Part 2 (1/2)

”I have something to boast about. You're hyper. What the h.e.l.l is your problem?”

”I do not have a problem,” I say. ”My problem is the fact that you're doing this male b.o.o.b-boast maneuver.”

Tom keeps pace with me. He is smirking. The wind waps his hair. ”They're sort of like Nintendo,” he presses. ”You get bored pretty quick if you own a set, but it's fun to go over and play with a friend's. Bet you ten bucks that guy in black's a CIA agent.”

”Screw this,” I say harshly. ”You're talking like a . . .” Whatever I am going to say is stupid and prissy, so I do not say it.

”You're so G.o.dd.a.m.n jealous!” he says. ”What's your problem?”

”Stop it, you two,” says Jerk.

But Tom insists, ”Lately you are always having a problem. You are being a complete p.e.c.k.e.rhead.”

”I am not a p.e.c.k.e.rhead,” I protest.

”Medical evidence suggests -”

”Would you shut up? I just want to - I don't know.” I am not going to say a thing about girls. That will feed his ego.

”For about three weeks,” says Tom, now slightly hot, ”you've been acting like this.”

”Like what?”

”Like a jerk. Pardon the expression. For about three weeks you've been acting like an a.s.shole. You've been jumping down our throats. You've been saying weird things. I don't know what's up with you. You have more G.o.dd.a.m.n baggage than Grand Central Station.”

I say bitterly, ”Here we go.”

Tom is saying, ”Look, Chris. I don't want to take your s.h.i.+t just because you want to feel up Rebecca G.o.dd.a.m.n Schwartz.”

I stare at him. I can feel the blood shoot up to my face. Birds are wheeling in the trees. ”How did you know?” I ask.

”What do you mean? It's not some state secret. What's your problem? You never talk to her, you stutter when you try, it's just a crush.”

”You haven't told her, have you?” I say. I hope to sound rough, but I sound squeaky.

”Who needs telling?” he asks. ”You're being pathetic. Just ask her out. It's not like she's some hot s.e.x G.o.ddess with the biggest t.i.ts in history.”

”And I apologize for thinking of her in exactly that way,” I say.

”I'm serious, man,” says Tom. Jerk is standing a bit apart, staring at us warily. ”You should just ask her out. What's stopping you? The worst thing that can happen is she laughs at you for months and it becomes this big urban legend.”

So I ask, ”You think I should?”

Tom looks at me and starts to smile. ”You're fis.h.i.+ng for compliments,” he says. ”Aren't you?” He is looking slightly malicious. ”What do you want me to say?”

I answer, ”Nothing,” and turn away. The man in black is quite close to us now. His suit coat ruffles in the wind.

”What do you want me to say?” prods Tom. ”If you want me to say that you're good looking, you have another G.o.dd.a.m.n thing coming.”

”I didn't say that.”

”I'm not going to lie.”

The man in black steps along, slim and tall, a knowing smile on his lips. His black leather shoes are wet from the gra.s.s.

”I appreciate your honesty,” I say bitingly.

”Chris, you're nothing to write home about, buddy,” says Tom mildly. ”But remember, you have your gargantuan intellect and biting wit. Look at that guy's suit. Got to be a CIA agent. You gentlemen owe me ten dollars.”

”It wasn't a bet,” says Jerk glumly. ”We didn't shake on it.”

”I wasn't fis.h.i.+ng for compliments,” I say. ”I know I'm not great looking.”

”h.e.l.lo, boys,” the man says. He pa.s.ses us.

Tom shrugs. ”Look, Chris. Seriously. You're not a monster,” he says. ”You're better looking than a lot of people.” He pauses, and blurts, ”Like burn victims.” He laughs out loud. ”Sorry,” he says.

”Thanks for your support,” I say.

Tom demands, ”What?”

”You really can be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d,” I say.

He looks at me. ”Why?” he sneers. ”Because I could peg Rebecca Schwartz to the floor in my sleep?”

That is it.

I feel a violent urge. I do not know where it comes from. I am grappling with him, and he has fallen back on the gra.s.s. ”You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” I am saying. I am saying it again and again. I feel strangely strong. I want something terrible to happen to him. My mouth is watering.

For a moment, we perch there. My knee pins his stomach. The waves are lapping on the sh.o.r.e. I look at the water. The man in black has heard us shout. He turns back toward us. Slowly, he points his finger.

My eyes swoop down and hit the lake. There, beside Tom's shoulder, they rest on the water.

It is then that I see that I have no reflection.

I see the clouds behind my head. I see Tom's shoulder hanging out over the water. I look down and see our legs, lying in the mud. His are reflected; mine are not.

”You are so full of s.h.i.+t,” he says, seeing how I've frozen.

When he pushes me off, I lie there, staring sideways at the water. I will not say anything to him about it. I desperately want to blurt, ”I'm not in the water!” But I won't. I won't tell him. It is probably just some trick of the light. I need to stop and stare and see what trick of the light it is. All I need to do is bend my head a different way.

I watch Tom swear and wring out the cuff of his jeans.

Jerk is fussing around us. ”Are you okay? Are you, like, okay? Hey, what -?”

”Come on,” says Tom.

I watch their legs walk away over the gra.s.s. Tom's dry foot and wet foot going plod, squoosh, plod, squoosh.

I wait for a minute. The plod, squoosh fades to nothing. Then I roll over so that my head is projecting out over the water.