The Pet

He managed a pained smile and headed for his seat, as in all his other classes as far toward the back as his teachers would permit. Then he dropped his books on the floor and waited as Falcone passed out the test sheet while giving instructions. The young instructor, he saw, was in a casual mood today-no jacket or tie, just sleek pants, with an open shirt under a light sweater. His hair was barely combed, the tight curls damp as if he'd just taken a shower. Face and body of a Mediterranean cast that many of the girls lusted for and some of the boys coveted.

Finally he reached Don's seat, held out the paper, and wouldn't release it when Don took hold. Instead, he continued to talk, letting the class know this was probably the most important test of the semester, since it was going to be worth a full third of their final grade; failing this would make the exam in January much too important.

Then he let go, and smiled.

"Do you understand, Mr. Boyd?"

He did, but he didn't know why he'd been singled out.

Falcone leaned over, pushed the test to the center of the desk, and added quietly, "You'd better be perfect today, Boyd. You're going to need it."

It was a full minute before he was able to focus on the questions.

Falcone was in front, leaning against the blackboard rail, arms folded at his chest, eyes half-closed. The clock over the door jumped once!

Fleet was staring intently at his wrist, Tar was scribbling, Brian was staring out the window at the football field. Don blinked and rubbed his eyes. He couldn't believe what he had heard, and refused to believe it was some kind of threat. He couldn't fail. He knew the work, and he knew the teacher. He checked the first question, answered it almost blindly, answered all the others just as the bell rang.

It couldn't have been a threat.

The paper went onto a pile on the desk, the books tumbled into his locker, and he grabbed his brown paper lunch bag and left the building by one of the rear exits. Despite the morning frost the sun was warm, and he crossed a broad concrete walk that ended at a six-foot wall in which there were regularly spaced gaps.

He picked one, passed through, and was on the top row of the stadium's seats, the field below, the much lower wooden visitors' bleachers across the way. The seats were nothing more than steprows of concrete, and it occurred to him suddenly that half the school and its grounds seemed made of the stuff, maybe once white and clean, now grey and brown with use and the pummeling of the weather.

The ham sandwich he had made for himself tasted lousy.

It couldn't have been a threat.

"If you kill yourself, they'll never get the blood up."

He jumped and dropped the sandwich, recovered it gracelessly, and squinted up.

"It seeps in, you know? Right into the cement. They'll be scrubbing it for days and they'll hate your guts. It's a rotten way to get sympathy, take my word for it."

He smiled and moved over.

Tracey Quintero sat beside him and shook her head. "Are you really that depressed?"

She was dark from hair to skin, her oversize sweater more dazzlingly white as a result, and her pleated skirt somewhat out of style. Her features were more angles than curves, and he thought her nice but not all that pretty, except when she smiled and showed all those teeth.

Spanish; and he wondered at times what she would look like in those tight colorful dresses the flamenco dancers wore.

"I guess."

"Biology that bad?" She had Falcone after lunch, but she wasn't fishing for answers.

"Yeah. No. I guess not."

"How'd you do?"

"Okay, I guess." He bit into the sandwich and tasted grit from its fall.

"Harder than usual."

She nodded, unconcerned, leaning forward to rest her arms on her legs, and they watched two gym classes make an attempt to run around the seven-lane red-stained cinder track that outlined the football field.

Laughter drifted toward them, a sharp whistle, and a sudden scent of lilac that confused him for a moment until he turned and sniffed, and knew it was her.

She pointed down to a lanky redhead sweeping effortlessly around the far turn. "Is that why they call him Fleet? Because he's so fast?"

Making polite conversation, that's what they call it, he thought; boy, I even have to be made conversation to today.

"Yeah," he said.

"He should be on track, then, not football," she said with a slight lisp in her voice.

"Football scholarships are bigger money."

"Whoa," she said, staring at him intently. "My goodness, but that sounded bitter."

He shrugged. "It's the truth. Fleet needs the scholarship to go to school, and he'll get it with football. He's the best wide receiver in the county."

"I thought Tar was."

A crumb of bread stuck to his lips, and he sought it with a finger, stared at it, ate it. "Tar's a running back." He frowned. "You know that."

She leaned back, her books huddling against her formless chest. "I forgot." A glance behind him, up at the school. "Hey, Don?"

"Huh?"

"Do you know what your father's going to do about the strike?"