The Pet

"Now look, guys," Don said, and gasped when a stiff finger jabbed into his stomach.

"No," Brian said. "You look, Duck. You look good, because Tar baby and me, we don't forget. And we sure as shit don't forgive."

They grinned and stepped away, and as they moved toward the door, Brian looked over his shoulder. "Watch your back, Duck. I'm gonna bust it, and I ain't telling you when."

After they left, Falcone came up to him, frowning. "You having trouble with the boys, Donald?"

"No, sir."

"Oh, good." And he handed him his test paper and said with a smile, "For you, Boyd, just for you." A look at his grade and he groaned-passing, but just barely.

The red had come then.

The familiar red that took him when he started to lose his temper (hold it in), the red cloud that whirled around him and threatened to suck the ground from under his feet and left only when he forced himself to remember the rule (work it out). But this time it was hard. Hedley and Mrs. Klass had been lecturing him all week during detention on his responsibilities, on his daydreaming, on the slip of his grades. And now this.

It lasted only a moment, and when the red left, he was leaning against the wall, trembling, and Falcone was gone.

Now dinner was fun, and he didn't mention that test paper for fear he'd be grounded for the rest of his life. Nor did he say anything about Brian and Tar. Norman would only tell him he'd simply handed them a friendly warning; he wouldn't believe that one of these days Don was going to pay for his father's big mouth.

He showered after dessert, washed his hair, and nearly cried when he couldn't locate a clean pair of jeans right away. A quick whisper to the horse about the girl he was seeing-and a wish that he not make a complete fool of himself-and he touched the animal's nose for luck. A shirt with a pullover sweater, shoes generally worn on Sundays, and he was finally in the foyer checking his wallet when his father came out of the kitchen munching on an apple.

"Out with the boys, huh?" Norman said.

"No," his mother called gaily from the kitchen. "I think he has a date."

"He does? No kidding."

"No," his mother said. "Really."

Don felt as if he had been rendered invisible and shifted to recapture his father's attention. "Yeah," he said, stepping back for approval.

"Going to a movie. Maybe to Beacher's for something after. I don't know.

She has to be back by midnight."

"Ah, Cinderella," his mother said, laughing, and he wondered how her hearing had gotten suddenly so acute.

"Who is it?" Norman asked, his hand magically holding a ten-dollar bill when Don turned back from the coat closet with his windbreaker in hand.

"An advance on your allowance," he explained when Don hesitated. "Hell, why not. Anyone I know?"

"Probably," he said, slipping on the coat and opening the door. "Tracey Quintero."

"Quintero?" Norman frowned for a moment. "Oh! Oh, yes, yes. Little Italian girl. In your class. A senior."

"Spanish, Dad. She's Spanish. Her father's from Madrid. He's a cop."

"Oh. Well."

"Remind him about tonight, Norm," Joyce called over the rush of water from the faucet.

Don waited, smiling, while his father rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

"You remember the meeting, right?"

"Right." He grinned. "And I know-if I'm home before you are, the key's in the garage if I've lost mine, and I'd better be home before you are or I'll be in deep ... trouble."

Norman grinned and slapped his arm. "Just watch it, okay? Don't give your mother hysterics by being too late."

Joyce called out something else, but it was drowned in a louder roar from the garbage disposal, and he nodded quickly to his father, was answered with a wink, and left as fast as he dared. He knew that look on the man's face-it came when Norman thought it was time to have a man-to-man talk, usually when one or the other had only five minutes to get where they were going. And usually it was aborted before the first sentence was done.

God, that was close, he thought, shook himself dramatically and waved to his mother, who was standing in the living room window drying her hands, Norman at her side. They always did that, waiting as if he were going off to war; and if he didn't get back first, they would be there when he returned, slightly drunk from the bourbons they'd had while watching TV.

Waiting for their baby.

But tonight, if he were lucky, they would have had a good meeting-teachers, public officials, and the Ashford Day committee-and won't be stiff from a fight.