Living with the hawk by Robert Currie

for the track that ran around the field, but I was thinking of something I’d once heard my father tell my mother, “Even the disciples were far from perfect. Take St. Peter; when it comes right down to it, he was a bit of a misogynist.” When they were finished in the den, I’d looked up the word in the big dictionary that always lay open on a stand beside my father’s desk.
    Was Blake a woman-hater, I wondered, was that what Saturday night was all about? He was far from perfect, oh man, yes, and I had some evidence that Coach would never know.
    Still, pussy was Jordan’s term, his way of nailing anyone who wasn’t doing exactly what he thought they should. He used the term a lot, but never when Coach Conley was anywhere around. He was way too smart for that.

    Later in the week, I passed the girl from Saturday night hurrying down the hall at school. No red sweater on her like a flare this time, but a grey shirt, pale and subdued, her head down, the expression on her face subdued too. I don’t think she noticed me. Probably wouldn’t recognize me anyway. I watched her all the way down the hall until she disappeared into her home room. Another grade nine room. She was no older than I was.
    An elbow in my ribs. “Got your eye on someone hot, eh?” Evan Morgan was right beside me, leering.
    â€œNot exactly. But I’d kind of like to know who that is?”
    â€œYeah, I’ll bet you would. Boobs on her like a porn star.”
    I wondered what Evan was going on about. She was pretty all right, but her boobs were nothing special. I decided to keep it light. “More like a Disney star, I’d say. You don’t know her name, eh?”
    â€œSure. Amber Saunders.” He leaned against me, grinning, gave me another jab in the ribs. “I hear she goes for football players.”
    It was a week before I saw her again. Noon hour on a nice day, warm September sun beaming down, most of the kids outside on the lawn, sucking back on Slurpies and Big Gulps, when I headed for my locker to get some homework I should’ve finished the night before. I came booting down the stairs, opened the basement door, and stopped.
    At the bank of grade nine lockers part way down the hall, I saw Jordan Phelps leaning against a locker, a girl pinned between his arms. He must have just come in from outside, because he still wore his football jacket, the lightning crest on its leather sleeve just visible in the shadows of the hallway. When the girl tried to squirm free, ducking her head beneath his arm, I saw it was Amber Saunders. He was too quick for her, grabbing her shoulder, pushing her back against the locker. He lowered his head then, and whispered in her ear. A stage whisper — I could just make out what he was saying. “Come on, babe, you know you liked it lying there on the grass. Looking up — and all that fresh meat just for you.” He laughed, shoving himself against her, rubbing his crotch on her stomach.
    The bastard, I thought, and took a step towards them, but just then, from behind the row of lockers, another girl appeared, a native, the one I’d seen playing volleyball. She paused, watching them for an instant, her body rigid, skin tight over high cheek bones, front teeth digging at her lower lip. She took a deep breath and strode toward them.
    â€œAsshole,” she said.
    I don’t think Jordan knew she was there until he heard her speak. As he turned to see who it was, she hit him in the shoulder with her fist, hard, spinning him around — he must’ve been too surprised to react because before he made another move she was between him and Amber, her knee flying up, catching him right in the groin, and he was falling backwards, the metal locker clanking behind him. She grabbed Amber by the arm, yanking her away from him, the two of them starting toward the stairs, breaking into a run.
    â€œDamned wagon-burner!” Jordan slumped against a