said: “So what are you going to do at Jones Falls?”
“They asked me to be part of a study. I have to have psychological tests and stuff.”
“Why you?”
“I don’t know. They said I was a special case, and they would explain everything when I get there.”
“What made you say yes? Sounds like kind of a waste of time.”
Steve had a special reason, but he was not going to tell Ricky. His answer was part of the truth. “Curiosity, I guess. I mean, don’t you wonder about yourself? Like, what kind of person am I really, and what do I want in life?”
“I want to be a hotshot surgeon and make a million bucks a year doing breast implants. I guess I’m a simple soul.”
“Don’t you ask yourself what’s it all for?”
Ricky laughed. “No, Steve, I don’t. But you do. You were always a thinker. Even when we were kids, you used to wonder about God and stuff.”
It was true. Steve had gone through a religious phase at about age thirteen. He had visited several different churches, a synagogue, and a mosque, and earnestly questioned a series of bemused clergymen about their beliefs. It had mystified his parents, who were both unconcerned agnostics.
“But you were always a little bit different,” Ricky went on. “I never knew anyone who could score so high in tests without breaking a sweat.”
That was true, too. Steve had always been a quick study, effortlessly making top of the class, except when the other kids teased him and he made deliberate mistakes just to be less conspicuous.
But there was another reason why he was curious about his own psychology. Ricky did not know about it. Nobody at law school knew. Only his parents knew.
Steve had almost killed someone.
He was fifteen at the time, already tall but thin. He was captain of the basketball team. That year, Hillsfield High made it to the city championship semifinal. They played against a team of ruthless street fighters from a Washington slum school. One particular opponent, a boy called Tip Hendricks, fouled Steve all through the match. Tip was good, but he used all his skill to cheat. And every time he did it he would grin, as if to say “Got you again, sucker!” It drove Steve wild, but he had to keep his fury inside. All the same he played badly and the team lost, missing their chance at the trophy.
By the worst of bad luck, Steve ran into Tip in the parking lot, where the buses were waiting to take the teams back to their schools. Fatally, one of the drivers was changing a wheel and had a tool kit open on the ground.
Steve ignored Tip, but Tip flicked his cigarette butt at Steve, and it landed on his jacket.
That jacket meant a lot to Steve. He had saved up his earnings from working Saturdays at McDonald’s, and he had bought the damn thing the day before. It was a beautiful tan blouson made of soft leather the color of butter, and now it had a burn mark right on the chest, where you could not help but see it. It was ruined. So Steve hit him.
Tip fought back fiercely, kicking and butting, but Steve’s rage numbed him and he hardly felt the blows. Tip’s face was covered in blood by the time his eye fell on the busdriver’s tool kit and he picked up a tire iron. He hit Steve across the face with it twice. The blows really hurt, and Steve’s rage became blind. He got the iron away from Tip—and he could remember nothing, after that, until he was standing over Tip’s body, with the bloodstained iron bar in his hand, and someone else was saying, “Jesus Christ Almighty, I think he’s dead.”
Tip was not dead, though he did die two years later, killed by a Jamaican marijuana importer to whom he owed eighty-five dollars. But Steve had wanted to kill him, had tried to kill him. He had no real excuse: he had struck the first blow, and although Tip had been the one to pick up the tire iron, Steve had used it savagely.
Steve was sentenced to six months in prison, but the sentence was suspended. After the trial he went to a different
“They asked me to be part of a study. I have to have psychological tests and stuff.”
“Why you?”
“I don’t know. They said I was a special case, and they would explain everything when I get there.”
“What made you say yes? Sounds like kind of a waste of time.”
Steve had a special reason, but he was not going to tell Ricky. His answer was part of the truth. “Curiosity, I guess. I mean, don’t you wonder about yourself? Like, what kind of person am I really, and what do I want in life?”
“I want to be a hotshot surgeon and make a million bucks a year doing breast implants. I guess I’m a simple soul.”
“Don’t you ask yourself what’s it all for?”
Ricky laughed. “No, Steve, I don’t. But you do. You were always a thinker. Even when we were kids, you used to wonder about God and stuff.”
It was true. Steve had gone through a religious phase at about age thirteen. He had visited several different churches, a synagogue, and a mosque, and earnestly questioned a series of bemused clergymen about their beliefs. It had mystified his parents, who were both unconcerned agnostics.
“But you were always a little bit different,” Ricky went on. “I never knew anyone who could score so high in tests without breaking a sweat.”
That was true, too. Steve had always been a quick study, effortlessly making top of the class, except when the other kids teased him and he made deliberate mistakes just to be less conspicuous.
But there was another reason why he was curious about his own psychology. Ricky did not know about it. Nobody at law school knew. Only his parents knew.
Steve had almost killed someone.
He was fifteen at the time, already tall but thin. He was captain of the basketball team. That year, Hillsfield High made it to the city championship semifinal. They played against a team of ruthless street fighters from a Washington slum school. One particular opponent, a boy called Tip Hendricks, fouled Steve all through the match. Tip was good, but he used all his skill to cheat. And every time he did it he would grin, as if to say “Got you again, sucker!” It drove Steve wild, but he had to keep his fury inside. All the same he played badly and the team lost, missing their chance at the trophy.
By the worst of bad luck, Steve ran into Tip in the parking lot, where the buses were waiting to take the teams back to their schools. Fatally, one of the drivers was changing a wheel and had a tool kit open on the ground.
Steve ignored Tip, but Tip flicked his cigarette butt at Steve, and it landed on his jacket.
That jacket meant a lot to Steve. He had saved up his earnings from working Saturdays at McDonald’s, and he had bought the damn thing the day before. It was a beautiful tan blouson made of soft leather the color of butter, and now it had a burn mark right on the chest, where you could not help but see it. It was ruined. So Steve hit him.
Tip fought back fiercely, kicking and butting, but Steve’s rage numbed him and he hardly felt the blows. Tip’s face was covered in blood by the time his eye fell on the busdriver’s tool kit and he picked up a tire iron. He hit Steve across the face with it twice. The blows really hurt, and Steve’s rage became blind. He got the iron away from Tip—and he could remember nothing, after that, until he was standing over Tip’s body, with the bloodstained iron bar in his hand, and someone else was saying, “Jesus Christ Almighty, I think he’s dead.”
Tip was not dead, though he did die two years later, killed by a Jamaican marijuana importer to whom he owed eighty-five dollars. But Steve had wanted to kill him, had tried to kill him. He had no real excuse: he had struck the first blow, and although Tip had been the one to pick up the tire iron, Steve had used it savagely.
Steve was sentenced to six months in prison, but the sentence was suspended. After the trial he went to a different
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