grow close, tilting their heads together, laughing and smirking. Mr. Geary poured Mark a glass of wine from a bottle reserved for the adults.
I left my plate and headed to the room to wash up for the dance that night. I rubbed on cologne, thought twice, and scrubbed it off. I sat at the desk to wait for Mr. Geary. I didn’t want him to find me on the bed, but when a half hour had passed I changed my mind and propped myself on one elbow on the mattress. I turned the TV on, mussed up my damp hair, and tried to think only cool and careless thoughts. It was time for revenge. He deserved it. He’d betrayed me.
An hour passed and Mr. Geary didn’t show. I opened the box of chocolates on his pillow, took a small bite from each one, and put them back.
Downstairs at the dance I spotted my coach with Mark again, huddled in a corner near the stage. Fromthe lively arching of their eyebrows, I guessed they were being sarcastic about the band. I asked a middle-aged female coach to dance and guided her back and forth past Mr. Geary, my hands pressed into her hips. He turned his back to us.
“I’ve heard of you,” said the woman. “You’re quite the prodigy.”
I watched Mr. Geary light a cigarette and pass it to Mark, who cupped it in one hand, stole a few drags, and exhaled down and sideways.
“Thanks,” I said. I twirled the woman, dipped her.
“Is that your coach with the fat boy? We’ve been commenting. Not exactly the time or place.”
“Ignore them.”
“It doesn’t offend you?”
“The kid’s just playing with him. Trying to psyche me out before the match.”
“They look to me like a pair,” the woman said.
I returned to the room after midnight. Mr. Geary’s bed was empty. I opened the bathroom door and snooped around. A cigarette butt turned slowly in the toilet bowl and I smelled two colognes in the air that didn’t blend well. The two red rings on the sink were wine. I sniffed them.
I ordered a pot of coffee from room service and sat up in bed until two, watching issues shows. When I heard a key in the lock I pulled the blankets up and pretended to be asleep. I listened to Mr. Geary unbuckle his belt and fluff his pillow with two or three firm slaps.
“Where were you?” I said as if I’d just awakened.
“Wasting my precious time. As usual.”
“I could have told you he wasn’t a nice guy.”
“Go back to sleep.” Mr. Geary took his shirt off.
“I want you to take back that monster thing you said. I know you didn’t mean it and it hurt me. I like being liked by people.”
“Don’t we all.”
Mr. Geary folded a pillow around his head and I sat up and poured myself more coffee. I watched the windows lighten behind the curtains. At seven-thirty, still awake, I swallowed my last two decongestant pills. The match wasn’t for another two hours, but I needed the boost. Mr. Geary woke at eight, stumbled into the bathroom, locked the door, showered for a solid hour, then shaved his scalp with his electric razor. I gave up on cleaning up and put my clothes on and went downstairs to the gift shop to find more pills.
The topic that morning was “TV News: Too Negative?” A blond girl with a daisy in her hair spoke of the need for upbeat reporting. Mark disagreed. Another boy took the girl’s side. The judges, who all looked hung over, yawned and fidgeted. It occurred to me that we were losers, every one of us, the tournament just an excuse to feel important before returning to towns that didn’t notice us.
Mr. Geary sat in a chair behind the judges’ station, ahalf-eaten jelly doughnut on his lap. Whatever had happened with Mark had worn him out, while Mark seemed energized, his voice a bell.
“The human condition, as presently evolved, is not a pretty sight,” he said. “Face facts, Kim. It’s not the news that’s to blame, it’s us, the populace. Welcome to the Fall of Rome, part two.”
“I totally reject that, Mark,” said Kim. “Pessimism’s a
product
. It sells
I left my plate and headed to the room to wash up for the dance that night. I rubbed on cologne, thought twice, and scrubbed it off. I sat at the desk to wait for Mr. Geary. I didn’t want him to find me on the bed, but when a half hour had passed I changed my mind and propped myself on one elbow on the mattress. I turned the TV on, mussed up my damp hair, and tried to think only cool and careless thoughts. It was time for revenge. He deserved it. He’d betrayed me.
An hour passed and Mr. Geary didn’t show. I opened the box of chocolates on his pillow, took a small bite from each one, and put them back.
Downstairs at the dance I spotted my coach with Mark again, huddled in a corner near the stage. Fromthe lively arching of their eyebrows, I guessed they were being sarcastic about the band. I asked a middle-aged female coach to dance and guided her back and forth past Mr. Geary, my hands pressed into her hips. He turned his back to us.
“I’ve heard of you,” said the woman. “You’re quite the prodigy.”
I watched Mr. Geary light a cigarette and pass it to Mark, who cupped it in one hand, stole a few drags, and exhaled down and sideways.
“Thanks,” I said. I twirled the woman, dipped her.
“Is that your coach with the fat boy? We’ve been commenting. Not exactly the time or place.”
“Ignore them.”
“It doesn’t offend you?”
“The kid’s just playing with him. Trying to psyche me out before the match.”
“They look to me like a pair,” the woman said.
I returned to the room after midnight. Mr. Geary’s bed was empty. I opened the bathroom door and snooped around. A cigarette butt turned slowly in the toilet bowl and I smelled two colognes in the air that didn’t blend well. The two red rings on the sink were wine. I sniffed them.
I ordered a pot of coffee from room service and sat up in bed until two, watching issues shows. When I heard a key in the lock I pulled the blankets up and pretended to be asleep. I listened to Mr. Geary unbuckle his belt and fluff his pillow with two or three firm slaps.
“Where were you?” I said as if I’d just awakened.
“Wasting my precious time. As usual.”
“I could have told you he wasn’t a nice guy.”
“Go back to sleep.” Mr. Geary took his shirt off.
“I want you to take back that monster thing you said. I know you didn’t mean it and it hurt me. I like being liked by people.”
“Don’t we all.”
Mr. Geary folded a pillow around his head and I sat up and poured myself more coffee. I watched the windows lighten behind the curtains. At seven-thirty, still awake, I swallowed my last two decongestant pills. The match wasn’t for another two hours, but I needed the boost. Mr. Geary woke at eight, stumbled into the bathroom, locked the door, showered for a solid hour, then shaved his scalp with his electric razor. I gave up on cleaning up and put my clothes on and went downstairs to the gift shop to find more pills.
The topic that morning was “TV News: Too Negative?” A blond girl with a daisy in her hair spoke of the need for upbeat reporting. Mark disagreed. Another boy took the girl’s side. The judges, who all looked hung over, yawned and fidgeted. It occurred to me that we were losers, every one of us, the tournament just an excuse to feel important before returning to towns that didn’t notice us.
Mr. Geary sat in a chair behind the judges’ station, ahalf-eaten jelly doughnut on his lap. Whatever had happened with Mark had worn him out, while Mark seemed energized, his voice a bell.
“The human condition, as presently evolved, is not a pretty sight,” he said. “Face facts, Kim. It’s not the news that’s to blame, it’s us, the populace. Welcome to the Fall of Rome, part two.”
“I totally reject that, Mark,” said Kim. “Pessimism’s a
product
. It sells
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