Stevens School Runaways -- Part 3

Tom and Rich seemed to be adapting to life at Stevens. Except for the surveillance tapes that revealed what the boys might be up to -- those incriminating audio passages. Now, everything they said and did – especially in the so-called “privacy” of 14c – was of interest to Mueller and anybody else he’d care to inform. For instance, when Tom and Rich began a practice of massaging each other’s feet – interest peaked.

The “rubs” might have been induced by extraordinary stresses. One day, Anton Reilly got the bright idea that Tom and Rich might be saved from the temptation of flight and its attendant consequences if only exhaustion and what he termed “minor” discomfort were to become the pair’s daily companions. He didn’t discuss his dubious course of action with anyone on faculty or staff, but when no one objected, he decided to impose his own brand of extracurricular regime. Of course, the “subjects” of his “little experiment” voiced an outcry, but their protests were ignored.

Unmindful of any malicious intent, the gym coach singled out the thirteen-year-olds for strenuous outdoor workouts. That would have been bad enough – besides remaining responsible for their homework and chores the boys now had to fit in up to two hours a day performing coordination and ball balancing drills, wind sprints and laps like trained seals – but Reilly insisted the drills be performed in bare feet. “I’m just trying to toughen you guys up,” he told them. The field where these activities took place was a grassy apron in summer -- spread before the edifice’s façade like a soft green carpet. Throughout the year, it remained the only outdoor place open to Stevens boys on a regular basis. Young inmates treasured the field as a sanctuary from more odious routines. During the warm season – mid-May through September and stretching into paganip – alias Indian summer, the kids congregated on the field in chatty groups or played baseball or touch football. But this was February drifting to March -- a time of crusty snow and ice slowly melting into the slime of cold mud. It was an obstacle course for sneakers – let alone a boy’s exposed soles. About a week into this grind, the inevitable occurred.

“Today was brutal,” Rich said one night after lights out. He was lying in bed looking up at the ceiling thinking not of sugarplums -- but of pneumonia and chilblains. It was dark in their room – what light that filtered in from the hall resembled a crude seascape on a murky night.

“I can’t get to sleep,” Tom muttered. Both boys were dressed in their underwear – white cotton shirts and briefs, nothing else. “Not only that, but my feet are killing me. Sore as hell.”

“Whaddya want me to do? Rub them?”

“Would you? That’d be kewl.” There was a long pause.

“Oh, all right! All right!” Rich hissed. Getting out of bed quietly, he pulled back the sheet and light blanket covering his friend, and felt for Tom’s feet. “Which one first?”

“Doesn’t matter. How bout my left one?”

“Okay, but you gotta do me after. Mine are sore too.” Tom put his left foot onto his friend’s lap. His bare heel landed a little too violently.

“Hey! You just crushed my freaking balls!”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Honest.”

Rich began playing the tips of his fingers over Tom’s foot, starting with the toes and working the sole all the way to Tom’s heel. It was a light touch that changed to a tickle when Rich used his nails to scratch the skin just a little, not really digging in.

“Hey, you’re great at this. That feels wonderful. I’m in heaven.”

Rich discovered Tom’s skin to be soft, almost silky smooth, especially on his sole. He was getting into what he was doing, despite himself, because part of his brain thought what he was doing was queer, a homo thing to do, but part of him didn’t mind at all. That was the weird part. Tom had these cool little ridges along the bottoms of his toes like some boys have, and also on the ball of his foot, just where the instep begins. It was interesting, like a map, with the ridges like tiny mountains. Tom winced when Rich began pulling his toes straight out and deftly snapping the joints – like you’d absentmindedly do with your fingers sometimes. The joints made “kewl” little popping sounds.

“Hey! What the heck you doing?” Tom’s urgent whisper was a little too loud.

“Shhh! Just lay back and enjoy.”

Actually, it didn’t really hurt, just felt slightly unpleasant at first, before you got used to it. Tom had never had his feet massaged by anybody – not even his Dad or Mom when he’d been little. This was a treat. Soon Rich was pressing, compressing the foot harder, then alternating his fingernails with a nice pleasant scratching – his fingers sinking into the tender skin of Tom’s sole a little further, but not enough to break the skin.

“That feels fantastic,” Tom purred.

After a few moments, it had to end. “Okay, give me your right one,” Rich commanded. He didn’t have to ask twice.

Tom became equally skilled at giving his friend foot massages. In a few days, it became a regular thing – something both boys looked forward to at the conclusion of every Stevens day. Tom noticed that Rich had slightly longer toes, and that he kept his nails trimmed. “How do you do it?” Tom asked one night in early March. “We’re not allowed to have clippers.” The answer was expected under the circumstances, but still a bit startling. “I get them started with my teeth.”

“Ewwh, that’s gross!”

Rich continued as if Tom hadn’t reacted at all. “Then I very carefully peel them with my fingers – straight across – so I don’t get any ingrown toenails – you know – on my big toes.”

“I can’t even reach my toes – you know – with my mouth.”

“That’s why your nails are getting long and jagged – like a wild boy’s. It’s too bad. You really have nice toenails otherwise.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you say that to all the boys.”

“No, I’m serious. Dickwad. You really are stupid, you know that?”

“I’m sorry.” There was another pause. “Can I ask you a great big favor?”

“What?”

“Can you do my nails too – bite them to get them started and then teach me how to peel them?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Please? Pretty please with dicksnot on top?” Tom paused and took a long breath. “I swear I’ll clean my feet really good first.”

“They don’t stink much. It’s not that – it’d just be weird – doing yours. No offense.”

“Pretty please with sugar on top?”

“Okay! Just shut up about it. I wouldn’t want anybody to know.”

“Who am I going to tell in this place?”

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End of Part 3