Period 8 - By Chris Crutcher Page 0,37
opposite side of the table facing away.
He wants to write his goddamn paper, but he can’t concentrate until he knows she’s gone, so he pretends to read, counting out the seconds he thinks it will take them to make a double-shot vanilla latte. She was texting; he doesn’t know if she saw him and he’s pretty sure if she did, she’ll pretend otherwise. When the bell hanging over the door rings three more times, he ventures a look over his shoulder.
Hannah stands two feet away. “Hey,” she says.
“We have to stop meeting like this.”
She says, “Funny.”
“Not much material to work with.”
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“Who you cheated with.”
The bottom drops out of Paulie’s stomach. “What do you mean was I ever going to tell you? You know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
He closes his eyes. He told Mary not to try to fix things.
“When did she tell you?”
“She didn’t. Paulie, how could you do that?”
His mind spins. He doesn’t know from which direction this attack is coming, or from which to attack back.
“Do what?”
“Take advantage of someone like Mary Wells. I thought I knew you.”
“How can I put this delicately,” Paulie says. “Who the fuck told you it was Mary Wells?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It sure as hell is my business, because only two people knew.”
“Obviously that’s not true, and you still haven’t answered my question.”
He closes his laptop, folds his hands on the table. “You know, Hannah, I’d answer your question, I would. But it wouldn’t do a bit of good. Your mind’s made up about me. I’m my old man and that’s it. Well, tell you what. I ain’t my old man and until you clear your pretty little head out so you can hear what’s what, all I can say is fuck off.”
“Have it your way,” she says.
“That possibility dried up the day I told you the truth,” he says back.
“That possibility dried up the day you did it.”
He grits his teeth. “Whatever. Do me one favor, though, and then I promise, I’ll never darken your door again, literally or figuratively. Tell me who said it was Mary. Better. I’ll make it easy. I’ll say the name and if I’m right, don’t say anything.”
Hannah shrugs.
“It was fucking Arney, wasn’t it?”
Hannah flushes slightly and stares straight at him.
“Thanks. Now you have a latte to drink and I have a paper to write. If you’re gonna stay here to drink it, I’ll pack my shit and go. If not I’d appreciate it if you’d get us out of each other’s faces.”
“On my way,” Hannah says.
.11
Paulie drops his gym bag next to the bleachers and scans the six half-courts, looking for the right open-gym game. Justin and a couple of his buddies hold the court next to the entrance and Justin motions him over. “Will’s got to get with his honey,” he says. “Play with us.”
“Tell Will to hang on for one more game and I’ll be back,” Paulie says, and moves two courts down where Arney plays with two first-stringers from the high school team. On the adjacent court, Sam Jackson, another first-stringer, shoots jumpers.
“Got winners?” Paulie asks.
Jackson nods.
“I go with you?”
Sam passes him the ball. “Sure. Get warm.”
Minutes later, after Arney’s team wins, Paulie says, “Let’s do it.”
They pick up the best shooter from the losing team, Randy Wilkes, and take the court.
“Hey, bud,” Arney says. “Ready to get schooled?”
“Hey, bud,” Paulie says back. Arney misses the irony.
Rules say winner’s outs, so Arney’s team takes the ball. “I got the prez,” Paulie says, and Sam and Randy square off with the others. Arney passes in to his big man, Ronnie Turner, who fires it back and cuts to the hoop. Arney fakes the pass and pops a jumper, looking Paulie in the eye just before he releases.
Enjoy it, Paulie thinks.
It’s Arney’s last point. Paulie is on him like a wetsuit, slapping the ball out of his hands at every opportunity, blocking him from passes. Arney grows exasperated and throws the ball away twice, which gets Turner on his case. “Come on, prez. Don’t force it, man. Take your time. He’s got size on you. You got to play smart.”
But Paulie’s anger works to his advantage; he’s seeing Arney’s moves before Arney makes them, crowding his left side because Arney’s a southpaw, forcing everything the other way. He can feel Arney’s frustration building.
Paulie plays psychologically sweet, complimenting Arney when he almost pulls off a move, encouraging him to stay with it. “I’m fresh,” Paulie says. “You’ll wear me