Boys & Girls Together by William Goldman Page B

sorry we got him all tired,” Walt said. “It was my fault.”
    “Nice-looking boy.”
    “Pardon?”
    “That boy you were with.”
    “Oh, Gino? I don’t know.”
    “Italian, isn’t he?”
    “No, he’s Greek.”
    “You said his last name was Caruso.”
    “It is.”
    “Caruso’s an Italian name.”
    “But he’s Greek.”
    “Don’t argue with me.”
    “His name is Caruso but it really isn’t Caruso. It’s Gianopolous. That was his father, but he died and his mother married this Mr. Caruso and—”
    “Greek, Italian—that’s beside the point.”
    “Yessir.” Walt nodded. Then, almost in a whisper: “But you see, he really isn’t Italian.”
    P.T. got up from his big chair and walked to the fireplace. Above it, hung high on the wall, were the head of a deer and a fat bass. The bass had set a record—the biggest ever caught in the state of Wisconsin. “What’s his father do?”
    “He runs the school.”
    “You mean he’s superintendent?”
    “No, no; he runs the school.”
    “You mean he’s the janitor.”
    “Yes, but he runs the school, doncha see?”
    “Now listen, Mister!” P.T. left the rest unfinished. He reached up with a big hand and stroked the face of the brown deer. Walt watched the hand and waited for the voice. When the voice came it was friendly, fatherly, false. “Walt?”
    “Yessir?”
    “Do you trust me?”
    No. “Yes.”
    “Have I ever lied to you?”
    Yes. “No.”
    “Have I ever done anything to hurt you?”
    Yes . “No.”
    “You’ll believe me, then, when I tell you something.”
    Why should I? “Yessir.”
    “You don’t want to bring kids like that around here. I can’t tell you who to play with when you’re away from home, but when you’re here, you don’t want to bring kids like that over.”
    “But he’s my friend.”
    “You’ll have lots of others.”
    “But he’s my friend.”
    “Are you listening to me?”
    “Yessir.”
    “Bring home whoever you want to, but you don’t want to bring home kids like that.”
    “No. I don’t.”
    “O.K.?”
    “O.K.” He was about to say O.K. for you, old man. That’s what he should have said. O.K. for you, old man. Tough about you, old man. He’s my friend, old man, so to hell with you, old man. That’s what he should have said.
    But he didn’t.
    Walt discovered his salvation on the second day of second grade.
    The first day, he tried not to think about. His mother had driven him in the big black car, depositing him right in front of the school. (He had sensed even then that it was too far, that he should have made her stop a block away, but he did nothing.) The early hours in school were uneventful, but recess was not. He was standing by the jungle gym when somebody pushed him from behind. Walt stumbled forward, managing not to fall. Then he turned to find Wimpy Carlson advancing on him.
    “I seen ya,” Wimpy Carlson said. Wimpy Carlson was fat and probably slow, but, unfortunately, big.
    “Hi,” Walt said.
    “I seen ya,” Wimpy said again.
    Walt made a smile.
    “In that car. Ya goddam rich kid.”
    “I’m not,” Walt said. “Rich.”
    “Yes, y’are. Think you’re so good, doncha, ’cause you’re rich, doncha?”
    “No,” Walt said.
    “Yes, you do,” Wimpy replied, and he pushed Walt again.
    “Cut it out.”
    “Gonna make me?”
    “Cut it out.”
    Wimpy pushed him again, very hard, and this time Walt did fall. As he got up he calculated his chances of making it safely to the school door. The odds seemed definitely in his favor, but by now a crowd had gathered so he had no choice but to charge. He ran at Wimpy’s stomach with all he had and his aim was good. Wimpy said “Ooof,” more or less, as Walt collided with him. They both went down, rolling across the gravel playground for a while before Wimpy’s weight began to tell. Soon he was sitting astride Walt, punishing him as best he could, but Walt had been hurt by masters so he did not cry. In time Miss Allenby pulled