“Yo, Gary!” Peter Jackson says, pulling up beside him. He’s wearing faded jeans and a tee-shirt with a big yellow smile-face on it. HAVE A NICE DAY! Mr Smiley-Smile is saying. “How’s it going, bad boy?”
“Great, Mr Jackson,” Gary says, smiling. He thinks of adding Except that I think Mrs Wyler’s standing in her door back there with her shirt off and then doesn’t. “Everything’s super-cool.”
“Are you starting any games yet?”
“Only two so far, but that’s okay. I got a couple of innings last night, and I’ll probably get a couple more tonight. It’s really all I hoped for. But it’s Frankie Albertini’s last year in Legion, you know.” He holds out a rolled copy of the Shopper.
“That’s right,” Peter says, taking it. “And next year it’s Monsieur Gary Rip ton’s turn to howl at shortstop.”
The boy laughs, tickled at the idea of standing out there at short in his Legion uniform and howling like a werewolf. “You teaching summer school again this year?”
“Yep. Two classes. Historical Plays of Shakespeare, plus James Dickey and the New Southern Gothic. Either sound interesting to you?”
“I think I’ll pass.”
Peter nods seriously. “Pass and you’ll never have to go to summer school, bad boy.” He taps the smile-face on his shirt. “They loosen up on the teacher dress-code a little come June, but summer school’s still a drag. Same as it ever was.” He drops the rolled-up Shopper on to the seat and pulls the Acura’s transmission lever down into drive. “Don’t give yourself a heatstroke pedaling around the neighbourhood with those papers.”