentle breeze that would finally whisper those clouds away.