It

‘Let me copy,’ Henry whispered again. His black eyes were now blazing, demanding.
Ben shook his head and curle d his arm more tightly around his paper.
I’ll get you, fatboy,’ Henry whispered, a little louder now. His paper was so far an utter blank save for his name. He was desperate. If he flunked his exams and stayed back again, his father would beat his brains out. ‘You let me copy or I’ll get you bad.’
Ben shook his head again, his jowls quivering. He was scared, but he was also determined. He realized that for the first time in his life he had consciously committed himself to a course of action, and that also frightened him, although he didn’t exactly know why — it would be long years before he would realize it was the cold-bloodedness of his calculations, the careful and pragmatic counting of the cost, with its intimations of onrushing adulthood, that had scared him even more than Henry had scared him. Henry he might be able to dodge. Adulthood, where he would probably think in such a way almost all the time, would get him in the end.
‘Is someone talking back there?’ Mrs Douglas had said then, very clearly. ‘If so, I want it to stop right now.’
Silence had prevailed for the next ten minutes; young heads remained studiously bent over examination sheets which smelled of fragrant purple mimeograph ink, and then Henry’s whisper had floated across the aisle again, thin, just audible, chilling in the calm assurance of its promise: ‘You’re dead, fatboy.’
3
Ben took his rank-card and escaped, grateful to whatever gods there are for eleven-year-old fatboys that Henry Bowers had not, by virtue of alphabetical order, been allowed to escape the classroom first so he could lay for Ben outside.
He did not run down the corridor like the other children. He could run, and quite fast for a kid his size, but he was acutely aware of how funny he looked when he did. He walked fast, though, and emerged from the cool book-smelling hall and into the bright June sunshine. He stood with his face turned up into that sunshine for a moment, grateful for its warmth and his freedom. September was a million years from today. The calendar might say something different, but what the calendar said was a lie. The summer would be much longer than the sum of its days, and it belonged to him. He felt as tall as the Standpipe and as wide as the whole town.
Someone bumped him — bumped him hard. Pleasant thoughts of the summer lying before him were driven from Ben’s mind as he tottered wildly for balance on the edge of the stone steps. He grabbed the iron railing just in time to save himself from a nasty tumble.
‘Get out of my way, you tub of guts.’ It was Victor Criss, his hair combed back in an Elvis pompadour and gleaming with Brylcreem. He went down the steps and along the walk to the
front gate, hands in the pockets of his jeans, shirt-collar turned up hood-style, cleats on his engineer boots dragging and tapping.
Ben, his heart still beating rapidly from his fright, saw that Belch Huggins was standing across the street, having a butt. He raised a hand to Victor and passed him the cigarette when Victor joined him. Victor took a drag, handed it back to Belch, then pointed to where Ben stood, now halfway down the steps. He said something and they both broke up. Ben’s face flamed dully. They always got you. It was like fate or something.
‘You like this place so well you’re gonna stand here all day?’ a voice said at his elbow.
Ben turned, and his face became hotter still. It was Beverly Marsh, her auburn hair a dazzling cloud around her head and upon her shoulders, her eyes a lovely gray-green. Her sweater, pushed to her elbows, was frayed around the neck and almost as baggy as Ben’s sweatshirt. Too baggy, certainly, to tell if she was getting any chestworks yet, but Ben didn’t care; when love comes before puberty, it can come in waves so clear and so powerful that no o ne can stand against its simple imperative, and Ben made no effort to do so now. He simply gave in. He felt both foolish and exalted, as miserably embarrassed as he had ever been in his life . . . and yet inarguably blessed. These hopeless emotions mixed in a heady brew that left him feeling both sick and joyful.
‘No,’ he croaked. ‘Guess not.’ A large grin spread across his face. He knew how idiotic it must look, but he could not seem to pull it back.
‘Well, good. Cause school’s out, you know. Thank God.’
‘Have . . . ‘ Another croak. He had to clear his throat, and his blush deepened. ‘Have a nice summer, Beverly.’
‘You too, Ben. See you next year.’
She went quickly down the steps and Ben saw everything with his lover’s eye: the bright tar tan of her skirt, the bounce of her red hair against