teeming with people. Mild frenzy. Two minutes before the final bell.
“I felt like it,” he says. “It was a bore.”
“Some reason.”
He doesn’t answer; busies himself with rummaging in his locker for his chemistry book. Lazenby leans an elbow against the wall. “Con, is something the matter?”
“What d’you mean?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs his shoulders, looking worried. Big, blond, sincere-type. When he was in the hospital, Lazenby wrote him his only letter, told him the scores of the Cubs and White Sox games; at the bottom of the page, “I miss you, man.” He had read it a million times before he finally threw it away.
“Listen, don’t worry,” Conrad says. “Everything’s fine.”
“I don’t know, man. You’ve been acting funny lately.”
It trips the lever on the thing he meant not to say. “Laze, take my advice. You hang around with flakes, you get flaky.”
“Shit, I knew that was it. Well, why you pissed at me?”
“I’m not pissed!”
“Ah, Connie. I know you.” He tries a grin. “Look, I’m sorry. I’d be pissed, too, but you shouldn’t have quit—”
“That’s not why! Man, I said it was a fucking bore.” He slams his locker closed, giving the lock a savage twist as he walks away. Lazenby falls into step beside him.
“Wait a minute, listen, will ya? I talked to Salan and he says—”
“Well, quit talking to people!” he snaps. “Leave me alone!”
The bell rings shrilly over their heads. They stare at each other.
“Ah, shit,” Lazenby says. “The hell with you.”
A hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if he has been punched— Never mind screw him screw them all they were Buck’s friends anyway —he walks on to class, feeling nothing.
“So, what does your dad say about it?” Berger asks.
He sighs. “I haven’t told him yet.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. The timing isn’t right. He sweats everything so much. He’ll just worry about it.”
“So you haven’t told anybody? Your mother?”
“My mother? No. Listen, my mother and I do not connect, I told you that before.”
“So, does that bother you?”
“No. Why should it?”
Berger shrugs. “I don’t know. Some people it might bother, that’s all.”
“My mother is a very private person,” he says. “We don’t ride the same bus. Who does? What do you have in common with your mother? Surface junk—brush your teeth, clean your room, get good grades. My mother—” He stops. Careful, careful. “People have a right to be the way they are,” he says.
“Noble thought,” Berger says. “So how’s it going? You feeling better since you’re not swimming?”
“I guess.” He picks, with his thumbnail, at the wooden arm of the chair.
“Sleeping better?”
“I jack off a lot. It helps.”
Berger grins. “So what else is new?”
He slides down to the end of his spine, his legs stretched in front of him, staring at the floor. Over his shoulder, the clock ticks loudly.
“Come on, kiddo,” Berger prods gently. “Something’s on your mind today.”
“Nothing’s new, nothing’s on my mind. I don’t think anything. I don’t feel anything.” Abruptly he sits up. “I oughta go home.”
Berger nods. “Maybe so. What is it that you don’t feel, huh? Anger? Sadness? Any of the twenty-eight flavors?”
A tiny seed opens slowly inside his mind. In the hospital the seed would grow and begin to produce thick, shiny leaves with fibrous veins running through them. More leaves to come. Like tiny, curled up fists they will hit at him. He tightens his grip on the arms of the chair. The wood is sticky and wet under his hands. He wets his lips nervously. “What time is it?”
“Lots of time,” Berger says. The eyes are fixed on him, a tender and compelling blue. “Hey. Remember the contract we got? You wanted to have more control. You see any connection here, between control and this —what’ll we call it—lack of feeling?”
He closes his
“I felt like it,” he says. “It was a bore.”
“Some reason.”
He doesn’t answer; busies himself with rummaging in his locker for his chemistry book. Lazenby leans an elbow against the wall. “Con, is something the matter?”
“What d’you mean?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs his shoulders, looking worried. Big, blond, sincere-type. When he was in the hospital, Lazenby wrote him his only letter, told him the scores of the Cubs and White Sox games; at the bottom of the page, “I miss you, man.” He had read it a million times before he finally threw it away.
“Listen, don’t worry,” Conrad says. “Everything’s fine.”
“I don’t know, man. You’ve been acting funny lately.”
It trips the lever on the thing he meant not to say. “Laze, take my advice. You hang around with flakes, you get flaky.”
“Shit, I knew that was it. Well, why you pissed at me?”
“I’m not pissed!”
“Ah, Connie. I know you.” He tries a grin. “Look, I’m sorry. I’d be pissed, too, but you shouldn’t have quit—”
“That’s not why! Man, I said it was a fucking bore.” He slams his locker closed, giving the lock a savage twist as he walks away. Lazenby falls into step beside him.
“Wait a minute, listen, will ya? I talked to Salan and he says—”
“Well, quit talking to people!” he snaps. “Leave me alone!”
The bell rings shrilly over their heads. They stare at each other.
“Ah, shit,” Lazenby says. “The hell with you.”
A hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if he has been punched— Never mind screw him screw them all they were Buck’s friends anyway —he walks on to class, feeling nothing.
“So, what does your dad say about it?” Berger asks.
He sighs. “I haven’t told him yet.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. The timing isn’t right. He sweats everything so much. He’ll just worry about it.”
“So you haven’t told anybody? Your mother?”
“My mother? No. Listen, my mother and I do not connect, I told you that before.”
“So, does that bother you?”
“No. Why should it?”
Berger shrugs. “I don’t know. Some people it might bother, that’s all.”
“My mother is a very private person,” he says. “We don’t ride the same bus. Who does? What do you have in common with your mother? Surface junk—brush your teeth, clean your room, get good grades. My mother—” He stops. Careful, careful. “People have a right to be the way they are,” he says.
“Noble thought,” Berger says. “So how’s it going? You feeling better since you’re not swimming?”
“I guess.” He picks, with his thumbnail, at the wooden arm of the chair.
“Sleeping better?”
“I jack off a lot. It helps.”
Berger grins. “So what else is new?”
He slides down to the end of his spine, his legs stretched in front of him, staring at the floor. Over his shoulder, the clock ticks loudly.
“Come on, kiddo,” Berger prods gently. “Something’s on your mind today.”
“Nothing’s new, nothing’s on my mind. I don’t think anything. I don’t feel anything.” Abruptly he sits up. “I oughta go home.”
Berger nods. “Maybe so. What is it that you don’t feel, huh? Anger? Sadness? Any of the twenty-eight flavors?”
A tiny seed opens slowly inside his mind. In the hospital the seed would grow and begin to produce thick, shiny leaves with fibrous veins running through them. More leaves to come. Like tiny, curled up fists they will hit at him. He tightens his grip on the arms of the chair. The wood is sticky and wet under his hands. He wets his lips nervously. “What time is it?”
“Lots of time,” Berger says. The eyes are fixed on him, a tender and compelling blue. “Hey. Remember the contract we got? You wanted to have more control. You see any connection here, between control and this —what’ll we call it—lack of feeling?”
He closes his
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