Started across Rampart Street and an old Ford sedan hit him. No one got the licence number, but the words "Snake Eyes" were written on the side door. the way a kid would do it.’
'Christ,' Jim said again.
'There's the bell,' Simmons said.
He hurried away, pausing to break up a crowd of kids around a drinking fountain.
Jim went towards his class, feeling empty.
During his free period he flipped open Robert Lawson's folder. The first page was a green sheet from Milford High, which Jim had never heard of. The second was a student personality profile. Adjusted IQ of 78. Some manual skills, not many. Antisocial answers to the Barnett-Hudson personality test. Poor aptitude scores. Jim thought sourly that he was a Living with Lit kid all the way.
The next page was a disciplinary history, the yellow sheet. The Milford sheet was white with a black border, and it was depressingly well filled. Lawson had been in a hundred kinds of trouble.
He turned the next page, glanced down at a school photo of Robert Lawson, then looked again. Terror suddenly crept into the pit of his belly and coiled there, warm and hissing.
Lawson was staring antagonistically into the camera, as if posing for a police mug shot rather than a school photographer. There was a small strawberry birthmark on his chin.
By period seven, he had brought all the civilized rationalizations into play. He told himself there must be thousands of kids with red birthmarks on their chins.
He told himself that the hood who had stabbed his brother that day sixteen long dead years ago would now be at least thirty-two.
But, climbing to the third floor, the apprehension remained. And another fear to go with it: This is how you felt when you were cracking up. He tasted the bright steel of panic in his mouth.
The usual group of kids was horsing around the door of Room 33, and some of them went in when they saw Jim coming. A few hung around, talking in undertones and grinning. He saw the new boy standing beside Chip Osway. Robert Lawson was wearing blue jeans and heavy yellow tractor boots - all the rage this year.
'Chip, go on in.
'That an order?' He smiled vacuously over Jim's head.
'Sure.’
'You flunk me on that test?’
'Sure.’
'Yeah, that's . . .' The rest was an under-the-breath mumble.
Jim turned to Robert Lawson. 'You're new,' he said. 'I just wanted to tell you how we run things around here.’
'Sure, Mr Norman.' His right eyebrow was split with a small scar, a scar Jim knew. There could be no mistake. It was crazy, it was lunacy, but it was also a fact. Sixteen years ago, this kid had driven a knife into his brother.
Numbly, as if from a great distance, he heard himself beginning to outline the class rules and regulations. Robert Lawson hooked his thumbs into his garrison belt, listened, smiled, and began to nod, as if they were old friends.
'Jim?’
'Hmmm?’
'Is something wrong?’
'No.’
'Those Living with Lit boys still giving you a hard time?’
No answer.
'Jim?’
'No.’
'Why don't you go to bed early tonight?' But he didn't.
The dream was very bad that night. When the kid with the strawberry birthmark stabbed his brother with his knife, he called after Jim: 'You next, kid. Right through the bag.’
He woke up screaming.
He was teaching Lord of the Flies that week, and talking about symbolism when Lawson raised his hand.
'Robert?' he said evenly.
'Why do you keep starin' at me?' Jim blinked and felt his mouth go dry.
'You see somethin' green? Or is my fly unzipped?' A nervous titter from the class.
Jim replied evenly: 'I wasn't staring at you, Mr Lawson. Can you tell us why Ralph and Jack disagreed over -'You were starin' at me.’
'Do you want to talk about it with Mr Fenton?' Lawson appeared to think it over.
'Naw.' 'Good. Now can you tell us why Ralph and Jack -' 'I didn't read it. I think it's a dumb book.' Jim smiled tightly. 'Do you, now? You want to remember that while you're judging the book, the book is also judging you. Now can anyone else tell me why they disagreed over the existence of the beast?’
Kathy Slavin raised her hand timidly, and Lawson gave her a cynical once-over and said something to Chip Osway. The words leaving his lips looked like 'nice tits'. Chip nodded.
'Kathy?’
'Isn't it because Jack wanted to hunt the beast?’
'Good.' He turned and began to write on the board. At the instant his back was turned, a grapefruit smashed against the board beside his head.
He jerked backward and wheeled around. Some class members laughed, but Osway and Lawson only looked at Jim innocently.
Jim stooped and picked up the grapefruit. 'Someone,' he said, looking towards the back of the room, 'ought to have this jammed 'down his goddamn throat.’
Kathy Slavin gasped.
He tossed the grapefruit in the wastebasket and turned back to the blackboard.
He opened the morning paper, sipping his coffee, and saw the headline about halfway down. 'God!' he said, splitting his wife's easy flow of morning chatter.
His belly felt suddenly filled with splinters -'Teen-Age Girl Falls to Her Death: Katherine Slavin, a seventeen-year-old junior at Harold Davis High School, either fell or was pushed from the roof of her downtown apartment house early yesterday evening. The girl, who kept a pigeon coop on the roof, had gone up with a sack of feed, according to her mother.
'Police said an unidentified woman in a neighbouring development had seen three boys running across the roof at 6.45 p.m., just minutes after the girl's body (continued page 3)-’
'Jim, was she one of yours?' But he could only look at her mutely.
Two weeks later, Simmons met him in the hall after the lunch bell with a folder in his hand, and Jim felt a terrible sinking in his belly.
'New student,' he said flatly to Simmons. 'Living with Lit.’
Sim's eyebrows went up. 'How did you know that?’
Jim shrugged and held his hand out for the folder.
'Got to run,' Simmons said. 'Department heads are meeting on course evaluations.
You look a little run-down. Feeling okay?’
That's right, a little run-down. Like Billy Stearns.
'Sure,' he said.
'That's the stuff,' Simmons said, and clapped him on the back.
When he was gone, Jim opened the folder to the picture, wincing in advance, like man about to be hit.
But the face wasn't instantly familiar. Just a kid's face. Maybe he'd seen it before, maybe not. The kid, David Garcia, was a hulking, dark-haired boy with rather negroid lips and dark, slumbering eyes. The yellow sheet said he was also from Milford High and that he had spent two years in Granville Reformatory. Car theft.
Jim closed the folder with hands that trembled slightly.
'Sally?’
She looked up from her ironing. He had been staring at a TV basketball game without really seeing it.
'Nothing,' he said. 'Forgot what I was going to say.’
'Must have been a lie.’
He smiled mechanically and looked at the TV again. It had been on the tip of his tongue to spill everything. But how could he? It was worse than crazy. Where would you start? The dream? The breakdown? The appearance of Robert Lawson?
No. With Wayne - your brother.
But he had never told anyone about that, not even in analysis. His thoughts turned to David Garcia, and the dreamy terror that had washed over him when they had looked at each other in the hall. Of course, he had only looked vaguely familiar in the picture. Pictures don't move or twitch.
Garcia had been standing with Lawson and Chip Osway, and when he looked up and saw Jim Norman, he smiled and his eyelid began to jitter up and down and voices spoke in Jim's mind with unearthly clarity:
Come on, kid, how much you got? F-four cents.
You fuckin' liar - look, Vinnie, he wet himself’
'Jim? Did you say something?’
'No.' But he wasn't sure if he had or not. He was getting very scared.