respond. Mead stares at the shadow of two feet in the crack of light under the door but makes no move to open it. When they don’t go away, he knows who it is and debates whether or not to answer the door. Wonders how long Herman is willing to stand out there before he gives up and leaves. One minute. Ten. Twenty.
After just two minutes, Mead gets up and pulls open the door. “You’re going to wake up my roommate.”
“I bought you a present,” Herman says and hands Mead a Marshall Field’s bag.
He takes it and says, “Why?”
“Because I’m a nice guy, that’s why,” and pushes past Mead into the room, flopping down on his bed. “Go ahead, open it. I want to see the expression of delight on your face when you see what it is.”
Mead opens the bag and lifts out a CD, the one he left in Herman’s room last week. “This isn’t a present, Weinstein, it’s mine.”
“Keep going,” he says. “It gets better.”
The other item in the bag is a cardboard box with a model number printed on the side of it. Mead pulls out the box and stares at it, blank-faced.
“Hmm,” Herman says, “not exactly the expression I was hoping for.” He gets up off the bed and takes the box out of Mead’s hand, then starts rummaging through his desk drawers until he finds a pair of scissors. He cuts away the packing tape and says, “It’s small, but it works just as well as the one I have in my room. Plus, it’s portable.” He plugs various wires into various sockets then plugs the player into the wall and places the headset over Mead’s ears. “It’s the newest technological gizmo on the market: a portable CD player. You’ll be the envy of all your friends.” He then takes the CD out of Mead’s hand, pops it into the player, and hits the PLAY button. Trumpets blare loudly into Mead’s ears, startling him, then the violins start up. He looks over at Forsbeck, afraid the music might wake him, but his roommate is deaf to the orchestra playing at full volume in Mead’s ears.
Herman keeps talking, his lips flapping up and down, but Mead cannot hear him. The guy is smiling, obviously pleased with himself. He pats Mead on the arm, waves goodbye, and shows himself out the door. Mead steps out into the hall and watches as Herman walks away. Glances down at the guy’s shoes and sees a pair of olive green suede loafers. One-of-a-kind. And that’s when Mead knows that he wasn’t seeing things, that there
were
two pairs of shoes in that bathroom stall.
3
THE LIFE OF A RIVER
High Grove
Eight Years Before Graduation
M EAD PERCHES ON THE STEPS just outside the junior high school, like a bird ready to take flight at the first sign of danger, his eyes darting left and then right as he scans the grounds, as he mentally records the various activities of his fellow classmates. He sips through a straw the chocolate milk he keeps tucked inside his coat pocket and sneaks bites from the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich he has hidden up his sleeve. He always eats his lunch like this, on the sly while the other kids are preoccupied with playing, and not in the school cafeteria. He gave up on the cafeteria years ago when he got tired of finding caterpillars hidden in his macaroni-and-cheese and grasshoppers buried in his mashed potatoes. He prefers to spend his lunchtime in the boys’ room behind the closed door of a stall accompanied by the whoopee cushion he purchased with his allowance at the five-and-dime. In case anyone should come looking for trouble. As a result of this predilection, he has a new nickname: Windy Teddy. But at least now his food pyramid no longer includes a subcategory for arthropods.
As the front door to the school squeaks open behind Mead, he tucks the milk carton back into his pocket, the sandwich up his sleeve, and sits with his arms crossed over his chest. As a precaution. But it’s just Percy, Mead’s cousin. The last time they attended the same school Mead was in second grade and his cousin was in
After just two minutes, Mead gets up and pulls open the door. “You’re going to wake up my roommate.”
“I bought you a present,” Herman says and hands Mead a Marshall Field’s bag.
He takes it and says, “Why?”
“Because I’m a nice guy, that’s why,” and pushes past Mead into the room, flopping down on his bed. “Go ahead, open it. I want to see the expression of delight on your face when you see what it is.”
Mead opens the bag and lifts out a CD, the one he left in Herman’s room last week. “This isn’t a present, Weinstein, it’s mine.”
“Keep going,” he says. “It gets better.”
The other item in the bag is a cardboard box with a model number printed on the side of it. Mead pulls out the box and stares at it, blank-faced.
“Hmm,” Herman says, “not exactly the expression I was hoping for.” He gets up off the bed and takes the box out of Mead’s hand, then starts rummaging through his desk drawers until he finds a pair of scissors. He cuts away the packing tape and says, “It’s small, but it works just as well as the one I have in my room. Plus, it’s portable.” He plugs various wires into various sockets then plugs the player into the wall and places the headset over Mead’s ears. “It’s the newest technological gizmo on the market: a portable CD player. You’ll be the envy of all your friends.” He then takes the CD out of Mead’s hand, pops it into the player, and hits the PLAY button. Trumpets blare loudly into Mead’s ears, startling him, then the violins start up. He looks over at Forsbeck, afraid the music might wake him, but his roommate is deaf to the orchestra playing at full volume in Mead’s ears.
Herman keeps talking, his lips flapping up and down, but Mead cannot hear him. The guy is smiling, obviously pleased with himself. He pats Mead on the arm, waves goodbye, and shows himself out the door. Mead steps out into the hall and watches as Herman walks away. Glances down at the guy’s shoes and sees a pair of olive green suede loafers. One-of-a-kind. And that’s when Mead knows that he wasn’t seeing things, that there
were
two pairs of shoes in that bathroom stall.
3
THE LIFE OF A RIVER
High Grove
Eight Years Before Graduation
M EAD PERCHES ON THE STEPS just outside the junior high school, like a bird ready to take flight at the first sign of danger, his eyes darting left and then right as he scans the grounds, as he mentally records the various activities of his fellow classmates. He sips through a straw the chocolate milk he keeps tucked inside his coat pocket and sneaks bites from the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich he has hidden up his sleeve. He always eats his lunch like this, on the sly while the other kids are preoccupied with playing, and not in the school cafeteria. He gave up on the cafeteria years ago when he got tired of finding caterpillars hidden in his macaroni-and-cheese and grasshoppers buried in his mashed potatoes. He prefers to spend his lunchtime in the boys’ room behind the closed door of a stall accompanied by the whoopee cushion he purchased with his allowance at the five-and-dime. In case anyone should come looking for trouble. As a result of this predilection, he has a new nickname: Windy Teddy. But at least now his food pyramid no longer includes a subcategory for arthropods.
As the front door to the school squeaks open behind Mead, he tucks the milk carton back into his pocket, the sandwich up his sleeve, and sits with his arms crossed over his chest. As a precaution. But it’s just Percy, Mead’s cousin. The last time they attended the same school Mead was in second grade and his cousin was in
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