smitten with the smell and the look of his grandfather’s books?
He remembered training Tommy’s dog, Jeff, to catch sticks in midair, and to roll over and play dead. It had been deeply satisfying to finagle another living creature into doing anything at all, and he longed for a dog of his own, but his father wouldn’t allow it. Dogs had fleas, dogs scratched, dogs defecated.
He grew uneasy thinking about how it had happened.
Tommy Noles, urged by the others and unbeknownst to him, had put dog poop just inside the double doors of the schoolhouse, two piles of it.
Bust in through those doors, runnin’, Tommy said to him, and we’ll give you a nickel.
Why? he asked. The teachers were in a meeting in the gym, and he smelled trouble brewing.
Just because, just for nothin’, just run up th’ steps, bust through th’ doors, and run down th’ hall all th’ way to th’ water fountain, and we’ll give you a In’ian head nickel.
He still didn’t know why he did it, he didn’t remember wanting the money especially, perhaps he did it because he was the scrawny one, the geek, the one who loved to read and write and think and ponder words and meanings.
Without caring, he just did it; he burst through the doors running, and hit the piles and skidded down the hall as if he’d connected with a patch of crankcase oil. Just outside Miss McNolty’s classroom, he lost his balance and crashed to the floor.
He heard the boys screaming with laughter at the front door as he got up, stinking, and tried to scrape the slimy stuff off his shoes. It was slick as grease. . . .
He walked toward them, his heart thundering. He had never picked a fight or been in one; he would have run first, not looking back.
But this was different. His friend had betrayed him.
They watched him coming toward them and backed down the steps.
Hey, Slick! somebody yelled. Three boys who were laughing and holding their noses suddenly turned and ran to the oak tree, where they stopped and peered from behind it. Lee Adderholt and Tommy Noles stood fast near the bottom of the steps, looking awed, mesmerized.
What had they seen on his face? He would never know.
I . . . I’m sorry, Tim, Tommy said.
He felt something building in himself, something . . . towering. He seemed to be suddenly six feet tall, and growing.
I really am! wailed Tommy.
He never remembered what happened, exactly, he just knew that he plowed into Tommy Noles without fear, without trembling, and beat the living crap out of him.
Then he was sitting in the principal’s office—thank God it was Mr. Lewis, who was too tenderhearted to whip anybody. Mr. Lewis had looked at him for what seemed a long time, with what appeared to be kindness in his face, but the young Kavanagh couldn’t be sure.
He knew, sitting there, that he had liked beating the tar out of Tommy Noles. But most of all, he had liked making him cry in front of the people who had hooted and laughed, holding their noses.
Your father will never hear this from me, Mr. Lewis said. But if anyone tells him and he asks, I will, of course, be required to . . .
For the first time in his life, he had been glad, thrilled, that everyone he knew, his classmates and friends, were terrified of his father, and wouldn’t dare speak to him, much less reveal the dark transgression of his son brawling in a fistfight.
What happened, Timothy? asked his mother.
He dropped his head. He had never lied to his mother.
I beat up Tommy Noles.
She studied him. I’m sure he asked for it, she said, simply.
Yes, ma’am.
But don’t ever do this again.
No, ma’am.
He hadn’t ever done it again; he hadn’t needed to. It had been the fight of his life, the Grand Inquisition. In his rage, he had taken on the very world with his two hands, and somehow, oddly, won.
The scrawny kid with the scrawny arms and the penchant for reading large books and making straight A’s had been suffused with a new aura. They gave him a wide berth when they
He remembered training Tommy’s dog, Jeff, to catch sticks in midair, and to roll over and play dead. It had been deeply satisfying to finagle another living creature into doing anything at all, and he longed for a dog of his own, but his father wouldn’t allow it. Dogs had fleas, dogs scratched, dogs defecated.
He grew uneasy thinking about how it had happened.
Tommy Noles, urged by the others and unbeknownst to him, had put dog poop just inside the double doors of the schoolhouse, two piles of it.
Bust in through those doors, runnin’, Tommy said to him, and we’ll give you a nickel.
Why? he asked. The teachers were in a meeting in the gym, and he smelled trouble brewing.
Just because, just for nothin’, just run up th’ steps, bust through th’ doors, and run down th’ hall all th’ way to th’ water fountain, and we’ll give you a In’ian head nickel.
He still didn’t know why he did it, he didn’t remember wanting the money especially, perhaps he did it because he was the scrawny one, the geek, the one who loved to read and write and think and ponder words and meanings.
Without caring, he just did it; he burst through the doors running, and hit the piles and skidded down the hall as if he’d connected with a patch of crankcase oil. Just outside Miss McNolty’s classroom, he lost his balance and crashed to the floor.
He heard the boys screaming with laughter at the front door as he got up, stinking, and tried to scrape the slimy stuff off his shoes. It was slick as grease. . . .
He walked toward them, his heart thundering. He had never picked a fight or been in one; he would have run first, not looking back.
But this was different. His friend had betrayed him.
They watched him coming toward them and backed down the steps.
Hey, Slick! somebody yelled. Three boys who were laughing and holding their noses suddenly turned and ran to the oak tree, where they stopped and peered from behind it. Lee Adderholt and Tommy Noles stood fast near the bottom of the steps, looking awed, mesmerized.
What had they seen on his face? He would never know.
I . . . I’m sorry, Tim, Tommy said.
He felt something building in himself, something . . . towering. He seemed to be suddenly six feet tall, and growing.
I really am! wailed Tommy.
He never remembered what happened, exactly, he just knew that he plowed into Tommy Noles without fear, without trembling, and beat the living crap out of him.
Then he was sitting in the principal’s office—thank God it was Mr. Lewis, who was too tenderhearted to whip anybody. Mr. Lewis had looked at him for what seemed a long time, with what appeared to be kindness in his face, but the young Kavanagh couldn’t be sure.
He knew, sitting there, that he had liked beating the tar out of Tommy Noles. But most of all, he had liked making him cry in front of the people who had hooted and laughed, holding their noses.
Your father will never hear this from me, Mr. Lewis said. But if anyone tells him and he asks, I will, of course, be required to . . .
For the first time in his life, he had been glad, thrilled, that everyone he knew, his classmates and friends, were terrified of his father, and wouldn’t dare speak to him, much less reveal the dark transgression of his son brawling in a fistfight.
What happened, Timothy? asked his mother.
He dropped his head. He had never lied to his mother.
I beat up Tommy Noles.
She studied him. I’m sure he asked for it, she said, simply.
Yes, ma’am.
But don’t ever do this again.
No, ma’am.
He hadn’t ever done it again; he hadn’t needed to. It had been the fight of his life, the Grand Inquisition. In his rage, he had taken on the very world with his two hands, and somehow, oddly, won.
The scrawny kid with the scrawny arms and the penchant for reading large books and making straight A’s had been suffused with a new aura. They gave him a wide berth when they