The Grievers by Marc Schuster Page A

repeat itself, Neil took a moment to remind us once again, and more gently than I’d managed, why we were gathered. We wanted to make a donation to the Academy in Billy’s name, he said—because he always loved the school, because he always lived the Noblac ideals, because our friendship meant the world to him. I added that I’d spoken to Phil Ennis, and though a scholarship in Billy’s name was out of the question, we could at least make a respectable donation to the fund the Academy was setting up for Philly boys.
    “What if we bought the school a ping-pong table?” Sean suggested. “For the student lounge. I know some people. We can get it wholesale. Add a brass nameplate for twenty bucks or so? It could be a nice gesture.”
    “We’re thinking more of a cash donation,” Neil said.
    “If I recall correctly—and there’s no reason to believe I don’t—Billy did play a lot of ping-pong,” Greg said. “So Sean’s idea certainly has merit.”
    “When did Billy play ping-pong?” I asked.
    “Every day,” Sean said. “At lunch. I remember like it was yesterday.”
    “You also remember that he brought a wok to school.”
    “Even so, I think it’s an appropriate gift.”
    “Whatever you guys decide is fine with me,” Dwayne said. “Put me down for twenty bucks.”
    “Twenty?” I said.
    “Okay, thirty.”
    “You’re joking, right?”
    “We were hoping everyone could at least give a hundred,” Neil said. “It’s not a lot, but at least it’s something.”
    “Not a lot?” Dwayne said. “I’ll go as high as fifty, but that’s it.”
    “This isn’t an auction,” I said. “We’re talking about a friend of ours.”
    “I still think we should go with the ping-pong table,” Sean said.
    “We’re not buying a ping-pong table,” I said.
    Neil shot me a glance that said I was losing my cool, but it was too late. My cool, if I ever had any, was long gone, and I felt as if I were watching myself turn rabid in a low-budget nature documentary. My eyes went wide. My pulse turned rapid. My hands started shaking. I could hear my voice getting louder as I spoke, but even the prospect of drawing unwanted attention to myself and my fellow Academy grads didn’t slow me down.
    “You understand that Billy’s dead, right? He jumped off the Henry Avenue Bridge because people like us never gave him the time of day. And now that we’re trying to do something nice for him, all you care about is trying to figure out the cheapest way to do it. He was our friend, for Christ’s sake. And you want to buy a ping-pong table? No wonder they call it the Bastard Factory. You guys are a bunch of—cheap—fucking—bastards.”
    The last words escaped my lips in stuttering staccato bursts, and our waitress hurried to the table to see if everything was okay. Before I could turn to her and say that, no, everything was decidedly not okay, Neil apologized for my outburst and asked for the check.
    “You’re upset,” Sean said. “I understand. Maybe we should continue this conversation another time. You do have my card, right?”
    “Yes, Sean. I have your card.”
    “Then call me sometime, okay? You’d be amazed at how a new car can change your outlook on things.”
    Neil raised a discreet hand to keep me from leaping out of my seat, but it didn’t matter. Something inside me had broken, and there was nothing I could do to fix it, so I slumped forward in my chair and told Sean I’d be in touch as he dropped a few bills on the table and said that he’d had a good time.
    “As have I, gentlemen,” Greg said. “But I fear I’ve kept Mother waiting long enough.”
    “Your mother still waits up for you?” Dwayne asked.
    “God, no,” Greg said. “She’s waiting in the car.”
    Greg opened his wallet and laid a ten-dollar bill on the table. He’d only had a hamburger, he said by way of explanation. In fact, we probably owed him some change, but given the somber nature of the occasion, he was willing to let