He had never thought of that expression before. It made him think of actually being in them with her, two legs through each leg, bellies touching, the nylon stretched to bust -
When the bell rang Brian had to do a Groucho Marx walk to get out the door without looking like a hat rack.
In French the next day he could no longer look through her to the board. He watched her hair brushing against her bare arms. When she bent to look in her book he could see how thin her neck was. He wondered about what Palumbo had said — she seemed awful quiet. She seemed like she probably took books home from the library and read them, books that weren't assigned. She didn't have a bunch of girlfriends she hung with or turn and laugh too hard when somebody made a crack like a lot of them did.
But once she had smiled at Brian in the hall and asked if he was getting ready for basketball season. Girls didn't come up and ask you questions for no reason.
Brian sat half listening to the class rdpeter, moving his lips, and imagined that he was reaching forward and stroking Serena's thin neck, rubbing his hand softly against the down on her cheek. Or kissing the backs of her legs. He did that sometimes, imagined with different girls. It alternated with his other favorite daydream, the execution. Sitting at the very back of Humanities class he'd give himself ten shots. He'd figure out what order to get them in — who might try to rush him, who was close to the door and might run, Mr. Wojicki, and always three or four left for the prettiest, most stuck-up girls in the class. He would stare at the backs of their heads and think, "You first, then you, then you, and then you just as you turn around-" Serena had never figured in either daydream before.
If he was Lovell Keyes he could just come out with it, straight on and sugary — "Hey, sweet thang," Lovell would say, "I gots my eye on you."
If he was Danny Naccaratto and could dance like they did on TV he could ask her to a dance.
If he was Tim Dougherty he could offer her a ride home in his GTO with the rabbit-fur dashboard.
Even if he was Russ Palumbo he could flash his rubber and see if she knew what it was.
Out of the fog he heard Mrs. Peletier ask if anybody knew what Bouviers des Flandres were. There was the half-minute of silence that followed any of Mrs. Peletier's questions.
"Ils sont un type de chien," said Brian. He felt Serena turn to look at him. "Un type tres feroce."
It was Mr. Pettit's dream to have nothing but Bouviers, to cater to the country-estate crowd. If only their name were different.
"It sounds kind of faggy. People hear Doberman pinscher, German shepherd, they think Nazis, right, black leather and spike collars. Bouviers could eat them other two for breakfast, but people think French, they think poodle. It's an educational problem."
"Eh bien," cooed Mrs. Peletier, "as-tu un Bouvier?"
"Non," said Brian, "mais je travail avec les chiens. Avec les chiens feroces."
Mrs. Peletier said it was tres interessant and then the bell rang.
"You're really lucky." It was Serena, talking to him.
"Huh?"
"To get a job working with animals."
"Oh. Yeah. I guess I am."
"I like dogs best."
Brian said yeah, meaning so did he, though he could take them or leave them. The old man had hated dogs, so Brian never had one as a little kid. He was allowed to have a turtle once, but all it did was sleep.
"I have a dog named Spencer," she said. Brian didn't know where they were walking, but they were doing it next to each other, down the hall. "He's a fox terrier."
"They're nice."
"He's got a really fantastic personality."
She stopped in front of a Home Ec room, girls hurrying in with dress patterns. She had her back to the wall, books held to her chest, smiling up at him. Brian asked her if she'd like to go to a football game with him sometime. She said she would. She said she'd like to visit where he worked sometime. He said she could. The bell rang and released them. He took his time getting downstairs and stared coolly at Mr. Crozier as he walked in late to study hall. It was something he had been working on.
They went to the football game together and held hands and he put his arm around her. It was so cold and their clothes were so bulky. He explained the game.
He started walking to school with her in the morning and in the halls during lunch period. They did a lot of walking. They talked some, but afterward Brian could never remember what it had been about. They necked through a movie on a Saturday. That was nice, Brian discovered they really did get excited just like guys, the way he had always heard but never really believed. Serena seemed very — very understanding. That was it, that was why they never talked much, because they understood all they had to about each other. Or maybe they were both just quiet.
Work was a drag now that he had Serena to be with instead. It was cold and the dogs weren't getting enough exer cise and were all on edge. And Brian had the worst jobs because he was low man. Lovell did a little feeding and the exercising and helped run Discipline Class and took care of Thor. He spent most of his time with Thor, brushing the stud dog over and over, talking to it, feeding it his special meals of beef and liver and eggs and cottage cheese. Mr. Pettit just sat in his little carpeted office with his feet up on his desk, taking phone calls. He wore white shoes.
"These shoes," Mr. Pettit would often say, "are the symbol of my success. I started out where you are, McNeil, but those days are long gone. I have stepped," he would say, "in my last pile of dogshit."
The worst job was caring for Wotan. Wotan was old and scarred and mean, a holdover from Mr. Pettit's shitkicker days. One eye was blind, the lid torn off in a fight, the white ball staring at you even when the dog was asleep. Sometimes Wotan would ignore his meal, sniffing haughtily, walking to the rear of his cage to sulk. Brian would put the bowl in the next cage, in front of Loki, and then Wotan would roar and leap at the wire mesh till Brian gave it back. He'd gulp the food down without a chew, his good eye darting warily from Brian to Loki and back.
"That one," Mr. Pettit always said, "that one you never turn your back on."
Brian had to plant Wotan at the switchyard at night. After his old man had died the railroad went to dogs to patrol the yard, over heavy union flak. Dogs were cheaper, and though they might fall asleep they'd never drink on the job. Brian would wear the gloves and keep Wotan muzzled till he was tied to his post. The voice, the deep, steady, authoritative voice Mr. Pettit taught him had little effect on Wotan. You muscled him into place, hooked him up, slipped the muzzle off and got away quick. Brian was glad it was Lovell who had to collect Wotan in the morning.
"I never like it in the morning anyhow," Lovell would say. "You got to give him a couple hours, recharge the batteries."
Lovell was crazy for women, of any size, shape or age, and would talk for hours about the stable of them he was going to put together someday.
"This here's my trainin grounds," he would say. "This where I learn the fundamentals. Watch old Thor, watch the bitches, and I know the principle of the whole thang, y'dig?"
Brian had been walking around with Serena for a couple weeks before she came to look at the puppies.
"You gettin any?"
Lovell asked so abruptly, before Serena was even out of sight, that Brian didn't think to lie.
"Why not?"
The way Lovell said it made it sound like an oversight, like it had slipped his mind when the chance came along. Why not? Why wasn't he getting any? He shrugged, not knowing.