Raisinheart Page 8

school's star basketball player, a six seven junior with professional potential, who was hooked on following Pumpkin orders. Jazzy would do anything for Dennis, anything at all, even dressing up like a girl and coming to school wearing a skirt, high heels, lipstick and stockings. Everybody knew it was part of the game, everyone except the teachers, who shipped him off to the principal for counseling. Jazzy played the whole thing through, being 'girl for a day' just as he'd been instructed.

  Camelia Franzen was another one of Dennis Hobbs' devotees. A senior, Camelia was famous in her own way even without the game. She had strung up a high-wire between the main school building and the gym and tight roped across it all by herself during a lunch period one day. Later she admitted she'd been drunk the whole time. She was also famous for the parties she threw at her rich family's house, inviting dozens of kids and trashing the place every time that her parents were away. Her folks were so rich they just hired this company that specialized in "teenage recovery", as they called it. Even before they came home they would put in a call and have the place all cleaned up. Everyone in the school believed that Camelia was Dennis' girlfriend, but she wasn't. He repeatedly told me he didn't have time for that kind of thing. He said he wasn't ready yet.

  There were a few other characters that came in and out of the group, but mostly those four were the core. Dennis would let them assign jobs for the newbies. Whenever it was Tadpole's turn, you knew there was going to be trouble. He was the guy who had ordered Mitch Howard to race the A-train down the tracks, all the way from Senson Street to Visitation Avenue. Let's just say that the train eventually made it to the end of the line, while Howard, alive, did not. They talked about all these things openly, even in the high school library, even with me, an outsider, sitting right there next to Dennis. They probably assumed I was deaf as well as blind, dumb as well as invisible. Dennis never talked about Pumpkin with me, alone, but he took no pains to hide his conversations about it. He was neither proud nor embarrassed, but simply matter of fact. Pumpkin was real, and he was in charge. I thought it was something like a business to him, and for all I knew he even made money off it. There was more than one side to Dennis Hobbs. There were more than two sides, in fact. I was getting to know a whole bunch of them.

  For the first few months of our little project, Dennis asked me no personal questions. He kept to the work at hand, which was to help him get smart. As we achieved this goal, however, he started to show a little more interest in me. He wanted to know about my family, about our history, our descendants, our genetic components. This began as a side branch of our Science work but soon led up to the present. He had heard something about my sister, and wanted to know more about her. He remembered the 'Wheat Twins' episodes in gym class, and wanted to know more about me, and my friends. This was a pretty short story. Then he wanted to know about my girlfriends, and refused to believe I had never had any. Surely there was someone special, he insisted. He started getting nosy, but he was impossible to resist. Something about Dennis Hobbs made everybody talk in the end, so even I broke down, and after holding out for several sessions, finally let out the truth about me and Annie Barkowicki. Hobbs did not seem surprised. He even congratulated me on my choice of obsession, calling her a worthy target. He proceeded to offer me advice, and assured me that if I just did exactly what he told me to, he would he help me get close to my dream. Another thing about Hobbs. Whatever he said, you believed him, and I did.

  He had a way of prefacing every point he wanted to make with a long preamble that seemed to have nothing at all to do with the subject. When he got around to advising me on women, he began with a lecture on squirrels. Squirrels, he told me, apparently live a spurious life, but in fact have it all planned down to the nutshell. Each day the squirrel knows exactly the scope and compass of his routine. From the morning twittering to the afternoon territorial chasing, and every scampering and scavenging in between. Nothing is left to chance. Well, naturally, the availability of the nuts and sundries in question are largely out of the squirrel's control, but none of his tactics or strategies are lacking in his tiny squirrel brain. Humans, on the other hand, have no idea what they're up to half the time. They wake up in the morning and wonder what they will do that day. They dream of impossible things, have wishes and desires far outside the boundaries of actual probability. They set their sights too high, in other words. Witness the squirrel, Hobbs propounded. It knows its limitations.

  My problem, as he saw it, was that I had set my sights too high when it came to Annie Barkowicki. She would make a fine catch for somebody someday, he continued, but that day had not yet come. She was still not catchable. Therefore, I should not be attempting that feat. I should be lining myself up. This is exactly how he put it. Lining myself up, or aligning myself up, something like that, I was never quite sure. Ever since he had begun to read literature, his vocabulary had exploded and that, combined with his unintelligible baritone, made comprehension a chore. It was enough to get the gist of his banter.

  You want to be there, Dennis advised me. On hand, ever ready, in the moment, present. I replied that after all I did live next door to her - how much more present could I be? But he waved me off, saying I did not understand. To be there in her life, he explained, a part of her day, a cog in her machine, something necessary, required. I had no idea how that was going to happen. I was there on the bus. I was there in English class (again!). I was there staring out my bedroom window hoping to catch a glimpse of her. How much more there could I realistically get? His answer was, to be a supplier. To find out what it was she liked, and to provide it for her. Give her stuff, in other words, no matter what, and no matter the cost. If she liked diet soda, I was to have one ready at all times. If she liked chocolate ice cream, I was to have it, as needed. If she wanted help with her homework. If she wanted a ride somewhere. If she wanted a new dress. If she only wanted money. Find out what she wants, he repeated, and make sure to get it for her, give it to her, and not just once but often, repeatedly, and reliably. He would do me one more favor, he told me. He would do the finding out, and he would let me know, but in the meantime, there were some favors he would like me to do for him, if I didn't mind too much.

  Mind too much? Heck, I could hardly believe my luck. It was certain to change with this god, this hero, this superstar on my side. I was already glowing with the light of Dennis Hobbs' favoritism. People acknowledged me in the hallways. They let me pass if they were in my way. It was known that Hobbs had knighted me in his own way. I was Sir James Kruzel at that point. I knew it was nothing I had done and nothing I had earned and nothing I deserved, but I basked in the reflected glory anyway. I was having my moment of dignity and I liked it very much. Plus, the promise of gaining stature in the eyes of Annie Barkowicki was a carrot that kept me going. Of course I wouldn't mind too much.

  So that was how I came to be doing extra studying on my own time in areas of interest to Hobbs. He would assign me special projects that I would investigate and report on to him. He wanted to know about North Africa, for example. He had the notion that his forebears had come from there, Libya, perhaps, or Tunisia. It certainly was possible. I found out everything I could about the history of that region and enlightened him. He was interested in genealogy. I showed him how to go about the research. He was fascinated by genetics. I learned as much as I could in order to pass it along to him. I suppose I also benefited from these studies - certainly it was way more interesting than the regular school work which I could do in my sleep, and often did, for I stayed up late at night doing research, and sleepwalked through the hours in class. In return for all this overtime, Dennis kept me informed of his Barkowicki progress. He said he had people on the case. He had enlisted certain friends, people who knew people who knew Annie. Finally one day he came to me with the result of all that detective work.

  Cigarettes. Annie wanted smokes. She was not allowed to have them but wanted them desperately. This was easy, I thought. I can do that! I wasn't quite sure how I was going to get t
hem myself, but once again, Dennis Hobbs came to the rescue. He had access to cartons, and not just any old brand, but exactly the kind she craved. He doled them out to me, and I found a way to smuggle them in to her. The first time I did it, I was scared right out of my mind. I tailed her home from the bus stop after school, and jogged up next to her. I said, hey, I think I might have something for you. She turned and peered at me but said nothing. That's when I brandished the pack of menthol lights. I could see her whole face change with anticipation. Take 'em, I said, and put them into her hands. Not my brand, I added, and with a dash of derring-do I sort of winked and said something incredibly stupid, like 'catch you later', and I sauntered off, or at least I hoped it looked like I was sauntering.

  After that, I was there, all right. Every week or so. She would come up to me after we got off the bus and ask, you know, if I happened to have any, and don't you know I always did. I carried a pack with me at all times. I even