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grinning a giant smile surrounded by his mess of freckles.
    A strange-looking guy, that was for sure.
    A car nearly hit him and Kiff banged on the hood — they all laughed — and Will saw him yelling something, his mouth open.
    “What an animal,” Whalen muttered.
    Then Kiff ran the rest of the way, up to the door, and on into the luncheonette.
    He came over to them, barely able to contain himself, so excited because of his secret.
    “Will, Tim, Whalen, Mikey .   .   . great! You’re all here.”
    “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here and all that good shit, Kiff,” Whalen said. “Can you please get on with it?”
    Kiff raised a finger — a lecturer pausing in mid-thought. “Let me get a Coke.”
    He flew over to Mr. Kokovinis, who looked spooked by Kiff. He recognized a crazy person when he saw one. The man went to the fountain, pulled up a Coke glass that was still wet from a recent washing. (If plunging the glass into semi-soapy water and then dunking it under something almost equally soapy for a rinse could be called washing.)
    Mr. Koko pulled back on the spigot and Coke gushed out.
    “I can’t believe we’re sitting here, waiting for him,” Whalen said. “Watch, it will be nothing.”
    Kiff grinned at them, then his face looked surprised. He dug into his pants pockets, pants held up by a belt but still the cuffs dangled to the floor, scraping at it. Kiff went over to the jukebox.
    Tim slapped Will’s arm. “What? He’s going to play music?”
    And sure enough the machine — normally quiet — kicked into life and the Beatles’ “Help” thumped out of it.
    “Oh, groan,” Whalen said.
    Kiff picked. up his drink from Koko and swooped toward them, sending some of the Coke sloshing over the side.
    And Kiff sat and licked at his hand.
    “What’s with the fucking music, Kiff?”
    Kiff took another lick at his wrist.
    “God!” Tim said in mock disgust.
    Kiff reached out and squeezed Will’s wrist, and then Tim’s. And that made Will think about some of the things he thought about Kiff. Some of the things the others said about him, half joking, when he wasn’t there.
    Will wondered just how strange Jim Kiff was.
    Kiff grinned, feigning shrewdness. “I don’t want anybody else to hear this, guys.” His face looked serious all of a sudden. “ Anybody .   .   .”
    Kiff’s face looked just too weird, like the guy in Dracula who gets to feed on bugs, overjoyed at discovering an errant moth.
    Will turned and looked out the windows of the luncheonette. The sky had turned cloudy, thick with gunmetal-gray clouds. It might rain, he thought. Maybe I should get going, hit the subway, beat the storm.
    But then Kiff began his story.
     
    “I was at Scott’s home for my advisor’s meeting-”
    Will nodded. Every senior met with one of the three advisors for college counseling, career guidance, and all that other bullshit. The lucky ones got Mr. Edward Scott. The others got somebody else.
    “Hope you kept your fly zipped while you were there,” Tim said, his voice louder than even John Lennon’s wailing.
    “Oh, fuck you, Hanna,” Kiff came back.
    In the great world of post-pubescence, Will knew, everyone was suspected of being homosexual .   .   . especially a male teacher who lived alone.
    “Anyway,” Kiff said, struggling to regain the momentum of his story, “old Scott got drunk.”
    “What else is new?” Whalen said.
    Kiff turned to Whalen. “He was plastered. You saw him. You were there just before me,” Kiff said.
    Whalen nodded.
    “Get on with it, Kiff,” Tim said. Will saw Mike Narrio look at his. watch. Narrio’s parents were Old World. Real garlic eaters, Tim joked. And they liked their Michael home , doing homework, practicing his trumpet.
    Will and his friends were doing their best to be the bad influence in his life.
    “I mean, he was blotto, gang. I was pretty well wrecked too .   .   . Jeez, we were mixing sherry and brandy.”
    “He let you drink with