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clouded expression. Their trajectories had crossed: after Lionel Farr's challenge, Mark had finished high school with straight A's and, as though the scales had fallen from his eyes, had worked hard to continue the pattern at Caldwell. Once a better student than Mark, Steve'as Farr had guessed'found college academics more difficult. When his knee had gone, it seemed, so had Steve's sense of self; ever since, he had been mired in the C range, hoping for the career to which Mark had once aspired, that of high school coach. Now, aided by Farr, Mark was set on getting into Yale Law School, and it was Steve who had no vision of the future. Sometimes Mark imagined that they had traded places the night Farr first set Mark on his path, leaving Steve Tillman an afterthought.
    Awkwardly, Mark said, 'Wish I'd thrown those touchdown passes to you. If I hadn't played with you in high school, I wouldn't have been out there today.'
    Steve drained his beer. 'You ran with it, chief. Not your fault no one shredded your knee.' He stared at the cinder-block stairwell. 'Shouldn't you be at the party''
    Mark shrugged. 'I'll get there. It hit me today that
my
career's ending, too, like I thought it would in high school. No more football, just life. I wanted to hang with you awhile.'
    For a moment, Steve bit his lip, struggling with some unspoken feeling. Then he summoned a grin. 'Tell you what,' he said. 'You have a beer, and I'll have another beer, and together we can work up a few minutes of real sentiment.'
    Mark looked into Steve's face. Beneath the short haircut, the same as in high school, was a face less bright, eyes less innocent. Sitting beside him, Mark answered, 'Maybe we can fill up a whole hour.'
    So they sat as Steve killed most of the six-pack, reminiscing. At length, Steve placed a hand on Mark's shoulder. 'You're my best friend,' he confessed in a somewhat slurry voice. 'Maybe the best I'll ever have.'
    'Keep drinking, pal. I get better.'
    'Nope,' Steve said with sudden resolve. 'We could drink all night, and you'd never be a woman. Let's go downstairs and see what our future holds.'

2
    I
    N THE LIVING ROOM, M ARK PAUSED WITH S TEVE, TAKING IN the scene.
    The night was building. Some couples had gathered in front of the stone fireplace engraved with the DBE insignia, drinking and watching the fire; others crowded together on the couches, their gestures animated by alcohol and adrenaline. On the front lawn Tim Fedak and Skip Ellis had rigged up a catapult with steel rods and surgical hose, and had begun launching water balloons at the SAE house, the rubbery spheroids traveling in an arc of impressive distance and velocity. 'Those fucking balloons will kill someone,' Steve opined. 'Unless the SAEs kill those guys first.'
    Mark shrugged. 'Either way it's no great loss. Let's go find the party.'
    Heading for the stairs to the basement, Mark spotted Carl Hall sliding through the front door. A slender young black man, Carl had wary eyes that constantly assessed his surroundings, making him seem older than he was. But even in high school, Carl had always struck Mark as a guy who would not live to see old age; his vocation'drug dealer'and a certain slippery quality suggested to Mark that someday one of his commercial calculations, skewed by self-interest, would prove fatal. Nodding toward Carl, Mark inquired of Steve, 'You ask him here''
    'Nope. Only his sister.' Steve frowned. 'He shouldn't be at this party. If Scotty invited him, it's a bad move.'
    The disapproving reference to Jackie Scott, a basketball star who was the only black fraternity brother, evoked Mark's sympathy: Scotty lived in a twilight zone, perched uncomfortably between his white peer group and his connections to Wayne's black community, the nearest thing to the neighborhood from which he had come. 'No matter,' Mark answered. 'No one's getting busted tonight. 'Zero tolerance' means 'Don't snort coke in Clark Durbin's driveway.' '
    Steve gave a delayed but knowing laugh.