Free Bullet Point by Peter Abrahams Page B

actually very brave, because he’s the only one in the whole play who’s concerned with acting morally.”
    “You’re not making sense,” said the second kid, and he tossed a Frito in the air and caught it in his mouth.
    Anna shook her head. “It’s hopeless.” She turned to Wyatt. “What do you think?”
    That was when his phone rang. He checked the number, excused himself, moved toward the window, clicked on.
    “Yeah.”
    “You’re pissed,” Greer said.
    “Huh?”
    “Pissed off at me, annoyed, angry, furious, fit to be tied. I could hear it in the message. Can hear it right now.”
    “Why would I be pissed off?” He glanced around, saw Anna unwrapping a stick of gum, watching him at the same time. He moved farther away.
    “We’re going to play that game?” Greer said. “All right—you’re pissed off, annoyed, angry, furious, fit to be tied, because on my weekly visit to the old man I mentioned you.”
    “You did a little more than that.”
    A long pause. Behind him, Wyatt heard Anna say something about ghosts and Hamlet’s father. Then Greer spoke. “Guilty,” she said. “Guilty as charged. But my father knows me—he could tell I was excited about something from the look on my face.”
    “Excited about what?”
    “You, you block—you. The rest just came out, an amazing coincidence, no? I couldn’t help myself. My mistake, I see that now—those goddamn inmates gossip all the time, worse than a sewing circle.” Another pause. “You’re so mad.”
    He didn’t answer.
    “This is over?” she said. “Over before it’s even started?”
    Yeah, I guess it is. Wyatt came very close to saying that. But he didn’t. Why not? Was he too nice a guy? Or—thinking about her bedroom and more of that—not nice enough? He didn’t say it was over; also didn’t say it wasn’t.
    “How bad was the talk?” Greer said. “With your—I don’t even know what to call him? DNA supplier? I’m sorry if it was real bad.”
    “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “Fine,” she said. “Let’s not talk. Why don’t you come over—I’m off till two.”
    The bell rang. “I’ve got math,” Wyatt said. “Right now.”
    “It’s your best subject. One little cut won’t hurt.”
    “Yeah,” Wyatt said. “It would.”
    “Okay,” she said. “No problem.”
    “Bye.”
    Wyatt went to math class. The teacher—a real old guy with little scabs on his bald head—surprised them with a pop quiz, first of the term, just one single question. Two trains left two different stations at two different times, traveling at two different rates. Mark the point where they meet.
    “Crash, you mean?” said a kid at the back.
    Not that hard a problem: Wyatt had solved many similar ones, usually didn’t mind the work too much, sometimes came close to enjoyment. But this time his brain refused to grapple with it.
    “Pens and pencils down,” said the teacher.
    Wyatt handed in a blank sheet.
     
    After school, Wyatt walked to the student parking lot with a few other kids, one of whom happened to be Anna from English class.
    “Hey, Wyatt,” she said, dropping back beside him.
    “Hey.”
    “You’re new in town, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How do you like it so far?”
    He caught Anna’s scent on the breeze, fresh and a bit like apples. “Well,” he said, turning to look at her, and as he turned he saw Greer across the lot, leaning against the Mustang. “It’s, uh…” Anna followed his gaze, took in the sight of Greer in that short leather jacket, tight jeans—a smooth crescent of her bare belly showing—and also wearing big sunglasses. Anna’s eyes opened a little wider. “Good, um,” Wyatt continued. “Good so far.”
    “Uh-huh,” said Anna, taking one more look at Greer and drifting off.
    Wyatt approached the car. Greer stuck her sunglasses up on her head. Her eyes were puffy, as though she’d been crying.
    “How was math?” she said.
    “Could have been better,” Wyatt said. “What are you