Charles Grant - The Pet

“Right,” he said, mischief gone. “I’m too predictable.”

“Reliable,” she corrected. “You’re reliable, that’s what you are.”

The gym classes began filing off the field, Fleet trailing with an arm around a ponytailed girl.

“Wonderful. They can put that on my tombstone. I’ll sound like somebody’s grandfather’s old watch.”

Her expression soured. “Hey, you are in a mood, aren’t you. Jeez.”

When she stood, he rose with her, dropped his lunch bag, and had to lunge after it to keep the breeze from taking it down the steps. Then he stumbled after her, catching up barely in time to open the heavy glass-and-metal door. She gave him a wink and a mock curtsy and slipped in, and they stood at the landing just as the bell rang. There were footsteps on the iron-tipped stairs, thunder in the halls.

“You want to go to a movie or something tomorrow night?”

She seemed as surprised to hear the question as he was astonished he had asked it. Christ , he thought, Brian’s gonna kill me.

The stairs filled and they were separated, but before she was gone she mouthed an I’ll call you tonight, which was sort of an answer and no answer at all. God , he thought as he headed down for the gym, you are an idiot, Boyd. Boy, are you an idiot.

When he reached the locker room and started changing, Fleet was still there and Tar was just coming in, running a monster comb through incredibly black hair. The gossip dealt primarily with the game with North over Ashford Day weekend, the Howler, and the strike that was going to set them all free until long after Christmas.

“Hey, Donny,” Tar yelled as he laced up his sneakers, “you tell your old man to stop farting around, huh? I need that vacation now!”

“Aw, shit,” said Fleet, racing by naked, his towel over his shoulder, “he don’t care about us poor peons, Tar baby. Don’t you know he’s his daddy’s spy in the ranks? Secret Agent Man of the senior class.”

Though Tar was only teasing, Don’s face tightened. He stood and made his way along the crowded aisle. A handful of the guys tried to kid him about his father and the strike, but he shook them off angrily. He was sick of hearing about it, sick of being labeled a spy — from some of them, seriously— sick of being called Donny Duck, sick of being treated special when they pretended he wasn’t.

He stepped out onto the gym’s polished floor, hands on his hips.

Brian shouted, “Hey Duck, duck!” and a basketball hit him square on the nose.

Images floating through a red-tinted haze: a bobcat lurking high in the trees, fangs gleaming, snarls like thunder, claws like steel blades hunting for someone’s throat; a leopard stalking through the high grass of the broiling summer veldt, closing in on its kill, shoulder muscles and haunches rippling with tension; a hawk snatching a rabbit from the ground; a black horse causing the ground to tremble as it charged down the road, fire from its nostrils scorching the earth black.

Images that made his fists clench, his nails create craters in his palms, his chest rise and fall in barely contained rage.

Images: the basketball in slow motion smashing into his face, his knees buckling, tears leaping from his eyes, blood spotting the gym floor; the roar of surprise, the sudden silence, the laughter. Laughter until the gym teacher saw the blood, laughter in the hall as they half-carried him to the first floor, a grin from Falcone as he stood outside his door flirting with Chris.

Only the nurse didn’t laugh.

Images: the basketball, the leopard, the gym, the hawk, the corridor, the stairs, the horse waiting in shadow.

He swallowed a moan, rolled his head to the other side, and lay on the nurse’s hard cot for fifteen minutes more before he couldn’t stand it any longer. His nostrils were plugged with cotton, and a throbbing tenderness spread across his right cheek. When he sat up at last and looked into the mirror over the basin, he saw the beginnings of a beautifully grotesque black eye.

“Hell,” he said.

Grabbing a paper towel from the wall dispenser, he cleaned the dried blood off his face and combed his hair with his fingers. The nurse was gone. He looked back, peered closer, and gingerly plucked the cotton out. A sniff, and he tasted blood; another sniff and a daubing with a wet towel, and he waited with held breath until he was positive he wouldn’t start bleeding again. Then he found a permission slip on the desk, filled it out, and signed it himself. A check on the clock told him he’d still be able to make the last class, zoology, on the third floor. The corridor was empty and he hurried without running, slipped into the stairwell and took the steps two at a time, head down, breathing heavily through his mouth.

Someone, more than one, came down from above.

He ignored them, averted his head so they wouldn’t see the ignominious damage, and only whispered a curse when they bumped hard into his arm, spinning him around and shoving something into his hand. He yelled a protest and grabbed for the iron banister, and managed to end up sitting on the top step. Dizziness made him nauseated, and he clenched his teeth until it passed. Another minute to regain his composure and he hauled himself up; as he reached for the door, Mr. Hedley bulled through.

“So!” the teacher said angrily,

He frowned. “Sir?”

Hedley held out a palm, waited, then grabbed his arm and pulled him into the hall, took something from his hand, and held it accusingly in his face.

“You’ve never seen this before, right, Boyd?”

It was an unstoppered vial, and as the heavyset man waved it in his face he realized that part of his nausea came from the stench drifting out of its mouth. He gagged and turned his head.

“Don’t like the tables turned, do you, boy?”

“I … what?” He looked over the man’s shoulder and saw a dozen students in the hall. Some were leaning against the wall and talking softly, others had handkerchiefs pressed over their noses. A few saw him and grinned; the rest saw him and glared.

“It was a stupid thing to do, Boyd.”

“Do what?” His nose hurt. He had a headache that reached to the back of his neck. He pointed at the vial. “That? I didn’t do that.”

“Then who did? The ghost of Samuel Ashford?”

His head hurt; god, his head hurt.

“Well, Boyd?”

He tried to explain about his accident, about how he’d been running up the stairs when someone — two or three of them, he didn’t know for sure, he didn’t see — when someone ran past him and put that bottle in his hand.

Hedley tilted his head back and cocked it to one side.

“But I didn’t do anything!”

“Mr. Boyd, keep your voice down.”

“But I didn’t do it!”

Hedley grabbed his arm again, and Don shook him off.

“I didn’t do it, damnit,” he said sullenly.

Hedley was about to reach again when a murmuring made him turn and see Norman Boyd striding through his class. The principal paused to speak to several students and send them on their way, presumably to the nurse, with a pat on the shoulder. When he was close enough, Hedley explained over Don’s silent protest that someone had opened the lab door in the middle of a test and dumped a bottle of hydrogen sulfide onto the floor.

“From this,” he said, displaying the vial with a dramatic flourish, “which I found in your son’s possession, over there in the stairwell.”

Boyd cleared his throat and lifted an eyebrow.

Don told him, words clipped, attitude defensive, and when he was done, he dared his father with a look not to believe him.

Boyd took the vial, sniffed, and grimaced. “My office.”