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into his jacket.
    Â 

    Dear Marjorie,
    I just got in from picking up butter and was going to write my dad a letter because he threw the soup but I figured he’s always throwing something so why not write to you instead since I hardly ever get saved and that’s what you did today, you saved me, so thanks a lot.
    You probably already know that Pete’s been giving me a hard time ever since he moved here almost three years ago and everyone’s afraid of him but you stood up to him and no one’s EVER done that.
    You’re very brave and perhaps you could show ME how to be. I’m sorry that Pete said what he did. Are you okay? It must be hard to have a father that’s dead. Who changes the light bulbs and takes out the garbage at your place?
    I don’t believe all that wiener stuff by the way. But even if it were true, what odds. Everyone does stuff, right? I do. Not all the time but mostly all the time. Do you ever worry about getting one lost up there? Is that even possible? Anyway, like you said, it’s your body, right?
    I don’t suppose you’d want to be my friend? If not, I can just like you from a distince distance. You’ll never have to know.
    Thanks again, I really appreciate what you did.
    Your friend from a distance,
    Wayne Pumphrey

SEVEN
    It’s been a week since the auditions and the cast list is posted just outside the cafeteria doors. Wayne’s waiting for the lunchtime crowd to stampede in before taking a look. Mrs. Gambol, the home economics teacher—military stance and pulledback hair and husky eyes—is there, and she’s holding a boy by the back of the shirt and warning him about running and then making another student pull up his jeans, saying: “You think we all need to see your boxers, Martin?” Treena Cobb, who sits behind Wayne in math and constantly looks at his answers, is made to pull down her own T-shirt to cover the belly button ring and butterfly tattoo.
    After everyone has gone in Wayne goes over and runs his finger down the list of names and stops at Marjorie’s. He moves in and looks more closely.It’s her all right … playing Bonita Saunders, the female lead. He continues down the list, then starts over. Does it three more times, then pulls open the cafeteria doors and goes inside.
    At the counter he buys a hot dog, a carton of milk (which he opens and takes a sip from right away), and a bag of Crunchits, then makes his way to an empty table near the window.
    A foot belonging to Pete The Meat juts out and trips him, but Wayne manages to stay upright, spilling only a little milk onto his hot dog.
    Pete’s voice then. “Whoa there, Pumphrey. Almost took a tumble, eh? Maybe keep your head up instead of staring at your dicky bird.”
    Bobby laughs and says, “Surprised he can even see it, eh, Pete?”
    â€œGood one, Bobby,” says The Meat.
    â€œHey, Pumphrey?” shouts Harvey.
    Wayne turns.
    Harvey holds up a French fry and says, “See this here fry? That’s you.” Harvey tears the fry in two and then squishes each piece and Kenny—now getting the idea—grabs the ketchup bottle and squeezes and it shoots out and he says, “That’s your blood, Pumphrey.”
    Wayne keeps on walking.
    Up ahead, Julie gives him a dirty look and points a macaroni-filled fork at him and says, “All that timeyou spent in the audition and you still didn’t get a part in the play.”
    He continues on, letting her laughter fade behind him, towards the table where the volleyball players sit. No high-fives, or glances even. Past the rebellious table with the berets and dreadlocks, painted nails and combat boots. Lips and noses and corners of eyelids pierced. Past the overachievers’ table with their erect backs and nice sweaters, open textbooks and laptops, too-neat haircuts and expensive glasses.
    Finally Wayne arrives at the empty table. What to call it? he wonders. He