Read Quinn for Free Online Page B

up at him, surprised. “No, man. What for?”
    Will saw that it was true. The boy wasn’t angry at his tardiness, only resigned. Disappointment was to be expected, along with crushed dreams, brutality, and betrayal. Will drew the wiry figure close to him, suddenly understanding today’s reluctance to meet the boy at all. Only six months until graduation, and Will had yet to broach the issue of their upcoming separation.
    Will gazed down at the soft mound of frizzy hair trotting beside him about heart-high. “Give me a lesson in tough, Harve,” he said.
    â€œWhatchoo talkin’ ’bout, man?” Half a dozen boys sprinted past them, a few turning to wave at Harvey and shoot him a look of envy. “Hey, Joe, Tony,” he said with a stiff nod, but Will saw the pride in his face and felt the narrow back straighten a fraction.
    With an effort Will cut short his speculation about Harvey’s Thursday next year this time. “What’s new?” he asked.
    â€œNothin’. Where we goin’?”
    â€œDowntown. The mall, where it’s warm. School?”
    â€œIt’s okay.”
    â€œGot your grades this week, didn’t you?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œCome on, Harve.”
    The small face tilted up to show a hint of mischief and defiance. “Two B’s. Two C’s.”
    â€œNot bad, but haven’t you got five courses?”
    â€œYeah, well …”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œAnd one D.”
    â€œIn what?”
    â€œMusic.”
    â€œThat’s hard to figure.”
    â€œAw, that old faggot don’t know nothin’. He’s into all that fancy junk you can’t even
move
to. We gotta do a report on one of those old dudes he’s so crazy about. Moe-zart or one of them …”
    â€œMote-zart,” Will said.
    But Harvey went on, his voice cracking with preadolescent outrage. “That Mr. Ballister don’t even know who The Kickers is.
Shit.”
    â€œYeah?” Will tried in vain to remember who The Kickers might be.
    It was cold waiting for the bus. They swung their arms and stomped their feet to keep the circulation going. Mercifully the downtown bus appeared before too long, and as Will boosted Harvey up the steps he said, “Hey, Harve, you ever hear of Prokofiev?”
    Harvey flopped down into a seat that perched atop the bus’s only operative heater. “That a disease?”
    â€œA composer. Died about ten years ago.”
    â€œYeah, I guess maybe I heard of him.”
    â€œWe’re going to the library first. They’ve got a record we can listen to.”
    â€œWhat kind?” Harvey asked suspiciously.
    â€œIt’s about this wolf and a kid named Peter. The wolf swallows a duck, and Peter goes after him …”
    Harvey’s body was motionless. Will glanced sideways at the solemn face and kept talking, inclining his head toward the boy until he felt the soft brush of Harvey’s hair against his cheek.
    After dinner Will returned Harvey to the North End on the same drafty bus he’d ridden from campus. As always, Harvey refused Will’s company up the four flights to his dismal apartment. Instead, they stood in the space just inside the doorway, out of the icy wind. A naked light bulb illuminated six decades of obscenities carved into the peeling walls, and Will supposed that, as usual, the rough scribbles would remain in his mind all evening. Perhaps archeologists in centuries to come would preserve those crumbling surfaces and exhibit them in museums along with the caveman’s primitive sketches on his dank clay walls. Scratching their heads, future generations could ponder the significance of
off the pigs
and
Wilma eats white cock.
    Harvey’s eyes peered up at Will through a veil of black, curly lashes, and Will knew that what might appear to be furtiveness was actually hooded misery. Will struggled with the dilemma that always tormented him when