Charles Grant - The Pet

When they arrived home, he found his father in his room, looking at his pets.

“Aren’t you a little old for these?” Norm asked, and left without an answer.

In the middle of the hall on Monday Don grabbed Jeff’s arm and nearly spilled the books he was carrying.

“Jeff, you got a minute?”

“Hey, it’s the Detention Kid. What’s up? The bell’s gonna ring. Jesus, that eye looks like hell!”

“Thanks a lot, pal. It feels better, sort of. Look, I want to ask you about Tracey Quintero.”

“What’s to ask? You know her as well as I do.”

“I want to know if she’s with Brian.”

“Brian? Brian the Prick Pratt? That Brian?”

“Stop kidding, Jeff, I gotta know.”

“Jesus, where the hell’ve you been? And she isn’t. Hey, you know that kid that got offed in the park last week? It was the Howler, they said. Chewed the poor bastard up like he was dog meat or something. That guy’s a real pervert, you know it? Killed five kids in New York. Like us, I mean, not little kids.”

“Jeff, I don’t care about some freak, I am talking about Tracey.”

“And I told you she’s not with Brian, okay?”

“But the other night at the park, after the concert …”

“You mean all that talk about her boobs?”

“Well …”

“Boyd, are you really that dense?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Brian sees boobs on anything that even faintly looks like a female. And if you listen real close, you’d think he’s laid every damn one of them.”

“Then she isn’t.”

“His? Hell, no.”

“Jeez. Oh … jeez.”

“You gonna tell me what this is all about or am I gonna have to read it in the paper?”

“Can’t, Jeff. The bell’s rung. We’re late.”

That afternoon Detective Sergeant Thomas Verona walked into Norm’s office, Patrol Sergeant Luis Quintero at his side. After a few minutes of small talk, Quintero left to have a word with the secretaries in the outer office, and Verona asked the principal if he had heard anything, rumors or otherwise, about a stranger hanging around the school. Norm insisted he hadn’t, but if the police wanted to ask either students or teachers during school time, it would have to be cleared with the board first. He himself didn’t mind, though he didn’t quite understand why they were interested if the man was already gone. That, he said when the policeman looked at him oddly, was the usual pattern as he understood it: the Howler would strike, then move on to another town. Verona, whose father had worked the mills and had known Norman since they were kids, told him off the record that if the guy had actually approached any of the students, or if he had gotten wind of the Ashford Day activities, there was a fair chance he’d stick around because there were going to be a lot of people on the streets starting the middle of next week, and safety in numbers was apparently something he counted on. When Norm asked why the man hadn’t yet been caught, Verona, again off the record, told him there wasn’t a picture, not a fingerprint, nor a scrap of cloth or drop of blood to build even the skimpiest physical profile. They couldn’t begin to guess at his appearance, though they didn’t have to guess at his strength. Norman didn’t ask for more details, but he did promise to keep his ears open and to have a quiet word with the faculty to the effect that it would probably not be a good idea to keep kids very long after school for a while. Verona appreciated the cooperation and suggested they stop being strangers after so many years and have a beer together sometime soon. Verona’s wife was on the committee with Joyce, and the detective allowed as how he was tired of being an Ashford Day widower. Norman laughed, but he didn’t think it was very funny.

After gym Don managed to get next to Fleet under the last nozzle, for the first time forgetting his embarrassment at seeing another guy naked. It took him a moment, too, to stop staring at the clouds of freckles that covered Fleet’s body.

“Hey, Fleet, is Trace … you know, is she Brian’s girl?”

“Trace? Gimme the soap, man, I smell like horseshit. Trace Quintero, the cop’s kid?”

“Yeah.”

“Nah. Last I heard she wasn’t with nobody.”

“No kidding.”

“Man, will you look at that gorgeous eye! You put a steak or something on that, or you’ll go blind, sure as shit. Jesus, Brian can be … never mind. Hey, you interested in Trace?”

“I don’t know. Hey, Fleet, c’mon, that’s my soap! Don’t pass it around.”

“Y’know, you’d do better with somebody like Chrissy Snowden, man. Don’t you dare tell Amanda I said this, she’ll cut my ass off, but that’s one hell of a woman, if you catch my drift.”

“I guess.”

“You guess? Jesus, Don, you mean you ain’t once whacked off just thinking about that fox?”

“Donny, you are truly hopeless. You are an excellent human being, but you are truly hopeless.”

“I suppose.”

“A good thing you didn’t meet up with that dude that stomped that kid. You probably would’ve asked him home for dinner. You’re a good man, Don, but you need a little spunk, you know what I mean? A little of the old intestinal fortitude when it comes to dealing with the real world.”

“I do all right, and gimme back my soap, damnit.”

“What I think you’d best do is tell everyone you got that eye in a fight. You get a little respect and you get all the women you need, if you know what I mean.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“It’s never too late to lie through your teeth, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Besides, from what I hear, under all them sweaters Tracey’s a carpenter’s dream-flat as a board.”

Don wasn’t sure if it was a nightmare or a dream. He walked through the rest of the week with a slight smile on his face, a good word for everyone including Brian Pratt, and he didn’t even blush when Chris came up to him in the hall and touched a finger to his cheek, wincing at the purpled blotch around his eye and hoping in a soft and high voice that he wasn’t hurting too badly; when he sputtered nonsense for an answer, she didn’t laugh, she only smiled and winked as she left. On the other hand, he didn’t hear a thing any of his teachers said, and twice he was reprimanded for daydreaming in class. Falcone’s announcement that the test papers wouldn’t be ready until the following week didn’t faze him; Hedley’s glare in the hall didn’t register until an hour later; when his detention supervisors snapped at him for staring, he didn’t know what they were talking about, and they told him he was rude and would let the front office know; and when Tar Boston jammed his locker with a pen on Thursday, he only shrugged and walked away without his books.

It wasn’t right. He was acting like a fool, knew it, and couldn’t do anything about it. He was beginning to regret his rash invitation; yet between classes he loitered near the doors as long as he dared, trying to get a glimpse of Tracey, just nod to her casually, give her a knowing smile, and remind her with a look of their date this week.

He didn’t see her.

By Friday noon he hadn’t seen her once close enough to give the signal and he became convinced she was avoiding him, ashamed because she couldn’t think of a decent excuse to get out of their date. He knew, beyond question, there would be a message for him when he got home — she had a headache, she had to do her hair, she had to go back to her grandmother’s on Long Island and they were leaving again right after school. By the end of his last class he was ready to believe that Brian had put her up to accepting, another classic gag on the stupid Duck, and since he was who he was, it didn’t make any difference if his feelings were hurt.