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she left untouched, preferring to put aside their malign revelations until the last possible instant.
    “Nice?” He gaped at her. Obviously she had no idea of the significance of his accomplishment. When he’d walked into the room he’d felt like Rocky running up the library steps in Philadelphia. Now his euphoria vanished and he felt like Rocky in Rocky III , getting the stuffing bashed out of him by Mr. T.
    Mothers had a way of deflating one’s ego faster than a blocked punt run back against you for a touchdown.
    “It’s stupendous, mom, not ‘nice.’ We need to call somebody. The paper, the Guinness Book of Records people, the local TV news . . .”
    “I picked up all the mail,” she replied patiently, nipping intimations of imminent immortality in the bud, “because Mr. Perlman’s truck broke down.” She handed over a single ragged-topped envelope. “This came for you and when I saw the return address I got so excited I had to open it.”
    “That’s okay, mom.” Still feeling good, he accepted the envelope. “What is it?”
    She didn’t look at him. “It’s about your loan.”
    “Loan?” Suddenly he didn’t want to understand. Didn’t want to know because he already knew the nature of the letter’s contents from the look on her face. He just held the envelope, staring at her.
    “Your student loan.” She sighed again, deeply this time, and tried to smile at him. “I know how much it meant to you, Alex, but you can still go to City College with your friends.”
    Weak and sick, he let the letter slide out of its container and forced himself to read the words. “Dear Mr. Rogan,” it said with unctuous politeness, “we regret to inform you that your application for a loan to cover tuition and related study costs at the University has regretfully been denied due to lack of sufficient collateral.
    “Scholarship loans, we must remind you, are dependent on achieving an SAT test score of approximately . . .”
    He crumpled the paper slowly in one hand. Of course his SAT scores weren’t what they should have been, could have been. How could they be, when you spent half the nights the month of the testing fixing crappy plumbing and installing fiberglass insulation and exterminating ants? How did they expect him to study, to keep up with the rich kids like Jack Blake with his free time and his personal computer and his tutor and . . . and . . .
    “And I’ll always love you , Maggie,” murmured Louis wetly from his listening post in the hallway. “Kissy, kissy, kissy!”
    “Louis!” Mrs. Rogan shouted.
    Ten-year-old or no, Louis saw something then in Alex’s sudden glance that made him retreat back into the warm darkness of the hall. It wasn’t a threatening look. That he was prepared for and could have coped with. What he wasn’t ready to handle was the look of pain on the face of his invulnerable, indomitable big brother. In his preadolescent fashion he was aware that he was responsible for some of that pain, so different from the usual childish torments he and Alex exchanged. It was a numbing realization and he didn’t know how to react. He felt queasy, as if he’d just eaten something he knew he shouldn’t have.
    Alex didn’t say anything to him, which was good. The expression on his face was hurtful enough. Twice embarrassed, he turned and fled from the trailer.
    “Alex!” Jane Rogan moved after him and halted at the doorway. Sometimes peace and privacy could be more consoling than maternal concern. She was a good enough parent to let him go.
    When you’re running real hard, fast as you can, and your mind is elsewhere, sometimes you forget to breathe. Eventually the body gets through to the brain and both combine to bring you up short. Alex slowed, wheezing and gasping, found himself halfway to the highway. Behind him colored lights flashed at the night—Starlight Starbright, Overnighters Welcome—in intermittent neon swirls.
    He uncrumpled the letter, still clenched in his right