that should have been enough for me. Thankfully, it’s been a while since Elizabeth and Simon passed through the pricklier stages of adolescence, yet not so long that I’ve forgotten that conversation with a teen is a minefield. If you are able to extract a glimmer of a smile from a seventeen-year-old, you’ve done a full day’s work. Time to go home, crack a beer, and put your feet up, but I’m so relieved about having salvaged the afternoon, I prattle on like a twit.
“I hope you realize that not a single thing those morons are calling you is accurate. You’re a big dude, but you’re hardly fat. You’re no bigger than Jack Nicklaus was at your age, and he’s only the best golfer of all time. You’re not a loser, your skin issues are minor and temporary, and you’re not a dipshit, whatever that is, and the last I checked, you can’t be a Polack, if you’re not from Poland. Although I suppose they could make an exception.”
“How did you know I’m not Polish?”
“Your mom told me that she and your sister and you came here from Rumania.”
“When did you talk to her?”
“A few days ago. I couldn’t show up at school and pick you up without running it by her.”
“Why didn’t she tell me? Was this some plan she dreamed up to boost my self-esteem?”
“The reason she didn’t tell you was because she was afraid I wouldn’t follow through and then you’d be disappointed. Your mom had zero to do with this. Believe me, she has enough on her plate.”
“What is that supposed to mean? What do you know about her plate?”
“Not much.”
“Exactly,” he says, and lumbers off in the direction of the bathroom. While he’s gone I work my way through the bucket with the 7-iron and berate myself for having learned so little in half a century. After ten minutes, he still hasn’t returned, and after fifteen, I realize he’s not going to. I reach the parking lot in time to see him step onto an eastbound bus.
44
THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY, I’M back in the New Trier parking lot waiting on Jerzy and the bell, and once again, I’m not alone. Till now, I’d never appreciated the commitment, discipline, and punctuality required to be a top-notch high school bully. Less motivated sociopaths-in-training would be in the library reading a muscle mag or carving sinister symbols into a desk. Instead, they’re out here freezing their asses off behind the maintenance shed and choreographing their next ambush.
My rivals are conscientious, but I have the element of surprise. This morning I persuaded Sarah to swap cars, so that while I keep an eye on the boys in black, they take no notice of the green Jeep or the man behind the wheel, his face buried in the afternoon paper.
From my reading, I learn that the Trevian hoopsters dropped their ninth straight last night to archrival West Hill. The photograph shows West Hill’s Dave Bond scoring over a New Trier player with distinctive straight bangs named Brune Pickering, and according to the box score, Pickering led the losers with eleven points and seven assists. Is that all it takes to become a total shit?—be the best player on an awful basketball team, and be saddled at birth with the name Brune? Whatever.
When the bell goes off, I close the paper and scan the exits. This afternoon, Jerzy makes his retreat from the study hall. While the Parkas move to intercept him at the end of the walkway, I roll up from the other side of the lot, moving slowly so as not to be noticed.
As I inch along, I study Jerzy’s face and body language and am encouraged by what I don’t see. There are no fresh wounds on his face or neck, and his gait doesn’t favor one side or the other. Wishful thinking, maybe, but I also detect a new bounce in his step and a hint of defiance.
Unaware that anyone else is eyeing their prey, the boys take their time. That allows me to slip in front of them just before Jerzy reaches the end of the walkway. When Pickering spots me, I’ve already
“I hope you realize that not a single thing those morons are calling you is accurate. You’re a big dude, but you’re hardly fat. You’re no bigger than Jack Nicklaus was at your age, and he’s only the best golfer of all time. You’re not a loser, your skin issues are minor and temporary, and you’re not a dipshit, whatever that is, and the last I checked, you can’t be a Polack, if you’re not from Poland. Although I suppose they could make an exception.”
“How did you know I’m not Polish?”
“Your mom told me that she and your sister and you came here from Rumania.”
“When did you talk to her?”
“A few days ago. I couldn’t show up at school and pick you up without running it by her.”
“Why didn’t she tell me? Was this some plan she dreamed up to boost my self-esteem?”
“The reason she didn’t tell you was because she was afraid I wouldn’t follow through and then you’d be disappointed. Your mom had zero to do with this. Believe me, she has enough on her plate.”
“What is that supposed to mean? What do you know about her plate?”
“Not much.”
“Exactly,” he says, and lumbers off in the direction of the bathroom. While he’s gone I work my way through the bucket with the 7-iron and berate myself for having learned so little in half a century. After ten minutes, he still hasn’t returned, and after fifteen, I realize he’s not going to. I reach the parking lot in time to see him step onto an eastbound bus.
44
THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY, I’M back in the New Trier parking lot waiting on Jerzy and the bell, and once again, I’m not alone. Till now, I’d never appreciated the commitment, discipline, and punctuality required to be a top-notch high school bully. Less motivated sociopaths-in-training would be in the library reading a muscle mag or carving sinister symbols into a desk. Instead, they’re out here freezing their asses off behind the maintenance shed and choreographing their next ambush.
My rivals are conscientious, but I have the element of surprise. This morning I persuaded Sarah to swap cars, so that while I keep an eye on the boys in black, they take no notice of the green Jeep or the man behind the wheel, his face buried in the afternoon paper.
From my reading, I learn that the Trevian hoopsters dropped their ninth straight last night to archrival West Hill. The photograph shows West Hill’s Dave Bond scoring over a New Trier player with distinctive straight bangs named Brune Pickering, and according to the box score, Pickering led the losers with eleven points and seven assists. Is that all it takes to become a total shit?—be the best player on an awful basketball team, and be saddled at birth with the name Brune? Whatever.
When the bell goes off, I close the paper and scan the exits. This afternoon, Jerzy makes his retreat from the study hall. While the Parkas move to intercept him at the end of the walkway, I roll up from the other side of the lot, moving slowly so as not to be noticed.
As I inch along, I study Jerzy’s face and body language and am encouraged by what I don’t see. There are no fresh wounds on his face or neck, and his gait doesn’t favor one side or the other. Wishful thinking, maybe, but I also detect a new bounce in his step and a hint of defiance.
Unaware that anyone else is eyeing their prey, the boys take their time. That allows me to slip in front of them just before Jerzy reaches the end of the walkway. When Pickering spots me, I’ve already
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