Julian

I. January, Ch. 13

     Bruce slapped the basketball away from the rim it was heading towards. "Rejected."

     He ran for the stray ball, dribbled it four paces from the basket, and shot it with athletic prowess.

     Roger was catching his breath with his hands on his knees.

     His lungs burned. He knew his poor athletic ability was a consequence of his notorious sixth-grader diet. "Time out. I'm old, remember?"

     The ball swirled around the rim before falling down the net.

     Bruce exploded. He lifted his fists over his head and let out a victory screech.

     Roger watched him run around the court, making fake crowd noises. "He did it. Bruce Cassles, Boy Wonder defeats a senior citizen. Ladies and gentlemen, what will he do next?"

     Roger couldn't help admiring his glee. "Not graduate."

     Bruce ran one hand over his long, black hair, which violated school policy stating male students couldn't have hair touching the collar of their shirts. He had a long face, kind eyes, and stray facial hairs across his jaw. "Let's be honest, Roger, I'm the smartest senior here."

     He dribbled the ball between his legs and shot another basket from the free-throw line. His neck was coated in sweat.

     The adrenaline from the game was fresh inside Roger. He grabbed the stray basketball. "And why's a smart and talented young man wasting away his best years getting into trouble?"

     Bruce looked away, disgusted. "Don't start with that."

     Roger blushed. Being Bruce's friend was easier than being his teacher. "Did you send Professor Lansing a letter?"

     Bruce wiped his nostrils on the edge of his fingers. "I did."

     "And?"

     Bruce clapped his hands and showed Roger his palms, asking for the ball. "He suggested I drive to UCLA after graduation to meet him."

     Roger tossed him the ball. "Very nice. You've got UCLA as an option, but I'm sure your parents are pushing you towards the Ivy League, right?"

     "Brown or Cornell. All the others look too deeply into my disciplinary history, and my dad doesn't want to pay off the admissions committee."

     Bruce dribbled the ball up to the basket. He was tall enough to slam dunk.

     "Either way, what do you want?"

     He thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I just want to get the hell out of San Kolbe. Maybe I'll visit my parents in Europe, or spend time with my sister and her husband in New York. He said I could be his apprentice until I got a real job."

     "Not that you need one."

     "Yeah."

     "In the meantime, you're stuck here for another five months."

     "I'm stuck with a bunch of pretentious little boys and girls who have just as much money as I do. They're all the same."

     Roger frowned. "Have you talked to Douglas yet?"

     His disgusted look was back. "I don't want to be anywhere near that weasel."

     Roger grabbed the basketball and rested it on his hip. "He's your cousin."

     "He's a manipulative liar. He'll say anything to get his way."

     "I don't want you to think about that anymore. I have a proposal for you. A job, if you will."

     Bruce scuffed like a show-off. "Does it look like I need a job?"

     "It's more of a side project, one that would let you work with power tools."

     He narrowed his eyes. "I'm listening."

     Roger looked around the courtyard, making sure they were a good distance away from eavesdroppers. "Did your uncle tell you about the play?"

     Bruce shook his head.

     "Last night, at the PTA meeting, Principal Cabrera announced that we were putting on a show. It's not official yet, but Mr. Leblanc and I are going to take the project on, and I want to bring you on board."

     Bruce's face turned cold. "What the hell are you suggesting?"

     Roger was taken aback. This wasn't the reaction he expected. "What do you mean? I want you to work alongside us. I know how much the theater means to you."

     "No, you don't," he muttered through clenched teeth. "And neither does anyone else."

     Roger took a step back. "Take it easy. It was just a suggestion."

     "What kind of guy gets involved in theater? A queer, that's who."

     Roger glared at him. "Watch it, Bruce. I'm still your teacher."

     Bruce turned around and grabbed his temples. "I'm sorry. I wasn't talking about you. You know that."

     Roger took a deep breath. "I haven't even told you about the project. You wouldn't have—"

     The sound of the bell interrupted their conversation.

     Bruce held on to the basketball with one hand and picked his backpack off the floor with the other. "I'm going to Calculus."

     "You can't deny that you love theater. We've talked about my work and—"

     "No," said Bruce "And quit saying that."

     He marched away in anger.

     Roger was frozen, absorbing the enigma that was Bruce Cassles.