VIII

It was funny... he never really felt small, anywhere but here. Oh, he knew nearly all the other guys he met were taller; but that was just it, they were taller, and he was just him.

But here, he always felt small. In fact, as he walked through the familiar hallway, he could almost feel himself shrinking.

Jonathan hadn't come into the house with him; Jed didn't blame him. But it would be better without his brother by his side. Maybe. Better, worse, all the same. It didn't matter what he did, how the situation changed; the end result was always the same.

Echoes of a younger boy dogged his footsteps; echoes of the Jed Bartlet he once had been, the one he thought he'd left behind, but would always be waiting here in this house for him.

The one who lived with daddy.

The front hall was a space and time warp of massive proportions. Always the longest walk of his life.

Never long enough.

"Jed."

His father never smiled when he saw him. Never.

"Sir."

He'd lied, once, to Mrs. Landingham, when she'd asked him why he called his father 'sir'. It wasn't because he was headmaster. He'd always called his father 'sir'. He used the word 'dad' sometimes, when he dared, but it never made any difference. Nothing ever made any difference.

Jed thought perhaps that after a while, Mrs. Landingham had come to understand what was going on with him and his father a whole lot better than at first. But he'd never come out and spoken about it, and she'd never broken that wall down and asked. Some days, he wished she had. Most days, he was glad she hadn't.

He wished she still lived in New Hampshire.

His father, as usual, had no time for anything but cold business. "I received a telephone call from Dr. Watkins at the University of Notre Dame." Watkins. Dammit. It had to be Dr. Watkins, didn't it, affable old Dr. Watkins to whom it would never occur that a boy's father might be anything but supportive and concerned if his son was struggling at school. "Your grades are failing, Josiah, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Ah, yes, failing. Because a percentage dip from the upper nineties to the lower eighties was failing. Because anything less than perfect was failing. And perfect wasn't good enough.

"I'm not failing the course, father-"

The slap was a violent sting across his cheek, unexpected and expected all at once.

"Don't contradict me, boy."

Jed wished he had a nature that could obey that command. He wished he knew how to bow his head and just be silent until the punishment was over. But there was something in him that had to speak out, that kept him speaking out no matter what happened, no matter how much worse he knew he was making it.

"Father, I slipped some points, but I-"

"You're slacking off. You think you're so clever, you think you can cruise through your lessons and do what you want. I didn't send you to college so you can slack off and fail classes!"

You didn't send me to college. Mom sent me to college. Mom set up that fund and she made sure you couldn't take it away from me, you couldn't make me beg for it.

His face burned, but he couldn't make the argument, he couldn't begin to explain his doubts and his fears and confusion to this man who cared for nothing but mythical measures of success that he couldn't obtain. Jed looked at the ground. "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

His father's cold expression didn't change. "Your 'sorry' doesn't impress me."

Of course it doesn't. Does anything?

Even now, now when he thought he was old enough to know better, there was a part of him still searching for that key. Something that would get... Not bad. That'll do. That's okay. Reasonable. Didn't do too bad there, son.

A bitter smile lurked at the edges of his mouth, but he knew better than to let it show.

You think you're funny, do you? You think you're so clever.

"Your grades will improve when you return to college," his father said shortly. "I let you apply for this mockery of a course - I won't let you embarrass me by failing it."

This was the point where he straightened up, looked his father in the eye, and said "I'm an adult. I don't have to take this from you anymore. I'm not frightened of you. I'm in charge of my own life." And then turned on his heel and walked out, never to return.

Jed lowered his head.

"Yes, sir."

"Is she still up there?" Mary looked across at her husband.

Daniel nodded gravely. "She seems to have been in this morose mood for days."

"It's not like her," Mary observed worriedly.

"It would appear to be typical teenage brooding behaviour."

"That's what I mean when I say that it's not like her."

He smiled in wry agreement. "Has she said anything about what's wrong?"

"No, but I can guess."

"Feeling a little deserted." Daniel nodded to himself, then looked up at her sharply. "But by the boyfriend, or the friend?"

Now there was the question. Mary hadn't missed the spark of connection between Abbey and the delightfully polite future priest she'd brought into their lives one evening. Though she hated to say it, she predicted that spark enduring a lot longer than Abbey's relationship with Ron.

The trouble was, she could see that there was more behind that little spark than an acceptably platonic relationship with a future man of the cloth would quite cover. So the question became; was it purely teenage hormones working their usual chemistry experiments, or was there something more to it?

That, she couldn't tell; and she was willing to bet Abigail, freshly eighteen years old and right in the middle of it, was having an even more confusing time of it.

She ascended the stairs and knocked softly on her daughter's bedroom door. "Abbey?"

"Come in, mom."

Her voice sounded subdued. When Mary went in, she was lying on her stomach on the bed, legs kicked up behind her as she flipped through yet another medical book. She was a lot like her father in that respect; decide on a goal, and it was full speed ahead, pouring everything she had into getting what she wanted.

And, like her father, she probably wasn't at all used to being in a mixed up place where she didn't know what she wanted.

"How are you doing, honey?" she asked gently, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Abbey twisted around to look up at her, mildly surprised.

"I'm fine, mom."

"You seem a little down."

"It's just..." Abbey shrugged, and then sighed. "I'm kinda worried about Jed," she admitted, fiddling with the corners of the pages.

"Worried? Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," she said helplessly. "I told you he went back to New Hampshire... he got a letter from his dad, and he didn't... I don't think he wanted to go." She bit her lip, obviously miserable at the idea of him being miserable.

Mary felt a thread of concern tug at her own heart as well. He was such a sweet boy... He still called her "Mrs. Barrington, ma'am," every time they saw him in church.

"Why don't you write him a letter?" she suggested mildly. "I'm sure he'd love to hear from you."

Abbey pulled a frustrated face. "I don't know where he lives."

"Well, Ben at the bookstore might know, or he might be able to find out from one of Jed's roommates," she pointed out. "He knows you two are friends, I'm sure he won't mind giving you the address."

Abbey's face lit up at the idea. "Thanks, mom. Yeah, thanks, I might do that, actually."

"I'm sure Jed would love to get a letter from you." Mary smiled back at her daughter, pleased to see her in a brighter mood.

But as she left, she couldn't help worrying that her daughter's growing attachment to Jed Bartlet was going to end in tears for one or both of them.