nosey sisters. She hadn't been able to sleep, had come downstairs to do some studying, which she knew would make her tired sooner or later. A knee banged against a chair and she swore as she yanked the handset off the cradle, taking a moment before saying hello.
'Trace?'
'Don?' She fumbled for the chair and sat down in the dark.
'You awake?'
'Yeah, sure.' She tried to see the wall clock in the dark, but there was only enough light from the front room to tell her it was close to midnight; how close she couldn't tell.
'No, you weren't. I woke you. I'm sorry.'
'I wasn't asleep, Vet,' she said almost angrily. 'I was studying.' She inhaled slowly and rubbed a knuckle across her eyes. 'What's the matter, something wrong?'
'Why should anything be wrong?'
'Well, it's nearly twelve on a school night for one thing. And you're whispering for another.'
'So are you.'
'I don't want to get killed.'
'Neither do I.'
She pushed the chair closer to the doorway so she could see the front door. Her father was due back from his shift any minute now, and she didn't want him catching her on the phone. After wriggling back on the seat, she brought up her legs to sit Indian fashion, holding on to one ankle with her free hand. 'Don, what's up? You want me to elope or something?''
He laughed, and she was glad to hear it; she hadn't heard much of that lately and it made her feel good. 'C'mon, hero, what's the occasion?'
She listened without comment then as he told her about the car, and the dead bird mangled in his front yard. And when he told her about finding Boston's car keys under the bike's wheel, she groaned. 'What a jerk,'
she said. 'What a stupid jerk.' When Don agreed, she asked what he was going to do.
'I don't know. I thought I was going to let him know I knew and maybe he'd get off my case. But I figure he'd deny it, then rearrange my face for the parade.'
'God, what a mess.'
He said nothing, and her eyes narrowed. This wasn't it, she thought; this isn't why he's calling.
'Tracey?'
'Still here, hero.'
A pause. 'I like 'Vet' better.'
She frowned now. 'Sure. Okay.'
'Trace, this may sound dumb, but have you ever made a wish?'
Have I ever, she thought, and what's wrong with you, Don?
'Sure I have,' she said. 'Every year on my birthday I blow my lungs out for a zillion bucks and a mansion in Beverly Hills. Doesn't everybody?'
'You ever wish on a star?'
'What is this? Hey, are you trying to get me to do a term paper for you or something? Is that what this is? Are you taking a survey?'
'Tracey, please.'
She heard it then, and she didn't believe it. Because they were both whispering, it had been difficult to tell, but the moment she recognized it, she knew it was true-Don was afraid of something, and it wasn't Tar Boston.
'Okay,' she said slowly. 'Yeah, I do now and then.' She laughed. 'Silly, isn't it?'
'Do they ever come true? Your wishes, I mean.'
'Don ... no. I mean, I don't think they do. Not like they were magic, anyway. You wish for something hard enough and it comes true? No. You work at it and make the wishes come true yourself, if you know what I mean.'
'God.'
'Hey, Vet, would you please tell me what this is all about?'
'Tracey-'
A key rattled in the front door, and Tracey quickly told Don her father was home, she'd see him tomorrow in school. She hung up and had the chair back in place just as her father walked in the door. When he demanded to know why she was up so late, she pointed to her books in the living room and explained that she hadn't been able to sleep and, she added when she saw the expression on his face, what was wrong, was he hurt?
'No,' he said wearily. 'A hit-and-run just before I left.'
'Oh, god, no.' A closer look, then, and she bit down on her lower lip.
'It was somebody I know, wasn't it?'
He shrugged. 'I don't know.'
'Father.'
He made his way toward the kitchen, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
'Father?'
'Please, child, go to bed.'
'What?' she insisted.
'It was as if someone had run him down, then kept backing over him.
Again and again. He's so mangled we don't know who he is yet.'
TWELVE
the day wasn't as bad as he feared it would be. With all classes cut by twenty minutes, the lessons were either uselessly short or not given at all. He spent then as much time as he could looking for Tracey, but the only time he saw her, martial and uncomfortable in her red-and-black band uniform, she was with a group of her girlfriends. When she spotted him, she mouthed an incomprehensible message to which he shrugged his ignorance and moved on before the late bell rang.
Brian stayed away, once deliberately ducking into the wrong classroom just to avoid him. Don saw it and grinned, thinking some good might come of this medal stuff after all.
But study hall was strange. He sat in his usual place and flipped through his zoology textbook, trying to discover what the stallion had in common with the real world. After five minutes, however, he felt someone watching him. By then he had almost grown used to it-the students in the hall inspecting him slyly, some outright staring, some of them hesitant as if they wanted to reach out and squeeze his muscles or take off his shirt, anything to discover the secret of the strength that had pummeled the Howler into the ground.
But this was different. From the others he could feel envy and disbelief and a fair dose of new respect; from this there was something he couldn't name at all.
He looked up and around. The rest were either reading or talking softly among themselves. None of the football team were there; they were down in the gym getting ready for the rally. Then his gaze took in the front of the room.
It was Mr. Hedley. He was sitting behind the desk with his fingers folded under his chin, and he was staring at him. Boldly. Without apology.
Don looked down quickly and turned a page, another, and glanced up without raising his head.
Hedley was still watching, and suddenly Don felt as if he were squeezed into one of the teacher's test tubes, forever floating in a solution, forever exposed for inspection before being dumped down the drain.
He swallowed, flipped back a few pages, flipped them forward, and forced himself to read paragraphs at random, none of the words filtering through, none of the illustrations registering. And when he looked up a third time and saw the man still watching, the skin across the back of his shoulders began to tighten and he found it increasingly difficult to breathe.
He knows, Don thought, and blinked at the idea.
No. Nobody knows. He can't know.
He squirmed and turned to look out the high windows at the clouds massing on the horizon, seeming blacker and higher because of the intense clarity of the near sky still untouched by the coming storm. It made the roofs of
