Yeah, he decided; it was time he made a move on Tracey, and soon. He didn't give a shit that she didn't have any tits; she was after the Duck, and that's all the reason he needed.
His eyes narrowed and he made an about-face, deciding that his good mood was ruined and there was no sense going to chemistry now. Besides, the Tube was busy piling on the homework, and if he wasn't there, he couldn't get the assignment, and if he couldn't get the assignment he couldn't be held responsible for it. Right now there were more important things to work on-like figuring out how to ace Fleet and Tar out of the glory tomorrow. Ashford North was known in the conference for its defense against the run, which meant in an ordinary game that Boston and Robinson were going to have a field day while Brian was used solely to decoy the opposition.
But not this time.
Tomorrow night he was going to show them what he was really made of, and the scouts he knew were in town from the Big Ten were going to get an exhibition of ball handling and running they'd never seen in their lives. With any kind of luck at all he would be beating them and their contracts off with a baseball bat before the first half was over.
A fist thumped his chest as he took the stairs down two at a time, three at a time, until he was on the ground floor and heading for the weight room on the other side of the gym. Coach might be there, but he wouldn't mind. Brian would tell him Hedley had agreed to his missing class this once, and Coach would believe him whether he believed him or not. Brian was his star. Brian does his job. Get Brian sulking, lose a game or two, and Coach would be teaching kindergarten someplace in Kansas.
The sharp echo of his mirthless laugh rebounded from the walls, and he swung around the corner, whistling and marching, and stopping dead in his tracks when he saw Mr. Hedley lounging against the gym entrance.
'Were you by any chance lost, Mr. Pratt?' the short man asked without moving away.
'Hadda ask Coach something,' Brian said easily, trying to contain his impatience.
'You can ask him after class.'
'He won't be here.'
Hedley's upper lip pulled back. 'He won't be here? You mean, he's skipping practice today? The day before the big game, Mr. Pratt?' The man shook his head. 'I cannot credit that, Mr. Pratt. And I suggest, if you want credit for the course and a diploma in June, you head back upstairs.'
Brian worked hard to keep his hands from curling into fists. One punch.
One punch and the little shit would fall apart. And one punch, caution reminded him, would lose him his graduation, entrance into the Big Ten, and his professional career.
Hedley, by his expression, knew that as well, and it made him angrier to know he could do nothing about it.
'Two minutes, Mr. Pratt, or I'll turn in a cut slip.'
'Aw, jeez, Mr. Hedley,' he said, spreading his hands in appeal, 'have a heart, huh?'
Hedley stared at him so intently Brian thought for a moment the prick had finally figured out who had dumped the shit on his porch, and was already preparing an alibi. For himself. Tar, the little coward, would have to take care of himself.
'Two minutes,' Hedley repeated and walked off, arms swinging like a sergeant major leading a parade.
'Little prick,' Brian muttered. 'Fucking little prick.'
Hedley heard but didn't turn, didn't lose a step. He continued to the stairwell and headed up for his class. A mistake leaving them alone and he knew it; there were too many legal and ethical ramifications. But Pratt had been getting away with too much for too long, and seeing him in the hallway talking with that little Quintero girl had made him furious. A swift order for questions to be completed in the workbook, and he was gone, racing down the center stairs, barely able to control his heavy breathing before the bastard came around the corner.
Bastard, he thought, and nodded. A fair choice of words. The mother lived alone, most of the time, and there was no telling who could claim fatherhood for that monster. A mental note to see if he could get Candy to reveal the truth, and a wince at the idea that anyone, most of all her, could be named after a confection.
He grinned, then, and stroked his mustache. What, he wondered, would Brian think if he knew that his flabby little prick of a chemistry teacher was regularly manhandling his mother; what, he wondered further, would the thick-necked grunt do if he knew that among Hedley's collection of glossies in his cellar was a choice set of color photos unmistakably starring her.
Probably try to wring my neck, he decided, or cut off my balls.
'Mr. Hedley?'
He cleared his mind of the image of Brian Pratt frothing at the mouth and replaced it with the more realistic and far more pleasant one of Chris Snowden, standing in front of his door with a pile of books in her arms.
'Mr. Hedley, you wanted these from the library?'
He was about to deny it, suddenly remembered the bit of research he'd wanted to do for tomorrow's truncated classes, and nodded, snatched the volumes from her with a curt nod of thanks, and swung open his door as if daring the class to be misbehaving.
Chris stared at his back, and told him silently to go to hell before she wheeled about and headed back for the library on the other side of the building. Though it was excruciatingly boring shifting books from one shelf to another, catering to creeps who needed this author and that reference work, it at least kept her away from teachers for forty-five minutes, kept the males from trying to unclothe her without lifting a finger, kept the females from consigning her to that airhead category all attractive blondes seemed doomed to inhabit from birth.
It also gave her furtive opportunities to do her homework before she left for home, thus enabling her to work full-time on her plan once school was out.
Today she was testing excuses to see which would work the best when she dropped in on the Boyds. She'd thought to learn what assignments Don had missed by staying home, then play the Samaritan by dropping them off-but with classes shortened tomorrow because of the end-of-the-day pep rally that would lead up to the game, most of the faculty wasn't bothering.
Then she had wondered if there wasn't something she could manage from the front office, something she hadn't yet been able to figure out.
In a way the idea of seeing Don was beginning to turn her on. She had heard several graphic versions of what he'd done to the Howler, and even taking it all with a pound of salt, it must have been one awesome battle; and to look at him, you wouldn't think he could step on Brian's shadow without breaking a leg.
Appearances, she thought; it's all in appearances, the one subject she knew better than anyone else.
Probably the simplest thing would be just to go, to say truthfully she was concerned and wondering how Don was feeling, could she see him for a minute, and bring him some false greetings from his friends.
Sometimes, Chris, she thought, you try too hard, you know it? You just try too damned hard.
She pushed, then, on the swinging door, heard a thud and a grunt, and looked up through the narrow wire- embedded glass pane.
Oh, Christ! And her eyes closed briefly when Mr. Boyd pulled on the handle and let himself out.
'Gee, I'm sorry,' she said, putting an unthinking hand on his arm. 'I'm really sorry, Mr. Boyd, honestly. I wasn't looking. I didn't mean it.'
He smiled and rubbed his shoulder ruefully. 'I think I'll live, Chris.
Don't worry about it.'
'Honest to god, I didn't mean it, really.'
'All right, take it easy,' he told her, laughing easily at her distress that bordered on the comic. 'I'm not mortally wounded. I'll survive.
Just keep your head up from now on, okay? I'd like to last through the year if you don't mind.'
His touch on her shoulder was more a brief caress than a pat, and he was gone, leaving her swearing at herself for botching the first chance she'd had to make some points with the old man. She could have pretended a temporary injury, or fallen against him; and now, when the opportunity almost literally knocked her off her feet, she had blown it.
'Shit!'
'Miss Snowden!' the librarian scolded from behind her desk.
Fuck off, you old bitch, she said silently; at least I've been screwed more than once in the last twenty years.
She stalked to the back of the room, grabbed a cart of books, and set about trying to put them all back before
