The first time Danny Ocean laid eyes on Him, he was eating a plum. The juice was dripping down his chin and his head was half turned away, his attention on two older kids arguing over some unknowable something.

Twelve year old Danny stared hard at the younger boy, taking in the lime green t shirt, blood orange cargo shorts and bare feet. A scuffed knee. The plum.

After about a zillion years, measured in missed heartbeats, the boy licked his lips, delicately spat the plum pit into his hand started to suck on his thumb,and turned to look at Danny. His eyes were the brightest blue Danny had ever seen. One of them sported a shiner as swollen and purple as the plum had been.

The blond kid grinned and Danny felt his heart start beating again.

The traffic light change and Danny's car pulled away. He stared for as long as he could, unwilling to break eye contact, pressing his cheek against the cool glass. That night, his first night in the strange bedroom, in this strange place, he dreamt of plums.

He was being exiled.

Danny's face was pressed against the back window of a long black German sedan that was winding its way through a nondescript neighborhood of a nondescript town on the Jersey shore. The neighborhood was a far cry from both the wooded campus of Danny's school, where he was content, if restless, where he spent most of the year.

It was an even farther cry from his father's apartment in Manhattan, which he loved, but where he normally spent very little time.

He assumed it was a far cry from his mother and step-father's home in Newport. He'd never been invited there to confirm it for himself.

It wasn't seedy or dirty or dangerous. It was dull. The houses all look the same. The lawns look the same. The people. He hated it. He was spending his entire summer there. Exiled.

Two weeks ago, Danny was finishing final exams, charming Marmie, their warm, funny, wren-like house mother into ignoring the small electric coffee maker in his room (fire hazard, no small appliances allowed in student rooms, be CAREFUL Danny) and anticipating a month in the city at Dad's, before spending the rest of the (long, lazy) summer in Newport and possibly Cannes, or Lake Como with Mom and Franklin.

When Marmie found him in the common room, he'd been reading about the new Selznick retrospective at MOMA . She smiled. She loved the great old films too. With his dark good looks, charm and confidence, she could easily see Danny following on the footsteps of Bogart or Stewart. Just give him few years to come into his own.

"Danny, the headmaster would like to see you," she spoke softly, just a trace of her native Edinburgh, in her voice. She smiled at the boy. Her favorite, even though she knew she shouldn't have favorites.

His dark brown eyes widened fractionally and he tilted his head, questioning. Marmie knew he was thinking about the drama that had played out in the dormitory just last night.

Dorian Crowley, 15, entitled, brutal to the younger boys, had been escorted off campus by school security and rumor had it, the State Police.

She'd heard from the headmasters PA that Dorian had been caught with nearly 20grams of heroin in his satchel. One of the school guards was supposedly looking the other way while he "convinced" Anderson Frenly, a 14 year old scholarship student, to act as drug courier at out of town swim meets.

The guard, who was new, altruistic and quite unaware of the reputation of either Dorian or his father, didn't look the other way. Instead, inexplicably, he looked hard at what was happening (jesus, he thought he'd left this shit behind him when he left Hartford for this place) and called for backup when the "convincing" turned into a beating.

And if the written procedure for obtaining backup changed just that day, and the state police were called in when normally this would have been an internal Dickinson matter, well, in the aftermath no one asked any questions. And certainly no one remembered an unremarkable dark haired student with serious brown eyes delivering messages to the security office, or the same boy changing the duty roster so the new guard was patrolling the gymnasium instead of the science labs.

The subsequent search of Crowly's room, which Marmie had observed as house mother and school representative, uncovered more drugs, lots of cash, a small bottle of GHB, some contraband liquor, a cache of really nasty pornographic photos, and a suitcase full of stuff easily identifiable as his schoolmates and even some staff treasures reported missing over the semester.

A few were monetarily valuable, like the signed first edition of To Kill A Mockingbird that Dr. Monroe, the sophomore English lit teacher displayed in his office, or the opal cocktail ring Mrs. Jackson, the choral director inherited from her grandmother.

Some were embarrassing: hastily penned declarations of love, written by shy boys to other shy boys; snap shots of forbidden kisses and hurried touches.

Most, however, were the sentimental treasures of young kids, away from their families: Paulie Warner's collection of seashells. He started collecting with his mother the summer he was 6. By the time he turns 7, she was dying of breast cancer and there were no more days at the beach. He's 11 now and the shells (and memory) are all that's left; a photograph of Jordan Rogers, accepting the gold medal at the Virginia Dressage Championship. The photo captures clear as anything the last day Jordan saw his beloved coach (the only adult who ever told Jordan he was proud of him.)

These are fragile things, easily misplaced, easy to slip into a pocket, easy to hide. Easily destroyed. Things worth more than all the first editions and jewels combined.

Marmie pressed her lips together tightly to stop a slightly vicious and very satisfied smile from spreading across her face at the memory of Crowley being led away, cursing, shouting about his father's lawyers, denying everything and promising that "They'd all be very, very sorry." They already were sorry, she thought. But not about him.

She'd had her own encounter with the boy soon after he arrived at Dickinson. Marmie had returned to her quarters unexpectedly during the dinner hour. A cold snap caught everyone off guard and the huge old dining hall took hours, if not days to heat, so she came back for a sweater.

She gasped when she saw the figure standing at her bureau. Crowley was rummaging through her things, humming eerily under his breath. "Mr. Crowley! You will explain yourself this instant!"

Dorian froze, for a mere second, then crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked her squarely in the eye. "It's cold outside, ma'm. Thought you'd appreciate a sweater." He sneered at her, daring her to challenge his story.

"Get out," she tried to keep her voice level.

"Yes, ma'm," he was practically laughing at her discomfort. He strode past and she cursed herself for shrinking back against the wall to avoid brushing against him. He was halfway to the door when he suddenly turned around and caught her hand.

"Don't worry Ms. I won't tell the headmaster that you lure the boys back to your rooms in the evenings. I'm sure this was all a misunderstanding. But some people just wouldn't be as forgiving, would they? Some folks just have dirty, vicious minds. We'll just keep this to ourselves." He licked his lips and rubbed his thumb against her wrist.

She was so shocked at his audacity that she was momentarily speechless. Crowley squeezed her hand and slipped out. She needed to report the incident to the headmaster, but before she could pull herself together, she heard shouting from the dormitory. Boys were milling about, some were calling for help, some were crying. Peter Wells had just been found, unconscious in the bathrooms. Thoughts of Crowley fled her mind and she ran toward the dorms. Too late...too late to help.

She gave herself a little shake and came back to the present, looked at Danny, relieved that he'd been taking his last exam of the semester when Crowley'd been in her rooms. He'd been nowhere near the ugly scene. Danny had a gallant streak and Marmie wouldn't have liked him to pick a fight with Crowley in a misguided attempt to defend her reputation.

"He's waiting, Danny."

Danny spoke, just as softly, "I already gave my statement about Dorian. He didn't have anything of mine." (nothing tangible, nothing they could use as evidence, as proof) But he was already on his feet, reaching for his coat and scarf. Rain was a fact of life, and the night was chilly, even in the middle of May in New England.

She smiled at him, "I don't know what it's about, Danny. Maybe he would like to talk about Peter. You knew him better than most of the older boys. The young ones won't have noticed… Or maybe it's something else entirely. I'll make sure the hall isn't locked until you get back. Now don't keep him waiting.

The walk to the headmaster's office gave Danny time to mull over possible scenarios. There was no way they could have figured out that he set Crowley up with the altered backup procedure and then tipped the police. And Danny had been as surprised (though he probably shouldn't have been) about the drugs and the quantity of cash they found. The stolen items and evidence of vicious blackmail would have (should have) been enough to get Crowley kicked out. Facing actual criminal charges was an unforeseen bonus.

No, the plan was simple, Crowley was clueless, the police too excited about busting one of the elite schools privileged student and admin too worried about the fallout with parents and donors to look too closely at anonymous tips or anomalous paperwork.

Danny sighed. His satisfaction at Crowley's downfall was tempered by memories of a scared little boy too proud to ask for help. Petie. It must be about Petie, the 10 year old who lived in Danny's dorm. Danny's and Dorian's dorm. Dorian was a bully, everyone knew it. Everyone knew not to share confidences and most knew not to let him close to what (or who) you valued most, whether it was a momento from home, a prize you'd earned at sports, or chess or music. Or that you had special friendships. You didn't let him know there was anything or anyone you cared about. Petie didn't know. And he shared too much with the older boy, who reminded him so much of his brother.

When they found Petie in the bath they thought the staff had missed all the signs of a little boy too far from home, not ready for the pressures of a school like Dickenson. Protocols would be reviewed. Staff would receive training. Counsellors would be made available to the students. A scholarship would be established.

Danny never thought that was an oversight, negligence. He knew it was deliberate, intentional. Danny knew that a campaign of cruel words and emotional manipulation had been waged against this lonely kid. He also knew that his own fear of becoming a target, having his own weakness exposed (too raw, too vulnerable) caused this death. Danny swore he wouldn't let him get away with it. And he made a plan.

And when the search of Dorian Crowley room turned up so much unexpected evidence of blackmail and theft and emotional terror, well it was only natural that the administration would review all the questionable episodes that took place while Crowley was a student. And really, could there be quite so many? Surely somebody would have noticed...

It was all part of the plan.

So, as he walked through the mist that night, Danny fully expected to be asked about Peter.

He didn't expect to be met at the door by the headmaster himself.

He didn't expect to see the genuine look of sympathy in his eyes as he was steered into the office, a cup of tea pressed into his hand.

He didn't expect the words," Danny, I am so very, very sorry to tell you..."

Two weeks later...

The driver pulled up to the curb outside a neat bungalow a few blocks from the beach. It was neat (boring) and well maintained, much like the woman who lived there. Cherie Ocean, his father's older sister, met Danny at the door, nodded to the driver, who placed a suitcase inside the front door, nodded in return and left. Not a word was exchanged.

Cherie stared at Danny for a minute (the boy looked like his mother, but carried himself like his father, her brother (her dead brother) and jerked her head at a door down the hall (his bedroom). Then she suddenly grabbed a set of keys and left the house.

Danny took a deep breath, picked up his suitcase and went to his room (his room in this strange house) to unpack.

It was after dark when Cherie returned. She carried a bag of groceries which she unpacked efficiently and silently, sliding a deli sandwich, bag of pretzels and a carton of milk at him before washing her hands in scalding hot water and heading to her room. The door close firmly behind her and Danny heard a lock click.

Danny slowly and deliberately ate every bite (noting details that he'd otherwise ignore...that the sandwich was his favorite- ham and cheddar, with honey mustard, not yellow, on baguette...huh.) He made sure to sweep up the crumbs and wash his glass before turning off the light and going to his own room.

Lying in bed that night, he looked out of the window, curtains moving back and forth in the warm night breeze. It was too cloudy to see the stars. He imagined he could hear the ocean. His father had been dead for 2 weeks. It had been one week since he'd seen his mother (she left after he funeral, disappearing into a black limo with darkened glass windows), 10 hours since he arrived in this place. The summer in this foreign place, with this silent woman stretched before him, vague and full of the unknown. In one month he would be 13. No longer a child.

Time to make a plan.

When he woke the next morning, the sun was bright, the house silent. Danny made his way to the kitchen where he found a box of cereal and 2 bananas prominently displayed on the breakfast nook. He also found a house key, a hand drawn map of the neighborhood with the library, beach access gate and basketball court highlighted in green. Under the map was a $20 bill and a post in note with a phone number on it. In Case Of Emergency was emphatically spelled out in clear, bold printing. He thought his aunt meant the phone number and not the money, but couldn't be sure. hmmmm.

After eating 2 bowls of cereal (some type of multigrain flakes, not frosted, but not something that tasted like twigs either) and one of the bananas, he washed the bowl, stuffed the key and the money in his pocket and headed out. He'd memorized the map while eating and headed towards the basketball court.

Right away he spotted a blond head. He felt something skitter in his chest. Yep, same orange shorts, but today the kid was wearing a plain white tshirt. The kind Danny was taught to wear under his real shirt. The kid was lounging (really there was no other way for Danny to describe it) under a sickly looking maple tree that hadn't quite decided whether it had survived the winter. He was watching a pick-up game, and every so often another kid would come over, exchange a few words and then go off again.

Danny watched for a few minutes, then shoved his hands in his pockets and walked over. Before he could say a word, the blond kid looked up. Same electric blue eyes, the swelling was going down on the shiner, but the bruises were uglier today, green and yellow mottled with the purple. He was enthusiastically sucking on a cherry lollipop. His lips were stained bright red. Uncharacteristically, Danny found himself licking his own lips. But in his mind, he tasted plums rather than cherries.

"So you here for long?" The boy asked Danny.

"What makes you think I'm not here to stay?" Danny replied.

"You kidding, look at you. Look at this place." The 'Look at me' was left unsaid. Danny heard it anyway.

Danny frowned. He'd always prided himself on fitting in. It wasn't hard at school, of course, they were mostly of a type, those privileged young men, scions of other privileged men, but on those occasions where he had to get into town or take a bus ride into the city for the day, he never had trouble blending in with the crowd. He glanced down at his clothes. Black cotton t-shirt, wrinkled shorts, nothing preppy, nothing expensive, maybe a little better than this kid's, but nothing you couldn't buy at any mall in North America, nothing that the kids on the court weren't wearing.

"Man, it's not the clothes" this little skinny kid was laughing at him. "It's the way you move, like even though you're just this kid, this new kid, you have everything under control. Like you know where you're going, and how you're gonna get there and no one is going to stop you. And..." He paused, looking thoughtful, a little bit shy even.

If Danny had been the type of kid to gape, and he most certainly was not, he'd be doing so now. Instead, he made a little impatient noise. "and...?" he prompted.

The blond kid with the eyes and the wicked grin and the lips looked at him. "And...I think you are going to have the best time getting there."

Danny looked at him. His heart was beating fast. It had been since he turned into the park and saw the kid at the court. He had sworn to himself that he wouldn't do this. No friends, no relationships, no losing anybody else. (No more dad, no more Petes) He'd keep his distance, follow his aunt's example. But he couldn't help it. It was hope like a magnet, pulling him toward the other boy. Or gravity, or some other inexplicable, undeniable, unstoppable force of nature.

Without any more thought, he smiled, a little bit madly, and stuck out his hand, "Danny Ocean. I'm here for the summer, staying with my aunt."

And with a look that lit up the sky, the kid grinned back and said, "Rusty Ryan. What do you want to do today?"

And Danny returned the grin confidently, "Well, I have a plan..."