Read The Spire for Free Online Page A

the sound system was pumping out Pearl Jam, and revelers were gathering in the living room and library'so called because, although no one ever used it for studying, its shelves of athletic trophies were interspersed with leather-bound books no one ever opened. Avoiding notice, Mark climbed the scuffed linoleum stairs to the second floor, still in search of his best friend.
    Like Mark and several other football players, Steve had a room in the stadium itself. Mark had not found him there. As a junior, Steve had ripped up his knee in this emblematic game, leaving him with a permanent limp and no physical outlet for his competitive nature; the pain of no longer playing, Mark knew, sometimes caused Steve to separate himself. But Steve was one reason Mark had no date this year, just as on the same night one year ago he had postponed his date to go with Steve to the hospital. Out of friendship and solidarity, Mark had resolved to spend this special Saturday with his friend.
    On the second floor, Mark went from room to room, looking into each cramped living space. Most were empty; none held Steve. Instead, sticking his head into Jerry Feldman's room, Mark found Joe Betts, a fellow denizen of the football stadium, sipping from a whiskey bottle as he watched a video.
    'Seen Steve'' Mark inquired.
    'Nope,' Joe answered with indifference, riveted by the video.
    Mark hesitated, mentally taking Joe's emotional temperature. Tall and rangy, Joe had been a decent enough flanker before dropping football altogether. Whereas Mark and Steve had strained to make the most of whatever ability they had, Joe's self-indulgence and aversion to training was so marked that Coach Fiske had given him a choice: work harder or leave. Joe had left. Now Joe looked a little soft, the outlines of his handsome face more indistinct, though his round glasses and swept-back hair still lent him an air of eastern prep school panache. That he had started in on whiskey was not a good sign. Otherwise contained and somewhat aloof, when drunk Joe could be mercurial and foul-tempered, prone to outbursts that ripened into fights. Mark sometimes wondered what psychic trip wires lurked inside Joe Betts; in three years of college, Mark had grasped that his own wounds were not unique, and that he often understood very little about the inner recesses of people he considered his friends. Drawn by Joe's fixation on the screen, Mark stepped inside.
    The tape was a sex video. The naked female, a sturdy blonde, looked somehow familiar. 'Tonya Harding,' Joe said in a tone of satisfaction and contempt. 'Trailer trash turned Olympic skater. Seems like her career's gone downhill since her ex-husband hired that douche bag to kneecap Nancy Kerrigan.'
    Mark eyed the screen. 'Downhill's one thing,' he observed. 'This is more like free fall.'
    Joe shrugged, still watching the screen. 'Her husband videotaped it, then decided he was Steven Spielberg. You and I are the incidental beneficiaries.'
    'She's all yours, man. I need to find Steve.'
    Joe flushed, as though Mark had insulted him. '_I'd_ fuck her,' he said with unsettling vehemence. 'I'd fuck anything right now.'
    Mark flashed on Joe's girlfriend, Laurie, an attractive but reticent blonde whose attachment to Joe, given his volatility, had always puzzled Mark. Mildly, he said, 'I thought you had that covered.'
    Joe's eyes narrowed. 'Think harder.'
    Mark sensed that he had touched a nerve. 'See you downstairs,' he said, and left.
    On the door of the stairwell was posted a list of duties for freshmen'cleaning bathrooms and scrubbing floors'the aim of which, a hygienic DBE house, was largely aspirational. Opening the door, Mark found Steve Tillman seated on the steps, beer in hand. Above them, an anonymous whoop of laughter issued from the third floor.
    Surprised, Mark asked, 'What the hell are you doing
here
''
    'I love the view.' A shadow crossed Steve's open midwestern face. 'Nice game.'
    This sounded sincere. But Mark understood Steve's