Hedley was still watching, and suddenly Don felt as if he were squeezed into one of the teacher’s test tubes, forever floating in a solution, forever exposed for inspection before being dumped down the drain.
He swallowed, flipped back a few pages, flipped them forward, and forced himself to read paragraphs at random, none of the words filtering through, none of the illustrations registering. And when he looked up a third time and saw the man still watching, the skin across the back of his shoulders began to tighten and he found it increasingly difficult to breathe.
He knows, Don thought, and blinked at the idea.
No. Nobody knows. He can’t know.
He squirmed and turned to look out the high windows at the clouds massing on the horizon, seeming blacker and higher because of the intense clarity of the near sky still untouched by the coming storm. It made the roofs of the houses below the stadium more sharp-edged and less dingy, made the gridiron more brilliant, and added vibrancy to the colors of everything he saw. It was odd, that light, as if it were artificial; he focused on the stadium’s rear wall and the first houses behind it, thinking they could have been razorcut from stone and polished with diamonds. In a way it was beautiful; and in a way it was so unreal, it was almost frightening.
Hedley’s voice was quiet: “Mr. Boyd, you have nothing to do?”
No one laughed.
Don half-lifted his book and looked down at the page.
“One should never waste time, Mr. Boyd, even the few minutes we have here. In some countries, in the old days, that was a criminal offense. Just as wasting someone else’s time is just as criminal.”
Don didn’t understand, but he was positive the man was trying to send him a message.
He knows.
he can’t know
And the bell rang.
He filed out behind the others, feeling Hedley watching him all the way to the door. He wanted to turn and demand to know the reason, and refused to find the courage. Whatever the man’s problem was, it couldn’t have anything to do with what happened. Maybe he was pissed because he still thought Don had vandalized his house.
He hurried for the stairwell and headed down for gym, was reaching for the door when someone grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the crowd into the landing’s corner.
“Hey, what …”
It was Chris. She was in her cheerleader’s outfit, the short Indian-style skirt exposing her long legs, the white sweater with the school name exposing even more because it was so snug. Her hair was in two braids that dangled over her breasts, and she wore a beaded headband she kept pushing up with a thumb.
“Hey,” she said quietly, her eyes on the students who passed through the door.
“Hey,” he said, and waited.
She smiled so beautifully he had to smile back, and had to resist the urge to put a hand to her cheek.
“You seen Tar?”
He shook his head.
“The jackass didn’t come in yet, can you believe it?” She pulled at the headband, adjusting it with a grimace. “He wants to make some kind of grand entrance, I bet.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s not him, y’know?”
She shrugged; she didn’t give a shit whether it was him or not. “It’s still dumb. If he does do it, Brian’s gonna take off his head.” A quick laugh he could barely hear, and she leaned closer. “Are you okay? I mean, I was gonna call or come over, but I figured … you know.”
“I’m okay, yeah. Thanks for asking.”
“Well, listen, I gotta get up to the library before the Dragon chews me up for being late stacking her precious books, but listen …” She looked at him then, took his arm and maneuvered him unprotesting until his back was flat against the wall and hers was to the staircase. “So listen, are you going to the game?”
“Sure, I guess so.”
He could see a few faces turn toward him, look away— none of them was Brian’s.
“What about after?”
Tracey, he thought. “I don’t know. Beacher’s, I guess. I hadn’t thought about it. I suppose it depends on whether we win or not.”
Before he could stop her, she took his hand and pressed it briefly to her breast, leaned into it and away, and released him with a smile.
“After,” she whispered. “Win or lose.” And she was gone.
His face burned, his hand burned, but he didn’t dare touch one to the other for fear of losing the sensation that lingered on his palm. He wondered if anyone had seen; it had happened so fast he wasn’t sure now it had happened at all. He pushed through the door with his eyes down, and when no one said anything, he broke into a slow trot and veered into the gym.
The classes were sitting by the walls from which wrestling and gymnastic pads were hanging. The teachers were in the middle of the basketball court, leaning over their roll books, checking the room and every so often barking out a name to which a “yo!” or a “here” was shouted back. Don stood by the double doors, not knowing where to go, until someone spotted him and called out his name. He waved blindly and lowered himself into a crouch, trying not to hear the silence that washed over the gym, not to feel the eyes that examined him frankly. He studied the polished floor between his shoes. He sat on his books and studied the floor again, until a pair of cleated black shoes stepped in.
He looked up; it was Brian Pratt in his football pants and shoulder pads. Pratt hunkered down, stared at him, and shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
Don’s lips moved into a smile he didn’t feel. “Get what?”
“How you did it?”
“Just leave it, all right?”
Pratt shook his head again. “My old man was right, you know,” he said. “It’s always the assholes of the world who step in it and come out smelling like roses.”
Don’s forearms were resting on his knees, his hands between them clasped now and white-knuckled. “Leave it, huh?”
“Oh, my. Hey, you gonna get tough with me now, Duck?” He looked up, expressionless. “Just get off it, all right?” Pratt jabbed a stiff finger into his shin. “Just don’t get tough with me, Duck, you hear? Don’t you believe for a minute I’m like that farting old man.” He stood without effort. “And stay away from Chrissy or I’ll fuck you over so bad your own mother won’t recognize you.”
He walked away, arrogant, cleats smacking on the hardwood floor until one of the teachers ordered him off to the side. Pratt nodded and did as he was told, and left by the far door without once looking back.
The eyes were on him again; he could feel them, and he prayed for the bell to ring so he could go back to his locker, get his jacket and books, and head for the stadium and the day-ending pep rally. He prayed for Brian’s head to fall off as soon as he walked onto the field. He prayed for a tornado to rip through the school and carry him away, to a place he never heard of and whose people never heard of him.
When the bell did ring, he was the first out the door, the first to the stairs, and had just started working his combination when the word spread about Tar Boston.
The band marched raggedly onto the field, a fanfare of hard-edged drums leading the way — the Ashford Braves on the warpath. It formed an A across the fifty-yard line and played the school song, the “Star-Spangled Banner,” and two marches. The students cheered, whistled, and clapped as the band marched off again and took its place in the first four rows in the concrete seats’ center. Ashford Day banners had been strung between the goalposts and hung from the top windows; a handful of workers adjusted the banks of lights that would illuminate the field that evening for the game; a portable platform was carried out to the field, microphones and chairs set up, and Don’s father, the head cheerleaders, and the coach hurried into place. All very efficient and over in no time.