Alec replied offhandedly. “I still say it’d be easier if you let me drive.”
Dr. McLean’s round face furrowed in resignation. “That’ll be enough of that. That part comes in, you can drive your car. Mine stays home where it’s safe. No way I’d let my new Swedish baby in this traffic.”
“Which reduces you to bumming rides with my buddies.”
“Which means, my son, that I’ve an excellent feel for both irony and convenience.”
“Gaaaa! Not English again!” Alec shrieked as he leapt down the steps. “You really are trying to get rid of me!”
“Tell your mom I’ll—”
“Yeah, I know: You’ll catch a ride with G-Man later this evening.”
“You got it.”
“Carry on.”
“You got it.”
*
You son-of-a-bitchin’ child! Alec was railing at himself as he shuffled through the late-afternoon crowd on his way out of the fairgrounds. Once more he recalled the image that had soured the whole half-day and made him burn more than that last half-dozen burgers in the process. It hadn’t been much, really, certainly nothing to justify such an overblown reaction—just a thing he had seen a thousand times before: David’s head bobbing away in a crowd. Except that this time that head had bent close to a copper-red one only a little shorter, and that made all the difference, because it reminded him yet again (as if he needed reminding) of exactly how much David’s friendship priorities had shifted. He hated it, too; and hated himself for that hating. Two-and-one; one-and-two; son-of-a-bitchin’ child, for sure!
He just shouldn’t feel that way, dammit! David was his friend, practically his brother. So why should it bother him that his best friend was apparently happier than he’d ever been?
It wasn’t like he wasn’t partly to blame, either. Hadn’t he been pushing David toward Liz all summer? He’d sure given him a lot of grief about her while they were down in Valdosta, and more upon their return. But that had all been rather abstract; more McLeanian vicarious living. It was real now; and he was having trouble adapting to True-Love-Meets-Mad-Davy-Sullivan.
Love! Ha! That was a giggle!
One definition of it, he had heard, was supposed to be when someone else’s happiness was more important than your own. Which meant that if he loved David, which he did, platonically; and if David was happy by virtue of being in love; then he should himself be happier still. Only somehow it didn’t work out that way. Nor did it tell him what to do about Alec. Poor, odd-finger-out Alec McLean.
Abruptly he stumbled, bounced off an unyielding sur face, then a considerably softer, though more vocal one.
“Hey, watch where yer goin’, boy!”
Alec froze, looked up, and realized he’d not been paying the slightest attention to where his feet were taking him . He’d simply been plodding along with his hands in his pockets, scruffing his B.K.’s through the ubiquitous midway sawdust, and feeling sorry for himself.
“Sorry,” he mumbled to his victim—a fat, sweaty man in Bermuda shorts and a hat: Floridian, without a doubt.
The man scowled, grunted an obscenity, and turned away.
Alec did too, biting back a flash of anger that his logical part knew all too well was a function of his preoccupation. But so quickly did he spin around that before he could stop himself, he slammed into someone else and tumbled backward to the ground. Blushing furiously, he picked himself up, still seeing stars—and came face-to-face with the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
She was as tall as he was and black-haired, with skin like ivory and a touch of strangeness to her bone structure, the cant of her eyes and brows: Mexican, maybe, or Indian, or even Oriental. Except that her eyes were dark blue, wide and frank, yet shy in their appraisal. He found himself staring straight into them, only half aware of her smile as she met his gaze and gave it back. For a moment the stars returned, and he looked away, but not before he
Dr. McLean’s round face furrowed in resignation. “That’ll be enough of that. That part comes in, you can drive your car. Mine stays home where it’s safe. No way I’d let my new Swedish baby in this traffic.”
“Which reduces you to bumming rides with my buddies.”
“Which means, my son, that I’ve an excellent feel for both irony and convenience.”
“Gaaaa! Not English again!” Alec shrieked as he leapt down the steps. “You really are trying to get rid of me!”
“Tell your mom I’ll—”
“Yeah, I know: You’ll catch a ride with G-Man later this evening.”
“You got it.”
“Carry on.”
“You got it.”
*
You son-of-a-bitchin’ child! Alec was railing at himself as he shuffled through the late-afternoon crowd on his way out of the fairgrounds. Once more he recalled the image that had soured the whole half-day and made him burn more than that last half-dozen burgers in the process. It hadn’t been much, really, certainly nothing to justify such an overblown reaction—just a thing he had seen a thousand times before: David’s head bobbing away in a crowd. Except that this time that head had bent close to a copper-red one only a little shorter, and that made all the difference, because it reminded him yet again (as if he needed reminding) of exactly how much David’s friendship priorities had shifted. He hated it, too; and hated himself for that hating. Two-and-one; one-and-two; son-of-a-bitchin’ child, for sure!
He just shouldn’t feel that way, dammit! David was his friend, practically his brother. So why should it bother him that his best friend was apparently happier than he’d ever been?
It wasn’t like he wasn’t partly to blame, either. Hadn’t he been pushing David toward Liz all summer? He’d sure given him a lot of grief about her while they were down in Valdosta, and more upon their return. But that had all been rather abstract; more McLeanian vicarious living. It was real now; and he was having trouble adapting to True-Love-Meets-Mad-Davy-Sullivan.
Love! Ha! That was a giggle!
One definition of it, he had heard, was supposed to be when someone else’s happiness was more important than your own. Which meant that if he loved David, which he did, platonically; and if David was happy by virtue of being in love; then he should himself be happier still. Only somehow it didn’t work out that way. Nor did it tell him what to do about Alec. Poor, odd-finger-out Alec McLean.
Abruptly he stumbled, bounced off an unyielding sur face, then a considerably softer, though more vocal one.
“Hey, watch where yer goin’, boy!”
Alec froze, looked up, and realized he’d not been paying the slightest attention to where his feet were taking him . He’d simply been plodding along with his hands in his pockets, scruffing his B.K.’s through the ubiquitous midway sawdust, and feeling sorry for himself.
“Sorry,” he mumbled to his victim—a fat, sweaty man in Bermuda shorts and a hat: Floridian, without a doubt.
The man scowled, grunted an obscenity, and turned away.
Alec did too, biting back a flash of anger that his logical part knew all too well was a function of his preoccupation. But so quickly did he spin around that before he could stop himself, he slammed into someone else and tumbled backward to the ground. Blushing furiously, he picked himself up, still seeing stars—and came face-to-face with the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
She was as tall as he was and black-haired, with skin like ivory and a touch of strangeness to her bone structure, the cant of her eyes and brows: Mexican, maybe, or Indian, or even Oriental. Except that her eyes were dark blue, wide and frank, yet shy in their appraisal. He found himself staring straight into them, only half aware of her smile as she met his gaze and gave it back. For a moment the stars returned, and he looked away, but not before he
Similar Books
