'I SUPPOSE YOU HEARD THAT FAITH CAN MOVE MOUNTAINS,' he said. 'THE TROUBLE WITH YOU IS, YOU DON'T HAVE ANY FAITH.'
'The trouble with you is, you're crazy,' I told him; but I retrieved the basketball. 'It's simply irresponsible,' I said- 'for someone your age, and of your education, to go around thinking he's God's instrument!'
'I FORGOT I WAS TALKING TO MISTER RESPONSIBILITY,' he said. He'd started calling me Mr. Responsibility in the fall of ', when we were engaged in that senior-year agony commonly called college-entrance applications and interviews; because I'd applied to only the state university, Owen said I'd taken zero responsibility for my own self-improvement. Naturally, he'd applied to Harvard and Yale; as for the state university, the University of New Hampshire had offered him a so-called Honor Society Scholarship-and Owen hadn't even applied for admission there. The New Hampshire Honor Society gave a special scholarship each year to someone they selected as the state's best high-school or prep-school student. You had to be a bona fide resident of the state, and the prize scholarship was usually awarded to a public-school kid who was at the top of his or her graduating class; but Owen was at the top of our Gravesend Academy graduating class, the first time a New Hampshire resident had achieved such distinction- 'Competing Against the Nation's Best, Gravesend Native Wins!' was the headline in The Gravesend News-Letter: the story appeared in many of New Hampshire's papers. The University of New Hampshire never imagined that Owen would accept the scholarship; indeed, the Honor Society Scholarship was offered every year to New Hampshire's ' 'best''-with the tragic understanding that the recipient would probably go to Harvard or Yale, or to some other 'better' school. It was obvious to me that Owen would be accepted- and orfered full scholarships-at Harvard and Yale; Hester was the only reason he might accept the scholarship to the University of New Hampshire-and what would be the point of that? Owen would begin his university career in the fall of ' and Hester would graduate in the spring of '.
'YOU MIGHT AT LEAST TRY TO GET INTO A BETTER UNIVERSITY,' Owen told me. I was not asking him to give up Harvard or Yale to keep me company at the University of New Hampshire. I thought it was unfair of him to expect me to go through the motions of applying to Harvard and Yale-just to experience the rejections. Although Owen had substantially improved my abilities as a student, he could do little to improve my mediocre college-board scores; I simply wasn't Harvard or Yale material. I had become a good student in English and History courses; I was a slow but thorough reader, and I could write a readable, well-organized paper; but Owen was still holding my hand through the Math and Science courses, and I still plodded my dim way through foreign languages-as a student, I would never be what Owen was: a natural. Yet he was cross with me for accepting that I could do no better than the University of New Hampshire; in truth, I liked the University of New Hampshire. Durham, the town, was no more threatening than Gravesend; and it was near enough to Gravesend so that I could continue to see a lot of Dan and Grandmother-I could even continue to live with them.
'I'M SURE I'LL END UP IN DURHAM, TOO,' Owen said-with just the smallest touch of self-pity in his voice; but it infuriated me. 'I DON'T SEE HOW I CAN LET YOU FEND FOR YOURSELF,' he added.
'I'm perfectly capable offending for myself,' I said. 'And I'll come visit you at Harvard or Yale.'
'NO, WE'LL BOTH MAKE OTHER FRIENDS, WE'LL DRIFT APART-THAT'S THE WAY IT HAPPENS,' he said philosophically. 'AND YOU'RE NO LETTER-WRITER-YOU DON'T EVEN KEEP A DIARY,'' he added.
'If you lower your standards and come to the University of New Hampshire for my sake, I'll kill you,' I told him.
'THERE ARE ALSO MY PARENTS TO CONSIDER,' he said. 'IF I WERE IN SCHOOL AT DURHAM, I COULD STILL LIVE AT HOME-AND LOOK AFTER THEM.'
'What do you need to look after them for?' I asked him. It appeared to me that he spent as little time with his parents as possible!
'AND THERE'S ALSO HESTER TO CONSIDER,' he added.
'Let me get one thing straight,' I said to him. 'You and Hester-it seems to be the most on-again, off-again thing. Are you even sleeping with her-have you ever slept with her?'
'FOR SOMEONE YOUR AGE, AND OF YOUR EDUCATION, YOU'RE AWFULLY CRUDE,' Owen said. When he got up off the basketball court, he was limping. I passed him the basketball; he passed it back. The idiot janitor reset the scorer's clock: the numbers were brightly lit and huge.
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That's what the clock said. I was so sick of it! I held the ball; he held out his hands.
'READY?' Owen said. On that word, the janitor started the clock. I passed Owen the ball; he jumped into my hands; I lifted him; he reached higher and higher, and-pivoting in the air-stuffed the stupid basketball through the hoop. He was so precise, he never touched the rim. He was midair, returning to earth-his hands still above his head but empty, his eyes on the scorer's clock at midcourt-when he shouted, 'TIME!' The janitor stopped the clock. That was when I would turn to look; usually, our time had expired.
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