Read Dreamcatcher for Free Online Page B

think we ought to go see . . .” Jonesy hesitates. “. . . see Douglas, then probably we should. It’s been too long.”
    â€œYour appointment’s there, isn’t he?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œOkay. I’ll look for you at ten on Saturday. Hey, maybe we’ll take the Scout. Give it a run. How would that be?”
    â€œThat would be terrific.”
    Henry laughs. “Carla still makin your lunch, Jonesy?”
    â€œShe is.” Jonesy looks toward his briefcase.
    â€œWhat you got today? Tuna fish?”
    â€œEgg salad.”
    â€œMmm-mmm. Okay, I’m out of here. SSDD, right?”
    â€œSSDD,” Jonesy agrees. He can’t call their old friend by his right name in front of a student, but SSDD is all right. “Talk to you l—”
    â€œAnd take care of yourself. I mean it. ” The emphasis in Henry’s voice is unmistakable, and a little scary. But before Jonesy can respond (and what he would say with Defuniak sitting in the corner, watching and listening, he doesn’t know), Henry is gone.
    Jonesy looks at the phone thoughtfully for a moment, then hangs up. He flips a page on his desk calendar, and on Saturday he crosses out Drinks at Dean Jacobson’s house and writes Beg off—going to Derry with Henry to see D. But this is an appointment he will not keep. By Saturday, Derry and his old friends will be the furthest things from his mind.
    Jonesy pulls in a deep breath, lets it out, and transfers his attention to his troublesome eleven-o’clock. The kid shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He has a pretty good idea why he’s been summoned here, Jonesy guesses.
    â€œSo, Mr. Defuniak,” he says. “You’re from Maine, according to your records.”
    â€œUh, yeah. Pittsfield. I—”
    â€œYour records also say that you’re here on scholarship, and that you’ve done well.”
    The kid, he sees, is actually a lot more than worried. The kid is on the verge of tears. Christ, but this is hard. Jonesy has never had to accuse a student of cheating before, but he supposes this won’t be the last time. He only hopes it doesn’t happen too often. Because this is hard, what Beaver would call a fuckarow.
    â€œMr. Defuniak—David—do you know what happens to scholarships if the students holding them are caught cheating? On a mid-term exam, let us say?”
    The kid jerks as if a hidden prankster under his chair has just triggered a low-voltage electrical charge into one of his skinny buttocks. Now his lips are trembling and the first tear, oh God, there it goes down his unshaven boy’s cheek.
    â€œI can tell you,” Jonesy says. “Such scholarships evaporate. That’s what happens to them. Poof, and gone into thin air.”
    â€œI—I—”
    There is a folder on Jonesy’s desk. He opens it and takes out a European History mid-term, one of those multiple-choice monstrosities upon which the Department, in its great unwisdom, insists. Written on top of this one, in the black strokes of an IBM pencil (“Make sure your marks are heavy and unbroken, and if you need to erase, erase completely”), is the name DAVID DEFUNIAK .
    â€œI’ve reviewed your course-work, David; I’ve re-scanned your paper on feudalism in France during theMiddle Ages; I’ve even been through your transcripts. You haven’t exhibited brilliance, but you’ve done okay. And I’m aware that you’re simply satisfying a requirement here—your real interests don’t lie in my field, do they?”
    Defuniak shakes his head mutely. The tears gleam on his cheeks in that untrustworthy mid-March sunlight.
    There’s a box of Kleenex on the corner of Jonesy’s desk, and he tosses it to the boy, who catches it easily even in his distress. Good reflexes. When you’re nineteen, all your wiring is still nice and tight, all your connections nice and