Chapter Three

WHITE MIKE WALKS into the gym and brushes past a strong dark kid he knows from uptown, hurrying down the stairs. White Mike watches after him and wonders where all the blood came from. Inside, he sees Hunter at the far end of the gym shooting free throws by himself. He has not seen Hunter since September, but the two go way back. They went all through grammar school together, wearing blue blazers and ties every day. Once they went on a field trip to Central Park with their class, and people kept yelling out “Dead Poets Society” as they passed by. White Mike liked the trip. It was like some experimental class; they sat on a bench somewhere and looked hard at everything for a couple of minutes. No talk, just watching. Tried to cool off a little, tried to see things a little more clearly. And White Mike looked at his classmates and thought, Recognize this: we’re only grammar school kids dressed like investment bankers. Hunter had understood. White Mike sees the blood on Hunter from halfway across the gym.

“Hunter.”

“Hey, Mike, can you believe this shit?” Hunter says, turning and tossing White Mike the ball. “One-on-one?”

White Mike catches it. “I don’t play anymore.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Did you fight that kid?” White Mike throws the ball back.

“Nana. He’s crazed.”

“How’s school?”

“Same. Still dealing?”

White Mike shrugs.

“Rich yet?”

“I’ll buy you dinner.”

As they walk out, Hunter says to White Mike, “I read somewhere that even if you’re really broke, you’ll survive, because there is so much food in New York just thrown away on the streets that it’s nearly impossible to starve.”

“You have to want to eat.”

There is a McDonald’s almost next door to the Rec. Hunter and White Mike sit by the window. Outside it is starting to snow again. The snow is wet and heavy, and it sticks to the plastic window and slides down, blurring the lights of the cars moving downtown. Hunter asks White Mike about college, if he’s thinking about going.

“Maybe.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means maybe.”

“You’ve got till January first, man. You’re fucked if you haven’t applied yet.”

“I deferred last year. I’ve got until May to tell them.”

“My dad told me if I didn’t get into Harvard, I had to go to Dartmouth.”

“He went there, right?”

“My grandfather gave them a science building.”

“Well, go to Harvard and you’d get to be with Warren.” Warren is their other best friend from high school. He is White Mike’s year.

“See, exactly,” says Hunter.

“Exactly what?”

“Warren got into Harvard. You think you couldn’t rip that place up? Come on, it could be the three of us together. Old times.” Hunter is laughing. “You’d be my year.”

“Yeah, just what I want. Old times.” White Mike feels his beeper going off in his pocket, probably that kid throwing the party in that town house off Fifth in the Nineties. “Got to go.”