"
Alan suddenly felt like laughing. "We're not underprivileged," he said,
thinking of the mountain, of the feeling of being encompassed by love of
his father, of the flakes of soft, lustrous gold the golems produced by
the handful. "We're very well off," he said, thinking of home, now free
of Davey and his hateful, spiteful anger. "Thank you, though," he said,
thinking of his life unfolding before him, free from the terror of
Davey's bites and spying and rocks thrown from afar.
Mr. Davenport scowled and stared hard at him. Alan met his stare and
smiled. "It's time for classes," he said. "Can I go?"
"Go," Mr. Davenport said. He shook his head. "But remember, you can
always come here if you have anything you want to talk to me about."
"I'll remember," Alan said.
#
Six years later, Bradley was big and strong and he was the star goalie
of all the hockey teams in town, in front of the puck before it arrived,
making desperate, almost nonchalant saves that had them howling in the
stands, stomping their feet, and sloshing their Tim Horton's coffee over
the bleachers, to freeze into brown ice. In the summer, he was the star
pitcher on every softball team, and the girls trailed after him like a
long comet tail after the games when the other players led him away to a
park to drink illicit beers.
Alan watched his games from afar, with his schoolbooks on his lap, and
Eric-Franz-Greg nearby playing trucks or reading or gnawing on a sucker.
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