TAPE EIGHT									12/10/85

	After that happened, things didn't get any better. In fact, in the weeks that followed I almost never saw Marlene. We never talked at school, anyway, but now if she saw me coming she'd duck behind someone or go around a corner or hide in the girls' head. In art class she seemed panicked all the time and never looked over at me. Then she began to cut art class, and finally I guess she was cutting school altogether.
	When I went to her house she never answered, if she was even there. I had a feeling a lot of the time that she wasn't.  I took to spying in serious this time, but I never caught her going in or out.
	It worried me a lot, and that was a time when I didn't need distractions. The track season was coming to an end, and there was a good chance that the varsity and maybe the bee team would go on to post-league play. I'd been doing pretty well, and I should've been really excited and practicing hard, but this thing with Marlene really had me depressed.  I missed her - not just the sex and not the goddamned house - but seeing and talking and just being with her. I hadn't realized how much she'd come to mean to me, and I really hurt.
	If I couldn't talk to her, I needed to talk to someone, but that only made clear to me how alone I was again. My mother had her usual bullshit of supposed meetings and appointments, and if we did happen to find ourselves together and she wasn't nagging me about something, there was no way to get started.  Anyway, if I told her the whole thing...there was no way!
	I could have talked to my brother, but then Danny was Danny. I came to see him like some two-ton rock you had in the back yard. Either you accepted it or you got pissed off at it, but what the hell could you do with it? Blow it up, maybe, but I had the feeling that this was a rock that might blow up by itself sometime. Danny always seemed super-calm, but he had this thing.  I wasn't sure if it was just with me or with everyone. I used to talk to him a lot when I was a little kid. He was several years older than me, but he always took care to talk to me so that I could understand.  But ever since...for a long time that had changed.
	As far as friends went, I really had only Glenn and Al. I saw Glenn as the kind of guy you messed around with and had good times, but I couldn't imagine serious conversations with him, so that left only Al.  But Al and I'd been coming apart that whole year, and then this very stupid thing happened.
	It was the week of our meet with Pasadena High, which was usually a pretty good track power. If the bee team could beat them - and then Glendale High the next week - we would win the league, and there was a good chance we could do it. The varsity seemed sure to win and if both teams won league championships it would be the first time in our school's history. Everyone was saying good things about Soz and his creative techniques and how he had made the sport so popular around school. A double championship would look really great for him, and I really wanted us to get it.
	On the day of the meet everyone was nervous as hell, as usual.  I skipped lunch, because once I didn't and ended up throwing up the whole thing just before my start. Of course, the most popular place in the gym before a meet was the head. No one went there for conversation, and the smell sent you out as fast as you could manage. Funny how your body takes care of getting rid of excess baggage when it knows something heavy is coming. I tried to avoid that place if I could, but even with no lunch I felt the call as I was changing into my uniform, and there was no way to argue about it. I was already half-stripped, so I left the locker closed - but not locked - and dashed across the gym. On the way I waved to Al who was just going to his locker, next to mine.
	When I came back Al was already suited out and leaving the locker row. In his hand he had a can which he tried to hide behind him as I approached. It looked like the wintergreen ointment from the whirlpool bath.  If you had a strained muscle or something, Coach often sent you to the whirlpool to relax it.  If you rubbed on the ointment, too, it made the muscle area very hot and helped relax it more, but you had to be careful not to put it on the wrong places, because you could really give yourself a hell of a burn. It was usually locked up.
	Al had the key to the whirlpool because of a strain he'd gotten during the week, but I was surprised he'd use it just before a meet.  When he saw me he seemed nervous.
	"What'cha got that for?" I asked.
	“Coach told me to warm up my leg a little."
	"Before a meet?"
	'That's what he said."
	"He's the coach."
	Al left, and I went back to changing. I guess I daydreamed a little, thinking about my troubles and about him and me. I'd thought things between us had been improving during the track season, but he always seemed a little sarcastic, like he resented that I was friends with anyone else or that I didn't spend much time with him.  I wanted to explain about Marlene, but I didn't know how or if he would understand it right.  I remembered how easy it used to be with Al.
	The summer after eighth grade his family took a small vacation house at Sunset Beach. It surprised me when his mother called mine and invited me for a week. Al's family had never included me in their stuff.  It was the first time I'd even spent time at the beach.  It was like a new world.
	During the mornings we'd explore the mud beds on the tidal flats behind their house, catching crabs and starting crab wars, looking for anything interesting in the shallows. In the afternoons, when the fog had burned off, we'd swim in the bay or cross the highway to the ocean where we'd walk for hours or run with wet mattress covers until they filled with air then use them for surfing pontoons. Sometimes we'd just read comic books and sneak cigarettes.  Even the cloudy days seemed bright and full of new discoveries or great ideas.
	At night we'd join some campfire or scare ourselves talking to the bums that stayed on Tin Can Beach or watch as millions of little organisms in the surf bashed themselves into phosphorescent glow or just sit and see the lights of Long Beach shining like some magic island floating in the distance. By the end of that week we were friends for life.  Or so it seemed then.
	Suddenly I realized that no one else was left in the locker room. I rushed to finish dressing. I barely noticed the smell of wintergreen by our lockers or that it got stronger when I opened mine. I stripped off my pants and shorts and got into my jock, uniform and sweats. I grabbed my spikes and headed for the track where Coach had already begun warmups.
	When I joined the group Coach gave me a sort of dry look for getting there late. 
I took my place and began the stretching exercise the others were doing. Somehow the smell of wintergreen had followed me out on the field.  Al must have put a lot on his leg, I thought, but he was on the other side of the group, quite a way from me.  I looked over at him, and he was watching me.
	Then I knew why. The warmup was warming up way too fast, especially between my legs. "Great Balls of Fire" suddenly had deep, personal meaning. Some asshole had put wintergreen on my jock, and I knew who it was.  The fire was everywhere. My legs and balls were flaming as the heat of the sweats mixed with the ointment. I jumped up in agony. The coach looked over in disbelief as I did an impromptu watusi, shedding my sweats in the process.  As I looked across at Al his back was to me - probably laughing, the son of a bitch.
	"Thomas, what...what's wrong with you?" Coach yelled.
	"Sorry, Coach, gotta go," I screamed as I bolted across the field toward the stands and the locker room below.
	As I crossed the track I was out of my running shorts and the team was howling. The parents who'd arrived early at the stands were amazed, too, I guess. At the entrance to the tunnel that led to the locker room the jock was off. I screamed straight into the showers and started washing furiously. By the time Coach Soz arrived the pain was down a lot, and I was letting cold water run over me.
	"Thomas, I want to know right now what's going on," he said, all serious, like accusing me.
	"Sorry, Coach, something got into my pants. Burns like hell.”
	He'd picked up my shorts and jock, and now he, too, could recognize the smell.
	"Who did this? This kind of screwing around can be dangerous." 
	"You're telling me!  You know I didn't do it, Coach." 
	"Do you know who did?" 
	"I'd rather not say." 
	"Well, I think I know, and we're going to get this starightened out after the meet. This kind of stuff isn't going to get started here. You OK now?" 
	"Yeah, I guess."
	"Have you got something else to wear?" 
	"I can put on my Jockey shorts."
	"OK."
	He threw me the running shorts, but kept the jock as evidence. Back at my locker as I dried and dressed again I thought about Al.  I'd never realized how much he resented me. Why? He was strong-willed, but usually fair. We always used to talk man-to-man when he was mad. What'd I done to get him so pissed off that he would do this?
	I was fast going beyond giving a shit. There was only so much you could take. First Marlene and then this. I was building up a tremendous desire to get even with someone. How much shit were you supposed to handle?
	It's funny how when you're really wrong about something your chance to prove it to the world comes along so fast.  Mine showed up that very afternoon in the form of the Frog.
	One of Soz's innovations was the use of an announcer at the track meets. His idea was that some track events were a little complicated for people who didn't run. That is, running is simple enough, but all the different events are confusing. He thought more kids would come to meets if they knew what was going on and who was doing what. His idea was to have a public address system and an announcer to let people know what event was up next, a little about it, and, of course, the results. At this point Soz turned to Froggy.
	Fred Kroll was one of those little kids you love to hate. Everyone called him Froggy because he was small and a little green, and he looked like the frog they used to use in Buster Brown shoe ads. He was one of the track managers - or Soz's Slaves - and he was also very big on the audio-visual crew, so he knew how to hook up PA systems and stuff like that.
	Coach Soz had typed up information about each event on the 6 by 9 salmon-colored index cards that he used for everything. Froggy would read these before the event. In addition, Soz would jot down results of races and other neat facts which he would send over to be read off. As the meet progressed I'd watched this happen several times, and suddenly my revenge was clear in my mind.
	The meet was very tight. About half of the events had been held, and the varsity was ahead by 10 points while the bee's margin was only three. I'd gone through my warm-ups. My event, the 1320 yard run, followed the 660 relay, which would be run in about five minutes.  Already Al and the three other guys on the relay team were practicing hand-offs and limbering up. I'd stayed on opposite sides of the field from Al during the meet, so we'd had no chance to talk.
	Now I walked slowly over to the kit that Soz always used at meets. In it he kept stop watches, bandages, first-aid, and other odd stuff, as well as the salmon index cards. Soz was near the finish line talking to one of the runners. Quickly, I slipped out a card and a marker. With my back to Soz, I wrote out the message then dropped the marker back into the kit. Next, I crossed to Froggy's master control booth - a chair and table with a microphone on it - and handed him the card.
	"Read this announcement, Froggy, it's important."
	"Don't rush me, Thomas. I'm trying to get this wiring straightened out."
	"How much wiring can you have on one microphone?"
	"Don't be wise, Thomas, this is technical. You wouldn't understand it"
	"How would you understand a spike in the ass, shithead?"
	"Is this from Coach Soz?"
	"What do you think?"
	"I'll read it after this race ends. I'm not supposed to announce during the races."	
	“Just do it."
	I walked back and sat on a bench not far from the announcer's table. The varsity 880 run ended. Now was the perfect time for the announcement, but complications set in in the form - or lack of form - of Froggy's girlfriend. I know she had a name, but it doesn't come back to me. Being Froggy's girlfriend, of course she was just Frogette to all of us. At that moment she appeared on the field and began directing her amphibian charms at the poor Frog. Instead of reading the card, he shoved it aside as love filled his beady eyes. He and Frogette whispered sweet nothings about tadpoles and swamps as the wind whipped the card off the table.
	The 660 relay was setting up to begin. It was run in two 110 and two 220 yard sprints around the track and started on the side of the track opposite the usual finish line. The race totaled a lap and a half, so it ended in front of the stands.
	Dave DiGaetano was already on the track for the start, and Al stood on the grass next to him ready to move onto the track for the anchor leg. On my side of the field Jack Marshall was ready for the second hand-off. Dick Williams was in position on the curve.
	Meanwhile I was having second thoughts about the announcement and had come to the conclusion that it was lucky Froggy'd said nothing. I got up to pick up the card when Frogette broke away from her lover and picked it up first.  Immediately she began to lecture him on letting their great love blind him to duty.  That left me well-nauseated, but Froggy was struck deeply, for if he was one thing beside froggish it was dutiful.  He began to search around for his glasses which he'd taken off in order to look more sexy. On the track the starter had raised his pistol, set and fired, and DiGaetano was off on the first leg of the relay.
	Although the relay was run in lanes for the first lap, and the runners were staggered at the start, you could see that Williams was opening a lead after just the first handoff. As the runners rounded the curve, the lead grew so that as Willliams bore down on Marshall, he'd opened up about seven yards between the two teams. Marshall was already in his crouch, looking back over his right shoulder, his right hand back, palm down, to receive the upward thrust of the baton. The handoff was perfect, and Marshall blasted away, increasing the lead as the Pasadena pair muffed their handoff a little.
	I looked back to see what Froggy was doing, and to my horror it appeared that he was going to make the announcement during the race. Apparently he was so upset that he'd forgotten Coach's instructions.  I started to make a jump for the microphone, but it was too late.  Surprisingly, the Frog had a very clear speaking voice over the PA system.  As Marshall began to round the second curve, this professional-sounding voice declared,
	"A special announcement from Coach Sosky: Will Master Allen Bates please report to the announcement stand at once. Repeat: Master Bates, come immediately!"
	The effect was electric. There was a great roar from the stands.  A group of guys began to cheer, "Master Bates - Master Bates - Master Bates," before they realized what fools they were and shut up. The principal, who was officiating at the finish line turned sort of purple. Soz, a few steps away, turned red.
	The real disaster was forming across the field. Al had already begun his crouch on the track as Marshall rounded the curve and began to bear down on him, a good ten yards ahead of his opponent. Upon hearing the announcement, Al lifted his head and turned toward the stands to see if it was really a message from Soz.  Coach, meanwhile, had reached midfield, running and waving and screaming, "No! No!," only adding to Al's confusion.
	It was too late. Marshall had already begun the upswing of the baton for the handoff.  By mere inches he missed giving Al a permanent rectal implant.  As it was, he gave him a terrific swat, then climbed up his back, and the two went sprawling on the track. By a miracle, neither was spiked, either by themselves or by the Pasadena men who'd made a good handoff. Their man was fast opening space. Soz had nearly reached the other side of the field by then, yelling, 'Go! Go!," and waving after the other runner. Al, being a great competitor, quickly understood.  He spotted the baton on the track and got it and then tore after the other racer in spite of his painful scrapes.
	By the curve, he'd closed the gap to fifteen yards.  As they entered the straightaway leading to the finish he continued to close on the other - probably his best sprint to date - but it was no use. Pasadena picked up all five points.
	By now Coach had pretty well sized up what was going on. But he just walked slowly to the announcement table and pocketed the card that still lay by the microphone. Through it all sat Froggy with his strange froggy smile, oblivious to the chaos around him or to the fact that he'd set it all off.  He had done his duty.
	If Soz's strategy called for me to win points in the 1320, it was no good. By the time the race began, I was so demoralized I could barely drag myself to the start. I did manage some sort of run, but came in a poor fifth out of six. Harold Jones, who I always beat, finished second with Pasadena runners in first and third. The bee team lost by five points. Even a second on my part could have won the meet for us. In my mind I designed the new Andrew Thomas crest: a turkey rampant on a field of chicken shit with the motto, "Semper Asshole," emblazoned on the bottom.
	After he'd said a little to the other coach, Soz signaled that he wanted Al and me in his office. As usual, he could make you feel shittier with a few of his quiet words than most teachers could with a lot of screaming and yelling. When he told us that between the two of us we'd managed to lose the whole meet for the bee team, I never saw Al closer to tears. For someone as nuts about sports as he was, that was about the worst thing you could tell him.
	With that card in my handwriting sitting there on Soz's desk, there wasn't much I could deny, but Al did deny that he'd used the wintergreen. I could feel his eyes boring into the side of my head after he saw the card, and I was ready to say a few choice things to him, but that shut me up.  I knew he'd never lie just to protect himself.
	Because Al wouldn't tell who did it, Soz said that he'd have to take the guilty person's punishment, too. We were suspended for the Glendale meet and maybe for the league meet, too, depending on whether we finished the rest of the punishment. We had one week to do 25 miles around the track. That broke down to twenty laps a day after the regular workout. We had to stay on opposite sides of the track from each other all the time, and as a nice ironic touch, Coach put the Frog in charge of supervising the whole thing.
	Froggy Truimphant!  It was a very frightening thing.  The slimy little salamander took a seat well up in the stands, like a warty little king on a huge throne. He even found a cheerleader's megaphone so that he could croak out orders to us. Every day after practice Al and I started on opposite sides of the track while the Frog kept count of the laps and screamed if we slowed down.
	At first Al and I played shitty little games with each other. He was a much better sprinter than I was, so just when I'd get tired and start to walk he'd go into a sprint and close distance between us. I'd have to start running to get back on the other side of the track. The understanding was to follow the rules exactly or get off the team. You could bet that the Frog would tell Soz every little detail.
	In the long run, though, Al had to knock it off. I was better at distances than he was, and I could just keep jogging and jogging long after he was wiped out.  If he wanted any rest, he had to cooperate, and I guess that was the point of it all, straight from the mind of Soz.  You couldn't help but love the guy.
	By Thursday we were exhausted, and even Froggy was letting down his guard. After about fifteen laps I noticed that Frogette had stopped by for a few croaks with her toad, so I just crashed on the infield, figuring Al would do the same. After a few minutes I heard Al's voice above me.
	"I didn't do that shit to you, y'know."
	I rolled over, surprised.	
	"I know."
	"How?"
	"You said so." I paused. "I suppose it was sweet Billy?"
	Al didn't say anything.
	"Y'know, even with your protection he's gonna get the shit kicked out of him some day. Why'd he do it?"
	"Same as always.  Jealous of you.  He found my key and got the stuff, but I thought I'd got it back before he used it.  He's a little fucked up."
	"He's a big fucked up. Aw, forget it. I should’ve known better. I'm sorry about that name shit."
	"No big deal. I've gotten that stuff all my life. Ree Bates, Dee Bates, Fish Bates, lots of funny stuff. Never heard yours, though."
	That made me feel bad, so I figured we had to stop the apologizing and get on to something new. I told him we weren't communicating much anymore and that was my fault because I'd gotten sort of tied up with Marlene.  It was the first time I’d ever mentioned her to him. He said he knew.
	"How?"
	"Billy spotted you going into her house a couple of times. My other aunt lives on that street, and he goes over there sometimes to help her clean her place. She's older and lives alone. I guess she sorta spies on the neighbors, too. She told Billy you go there all the time. That's another reason he's pissed at you. He's hated that girl since the first day of school."
	"Well, that's tough shit."
	I thought I really ought to settle with Finley, but I felt so bad about the thing with Al that I just decided to let it go.
	"You really got the hots for her?"
	His question brought me back.
	"Oh, we do homework together. She helps me a lot."
	"I never knew you needed help with homework."
	"Well, maybe with other things, too."
	Just then Froggy came running across the field, screaming,
	"OK, now you guys are really gonna get it. Wait 'til Coach hears about this. I knew you guys couldn't keep it up. Now we'll see who has the last laugh, Mr. Wise-ass Thomas."
	"Shove it, Frog, or I'll eat your legs for dinner tonight," I said, rolling over.
	"Yeah, Frog, why don't you come over by my house?" Al joined in. "There's a vacant lot with lots of mosquitoes that bother us.  I bet you could zap up a couple pounds of 'em with that tongue."
	"Oh, sure. You guys are supposed to hate each other, but naturally you can get together to pick on me.”
	"Aw, come on, Froggy, don't get blue - I mean green,” said Al.  “Where”s Frogette? Why don't you go off behind the gym and plunk her with your magic twanger a few times?”
	“Obscene! Obscene!” I screamed.  “Talking about frog twangers in public!”
	I grabbed At by the leg and flipped him on his back. Then he pulled me over, and like nothing had happened we were wrestling and laughing just like old times as the Frog stomped off in disgust.
	For a while it did seem like old times, but it really wasn't. I still needed Marlene, and I still couldn't tell Al much about her. I guess he knew most everything, but you could tell he didn't like it.  I don't know if he was being very moralistic or maybe just jealous.  Maybe he really thought she was a bad person; but I guess he hadn't done it yet, and that just added to the space between us.
	And then there was another slow poison at work. I'd apologized about "Master Bates.”  He'd said it was nothing.  But my revenge turned out to be much worse than the provocation. In two days the burn on my crotch was gone, but as fate would have it - like "Bubbles" - ''Master” caught and stuck.  More and more kids started calling him that. He had a sense of humor, but he also had his father's stubborn pride. Each time someone made a Master joke he smiled while I cringed, but each time there was a little more tooth in the smile. Under his breath one day I heard him say to someone that some guys were stuck beating off, but maybe that was better than being a real mother-fucker.
 	It was about that time - I guess in my English class - that I read the line from Shakespeare about, “he who steals my purse steals trash, but he who screws with my name is an asshole,” or something to that effect.  It was too bad, but it made sense.
	So Al and I came back together only to blow farther apart. I knew then that the one I had to work things out with was Marlene. Every day I passed by her house.  I knocked and called.  I cared less what neighbors including Al's nosy aunt - might think. Once or twice I noticed her father's car and seriously thought about introducing myself and asking about Marlene. I'd become that desperate.
	Then one night it happened again. I thought I’d been sucked into some time warp.  I was out jogging about eight o'clock when, as usual, I just happened to pass by her house. It looked like it was Christmas again. There were no decorations, but it seemed like all the same cars were back, and there was a party going on.  Music and laughter sounded from the open windows, only this time the front drapes were closed. But there - sure as hell - was Ronnie Robertson's shiny '49 Ford.
	I was crazy. I paced back and forth. Two or three times I marched up to the door, only to chicken out. I babbled to myself, and then, as stupid as it sounds, what I did was I sat down on the hood of Robertson’s car and began to grind my jogging shoes slowly up and down over that 2-inch thick dark blue metallic paint job. I guess I went into kind of a trance. I don't know how much time passed - a couple of hours, probably. And all that time I sat on the hood, knees up, arms over knees, feet slowly sanding back and forth.
	It was almost eleven when the front door opened, and some people began to come out. The first couples barely noticed me, but then there was a choked scream from the front porch.
	“Hey! What the fuck’re you doin’ on my car? Get down from there you jerk."
	He raced out to the curb.
	“Son of a bitch Look what you've done to the paint job! You fucker!  I'm gonna beat shit out of you. Get the hell down from there.”
	By that time Marlene - looking just great in a strapless dark green cocktail dress - and some others had gotten down to the street and were trying to hold Robertson off. Not that I cared. Slowly I got down from the car. There was only shiny metal - no paint - where my feet had been.  Marlene looked a little pissed, but a little ashamed at the same time. Robertson was white in the face and way beyond speech. He lunged at me but missed and sprawled across the car. He was bigger than me and could probably have done me some damage, but I wasn't thinking much about that. I couldn't get my eyes off Marlene. I really wanted to say something to her, but it wasn't a real good time for a conversation.
	I don't know what would have happened between Robertson and me. I'd have gotten the shit kicked out, I guess. I didn't know much about fighting, having had only one. I don't even know if I would have defended myself.  Anyway, I didn't find out right then.
	At the corner of the street red lights began flashing on a police car that gunned like crazy then screeched to a stop next to us. Out stepped Officer Chiabotti, who’d been a good friend of my father. He listened patiently to Robertson and the others, then made like he was arresting me and made me get into the back of the police car. He told Robertson that he could make an official complaint if he wanted to as this looked like what they called willful destruction of property.  Robertson, acting all greasy now that he had calmed down, said that he certainly would and thanked the officer.
	Officer Chiabotti drove me off down the street, then turned toward the downtown area, like he was hauling me in. But after only a block or so he pulled over and stopped.
	“What the hell did you do something stupid like that for? You'll end up paying a lot for a new paint job. I never picked you for that kind of kid.”
	"Maybe that's the kind of kid I am."
	"Or maybe it had something to do with the girl in the green dress? She looks like she might be worth a fight or two."
	"It was something like that," I said, admiring his instincts.
	I was beginning to get a little more rational. I asked him how he happened to be in the area at that moment.
	“One of the old ladies in the neighborhood called about the noise from the party. These old biddies around here are on top of everything. I'd just turned the corner when I saw the group forming around you and the other kid. Listen, I've got other things that need doing. We're only a couple blocks from your place, right?"
	“Yeah.”
	“If I let you out now, will you promise me to go right home and not back to the party?"
	I promised him I would. I was sort of mentally beat out, in any case. I really wanted to talk to Marlene, but I knew there wasn't any chance of that, so I went home.
	The next day it occurred to me that there might be some trouble at school, so I took the high route and varied it a little through side streets so that I arrived at the back of the school just in case Robertson was waiting for me in front. I told myself I wasn't being chickenshit, but you know. I didn't see his car in the upper parking lot, but just as I turned the corner by the auto shop, there it was, along with Robertson and about ten of his big-deal junior friends.
	They all saw me at once and started saying shitty things to Robertson. He looked over and started in my direction. There wasn't much for it, but I just kept on walking ahead.
	"Hey, asshole, I want to talk to you," he called.
	Not wanting to acknowledge that, I just kept walking. He stepped in my way.
	"I said I want to talk to you."
	"My name isn't asshole."
	"Oh, listen to that. He wipes out my car and then wants formal introductions.”  The others snickered at that.  “You're asshole to me, kid. Why did you fuck with my car?"
	"Maybe I didn't like where it was parked."
	I was nervous as hell, but I sensed that he wasn't too good at this either. I wondered how things would be if his friends weren't watching.  In any case, I didn't want to make anything up with him. All I had to do was think about him and Marlene and I felt blood pushing against my eyes.
	“And maybe I don't like you hanging your sleazy self around Marlene," I added.
	Now all the others gave a big, "Ooooooooo." Robertson took a step closer and said,
	"What's that slut to you?"
	I went sort of blank, like the night before. I threw my books down. Unfortunately, I threw them down right on my foot. At the same time, Robertson started to swing on me, but as I jumped back from the books I somehow raised my left arm so that he missed me but caught the elbow in his right eye with all the force of his drive. He staggered back, and I lunged at him and took him down while the others screamed. The rest of the fight was pretty much a rolling tour of the shop parking lot. We both got our clothes ripped up and oily. I was really taller than he was, but he was heavier and a pretty good puncher. He worked over my stomach and the side of my head pretty well before a teacher finally showed up. I didn't think I got in any very good hits.
	Of course, we got hauled to the office, and of course the principal got a lot of pleasure giving me the mandatory five-day suspension for fighting in school. It was something he'd wanted to do since the Catholic school incident and especially after the thing at the Pasadena track meet, he said, adding that he thought Soz was far too lenient with his runners. He just went on and on, seeming smaller and smaller to me - like some naggy old lady.
	I was told to wait in the office until they called my mother and she could come get me. I wasn't allowed just to leave school, but when the secretary turned her back I took off out the side door sprinting and didn't stop until I was at Marlene's house.
	When I got there, I didn't waste time. When she didn't answer my knocking and ringing I took a little kick at the door. Then it all came out. All the shit that had been building up the last few weeks came out in a fit of kicking and punching and pounding on that thick old oak door. It didn't make much impression on the door, but there wasn't much skin left on the backs of my hands. I screamed every obscenity I could think of and yelled that if she didn't open I would go right in through that big front window.  I guess my eyes were a little messed up, too, because I didn't notice when she did open the door, and I half fell into the entrance hall.
	She was standing there very casually, pinning up her hair, not particularly disturbed by all the pounding and screaming - like it happened every day.
	"What happened to you?"
	"Your new boyfriend was waiting for me at school"
	"My new boyfriend."
	"Yeah, the one who thinks you're a slut."
	At that she darkened, but it wasn't like she was shocked or anything.
	"Why does he think you're a slut, Marlene?"
	"Did he say that?"
	"Nah, I'm just tryin' ya. Why'd he say that, huh? Did you give him some consolation because I messed up his poor car?"
	'What do you think? And is it any business of yours anyway?"
	I just stared. I didn't know what to do or say. I felt exhausted, like everyone was beating on me. I sat down on a hall bench and put my head in my hands. I was hoping to hell that I wouldn't bust out crying, but it really felt like that.
	"Look, you'd better get back to school or go home. I don't want you here."
	"I can't go back to school. Suspended for fighting."
	"Well, I'm sorry about that, but you can't stay here."
	"Who are you expecting, Ronnie?"
	"No. That's none of your business."
	"How can you just kick me out and refuse to see me after all these months. Why? What did I do to you?"
	"Nothing. I just don't want to see you anymore."
	“Nothing.  I just don’t want to see you anymore.   You can’t do it.  You owe me something."
	"What do I owe you? If I'm a slut maybe you owe me. Shall I figure it out for you?  Shall I send you the bill? I'll give you a special rate for disadvantaged youth."
	"Don't talk to me like that. Goddamn it!  You know what I mean.  All that time together. We... We..."
	"We what? We loved each other? Do you love me, Andy? 'Cause I don't love you, and I want you the hell out of here!"
	There's something about arguing like that that just keeps itself going until you've said all the stupid things you can think of. But this time I didn't go that road. I stopped. Her question was more important than the argument.
	"I think...I do love you," I said quietly.
	But for some stupid reason that made her madder than ever. Now she started really uncontrolled screaming. I mean, I'd seen her mad, but never like that.
	"Don't say that to me. You have absolutely no right. Oh man! You're just an ignorant bastard. Son of a bitch!  Get out!  Get out!  Just get out of my house."
	"What did I ever do to you that you treat me like this?
	"What did you do? You spy and snoop and sneak around like some kid in a stupid game of hide and seek. I offer you...I give you...You don't know shit. How many times did you do that anyway?"
	"Do what?"
	"Leave me like that to go snooping around here."
	"Never."
	"Liar!  Goddamned liar!  Son of a bitch liar!  Get out!"
	I was standing now. Trying to calm her, I grabbed at anything.
	"Alright. Alright. What I said about not looking around before was the truth," I lied. "But that day maybe I did see something. I had to get out of the hall. The door was open. I swear it was unlocked. I didn't think about it. It was just the first door I grabbed without thinking, and it was unlocked that day, and I just ducked in there. What was I gonna do? Your father was just about in the hall. I was only in there a second and then let myself into the other bedroom."
	I knew that somehow I'd just fucked up worse. Her eyes narrowed.
	"But that room was locked all the other days you tried it, wasn't it?"
	I was stopped. I just stared at her. Her voice dropped to the low hiss I remembered from the cafeteria.
	"I knew you went in there. I knew I left it unlocked. And it wasn't the first time you tried. How could you? It's one thing you use my body with no thought; how could you try to get into my mind like that?  Why do you think you can just go any goddamned place you want?  Like no one else matters.  Like no one else has any needs or feelings."
	"What the hell do you mean?"
	"If you don't get out I'll call the cops. If I ever see you here I'll call the cops. I hate you more than all of them. I hate you!"
	She began pounding on my chest like crazy, trying to push me back to the door. I was panicked trying to figure some way out when the whole thing just sort of opened up. First came the smells again - coffee grounds from the kitchen, yesterday's garbage, the aromas of teak and mahogany and furniture polish and wax and fresh paint from somewhere. Then, just like that day on Rossmoyne, things began to fly apart.
	There's probably a better way to express it than that, but that's what it seemed like to me. So much was happening that I just lost control. I got that sick feeling in my stomach, but there was no way to stop it. I sort of split apart. Part of me was in the entrance hall with Marlene. Part of me was on the staircase watching her pounding on me. But a third part was on a street in a grimy part of some city. It didn't look like LA, and the weather was gray and colder than it gets in LA, even in winter. I was really out on that street. I could hear the cars and trucks, smell their exhaust, feel the people in their overcoats and knit caps passing on either side of me.
	The me on the street was looking up at an ugly brick building. And what I was looking at was a girl at a window on about the fifth floor. She seemed to be trying to open the window, but it was stuck. Then my stomach got even worse. My body flew up until I was just outside the window and could see the little girl clearly. She was about twelve and had a pretty face, but it was dirty and her long, dark brown hair hung in uncombed knots and strands.
	Suddenly she began to pound furiously on the window. It was a large casement window, dirty, with chipping dark green paint on the splintered wood. The glass was thin, shaking, and as she screamed - silently to me on the outside - I was sure the window would break and she would come flying through and fall. But what was even more frightening to me was that I thought I knew her.
	"Who is she?" I wondered out loud.
	The me on the stairs noticed the change in Marlene. Maybe it was my tone or something in my face. Or maybe she was thinking about it, too. She stopped hammering on me; her eyes widened.
	"What do you mean?" She sounded afraid.
	"Who's the little girl pounding on the window? I know her."
	This time the image came back more intensely. The girl seemed even more frantic, and I could see a shape behind her; a man's form appeared indistinctly, and I could sense a smile I hated. My nausea grew.
	"She's going to hurt herself if she doesn't stop. Keep him away," I yelled.
	"What little girl? What little girl?" Marlene was screaming, her eyes darting wildly around the hall and the living room.
	I tried to be calm, to enunciate each word.
	"The little girl is in a room with someone bad. She's trying to get out. If she breaks the glass she'll cut herself. She'll fall out the window."
	"Get out. Get out of the house. Get out now. I don't want you here any more."
	And then as quickly as it had come on me it stopped. All the parts came back inside. I knew the answer.
	"I know who she is."
	But if I was coming together, Marlene was falling apart.
	"What are you talking about?" she shrieked at me as her eyes darted around the room hysterically. She couldn't fool me though. I knew she was seeing the same thing.
	"She's the little girl who lives upstairs in the back bedroom. The one with all the dolls and drawings."
	Something was clearly happening to Marlene now. She was passing beyond hysteria into something else. She was breaking up. I could sense it almost like seeing an explosion in slow motion in which parts shot out from her and drifted off. She searched around the room again as if looking for something that would give her support. Then her eyes rolled back, and she crumpled.
	I got over to her before her head hit anything and managed to carry her over to the sofa. I laid her down carefully, and listened for her breathing and felt for her pulse, which seemed strong. After a few minutes I got a little worried and wondered if I should try slapping her face lightly or throwing cold water on her, like you see in the movies. But she began to move; she opened her eyes for a few seconds and looked at me like she was studying my face. Then she drifted off again.
	It surprised me that I seemed to take what was happening as natural, as though I'd been through it before.  It didn't panic me that she was lying there unconscious.  I could feel that something right had happened, even though I couldn't understand it.
	After a long time she came to. She sat up, but didn't say anything. Then she went to drink some water. We just sat quietly for a while. At last she told me she had something important to do and that I should go home. She said she would be alright and that she would call me, and I believed her.