Friendswood by Rene Steinke

undiscovered—not in the right crowd, but not necessarily strange.
    Last Tuesday the teacher asked them to exchange their essays, arguments as to whether or not there should be a military draft—they’d both argued against it. He could tell hers was well written, and he didn’t see any grammatical mistakes, but his mind wandered as he read, and he knew that if he didn’t make a suggestion, he’d lose her respect, so he wrote, “This is okay, but it needs more flash.” Willa handed his back to him with a little clucking sound. Her round handwriting said, “Just say what you think.” She’d drawn three stars below the comment.

HAL

    O N AN INDEX CARD taped to his dashboard, this Bible verse: “Beloved, I pray that you may prosper in all things and be in health, just as your soul prospers.” He moved his lips to the words as he read them now, to put them inside his body. On the way to Avery Taft’s office, as he drove past the green fields and the crosses of telephone poles, he felt the prongs of the consonants on his lips and tongue.
    On Sunrise Drive, he could see in the distance the attenuated 7s of the football field lights and the bland brick rectangle of the high school, where he hoped Cully was concentrating on what he was supposed to be learning.
    He passed the Reese house, which he’d sold just below the asking price back in December. With its austere gray brick and stately pillars near the front door, the gold cupola on the top of the roof, it looked like a trophy. He’d sold it to an insurance man who’d been skeptical of the elaborate game room, but Hal had convinced him that a built-in pool table could be therapeutic, and they’d had a long talk about the game. Hal had been praying. He needed more blessings like the Reese house sale, like the other night with Darlene, when her breasts had looked full and white in the lamplight, and she’d said how much she needed him. He’d been trying like hell to free himself from sin.
    When he turned the corner, the sunlight swiped against the windshield, and he parked next to Avery’s white Mercedes in the lot. TaftProperty’s office was a model home near the entrance to one of Avery’s subdivisions, a palatial colonial with three stories and two balconies, four large white pilasters from roof to bottom like great, neatly creased scrolls of paper. Not to Hal’s taste, though he admired the effort. Hal straightened his tie in the rearview mirror, brushed the lint and Danish crumbs from his blue pants, and got out of the car.
    Inside, the receptionist, Sahara or Shawna, a cute blonde wearing a suit that looked too old for her, called Avery on the intercom to announce that Hal had arrived. Avery appeared at the top of the staircase, dressed just like his foremen, only a little more expensively, a little more showily. The boots were blue snakeskin, and the dark jeans looked pressed.
    â€œHowdy, Hal. Come on up,” he said. As Hal made his way, he felt overdressed in his suit and tie, weaker because of it. At the landing, Avery slapped him on the back. “How’ve you been?” His curly dark hair and red lips were deceptively youthful.
    â€œGood. Good.”
    â€œSo, what are you thinking about this game? Think we can get around that Monster Thompson?”
    â€œWell, I tell you what, Coach says they’ve been looking alive—looking crisp.”
    â€œGlad to hear it. I don’t want that thing we got last year. You got to close the deal when you’ve got them down.” When they’d played Brenham last season, they’d let them come back, lost by just one point on a field goal in the last seconds of the game.
    â€œWell,” said Hal, “that’s for damn sure. Nobody likes to get kicked in the stomach like that.” Avery asked about the lineup—who was in, who was hurting—and Hal told him what he could, bullshitted the rest.