... glad.
And it made him sick.
A person was dead. A human being. Someone he knew. And he was glad Tar was dead because the stupid asshole couldn't torment him anymore, couldn't hang on Brian's every command, couldn't murder birds and smash bikes and pretend he was a king in a land without royalty. Dead. Smashed beyond recognition until the dental work had been run through whatever tests they do.
Now that I know you're here, what do we do next?
He needed to talk, and he needed to be alone, and he applauded absently as the coach was introduced, as the players were introduced and ran onto the field between two lines of cheerleaders waving their pompons and leaping into the air, as the band played marches and another speech was made, and reminders were given about the parade.
He applauded and heard nothing, saw nothing until he realized the others were filing out. Chattering excitedly, making plans for the night, for the next day. Ignoring him because he was a hero on Wednesday and time marches on, like the band marching swiftly to the end of the field to sloppy drumwork, out of step, finally falling apart and heading for the exits.
Quickly he made his way against the crowd to the bottom of the stands, vaulted the iron railing down to the track, and ran toward Tracey. He called out. She didn't hear him. He called again and dodged around a handful of team members who laughed when Brian in their midst made a loud quacking noise.
Don't mess with me, Brian, he said silently as he glowered back; don't mess with me, man, or I'll have you dead.
He stopped then and swallowed.
Oh Jesus. Oh God.
'Y'know, I'm beginning to think I'm a jinx.'
He stepped back quickly, just able to avoid colliding with Tracey who was trying to juggle her music, disassemble her flute, and open its case at the same time. When he looked blankly at her, she gave him a sour grin and forced the sheets of narrow paper into his hands, put the instrument away and took the music back. Her cap was off and her hair was taken by the afternoon's breeze across her forehead, over her eyes.
The uniform's tunic was unbuttoned at the top and he could see the hollow of her throat, the top of her chest.
'Sorry,' he mumbled.
Her head tilted. 'You looking for me, Vet?'
'Yes. I ... do you need ...' He bit down on his lower lip.
'You want to walk me home?'
'Please,' he said, and she took his arm and led them to the open tunnel in the wall. Others hurried past, and the growling of engines in the street competed with shouts, with laughter, with a few of the band members blaring their trumpets and tubas, the whole sounding less like school just over than a game just ended. No one spoke to them and for that he was glad. He was too busy playing the blind man to Tracey's guide dog, trying desperately to force what he'd thought at Brian out of his mind.
Once through the tunnel they turned up toward School Street, closer now against the press of students, so close that she finally slipped her hand into his.
'So what?' she said, looking at him sideways. 'Tar?'
He nodded.
'God, it was horrible, huh? You should've seen my father when he came home last night. If he'd known I knew him, he would have made me stay home. My nerves. He thinks I'm pale and weak and suffer from the vapors every time I cut my finger, and you're not listening to a word I'm saying, Donald Boyd.'
'Huh?'
'See?'
He squeezed her hand and shoved them through the dispersing crowd onto the school's front lawn. As they walked toward the plaza, he made several attempts to explain what was going on inside his head, and each time he had to stop because he didn't want her to think he was crazy and didn't want her to say that he should talk to his parents.
Finally he just gave up and accepted her silence as patience for his fumbling.
The flagpole was surrounded by a raised brick wall into which had been dumped earth for a planter. The blossoms were gone, but the frost over the past two weeks hadn't yet killed the stems and broad leaves. Don sat on the edge and Tracey sat beside him, dumping her instrument case and books from her arms, then twisting so she could see him.
They were alone.
The sun was already behind the building and the plaza was coated in chilly shadow. There was no movement in the windows, and the flag above them snapped at the air like cynical hands clapping.
'He wasn't your friend, you know,' she said, one finger skating over the top of the bricks, following the riverbed of mortar that held them together. 'It's not like it was with Mandy, I mean.'
'Yeah, I know.'
'I mean, he couldn't stand you, Don, and you probably hated his guts.
Especially after last night. So I don't get it. I don't get it.'
He looked toward the school, the steps, the lawn, the street. 'I killed him.'
She slapped his arm, hard. 'That isn't funny.'
'I know.' At the plaza, his thighs, the sky, the trees.
'I ... you didn't, you know. I know you didn't. Even after what he did, I know you didn't take a bat and lure him out into the street and bash out his brains. You-'
A hand butterflied to her lips to silence herself, and he knew she was remembering the Howler and how he died.
Then he heard cleats on the concrete and he stiffened, drew his lips tight, and closed his eyes when a hand took his right arm.
'How do I look?'
'Like a sports store dummy, dummy,' Tracey said lightly.
Don looked at the hand, the face, and grinned at Jeff, who was still in uniform and holding his helmet under his arm.
'Coach says we have to wear this crap the rest of the day.' Jeff drew himself up and gave them his profile, slightly marred because of the droop of his glasses. 'For inspiration to ourselves and others. So that the Ashford North Rebels will tremble when they see us and never forget the demolition they will suffer.' He stuck out his tongue. 'That is a quote, I swear to god. You going?'
'Sure,' Don said. 'You playing?'
Jeff's expression turned sour. 'Are you kidding? Coach wants to win this one. Why should he play me when he has Brian, Fleet, and ... and the rest of the guys.' He looked at Tracey, saw her sad smile, and slumped against the wall, bouncing the helmet lightly on his lap.
'You know, huh?' Tracey said.
'Yeah. Coach gave us the Gipper speech. It sounds lousy when you say
'Win one for the Tar.' '
Don said nothing; Tracey laughed nervously.
More cleats, and Fleet passed them. When it was obvious he wasn't going to stop, Jeff called to him, called a second time and shrugged. When Fleet reached the sidewalk, however, he paused and looked over his shoulder. It was clear he was looking at Don, and just as clear he was wondering.
God, Don thought, and only nodded when Jeff stood with a show of puffing his chest and stamping his feet, announcing he had to get home before the men in the white suits dropped their net over his head. A wave, a look to Tracey, and he trotted away.
Sounding, Don thought, just like a running horse.
Tracey looked at her watch.
The school's shadow deepened.
'Don, I have to go. You-'
