Free Walking Dunes by Sandra Scofield Page A

often begged off from group events. He skirted the edge of being stand-offish. He knew it, and tried to make up for it with his pass-by friendliness at school. Down the halls he went, raising his hand in a palm-forward, raised salute. Hi, hi, and hi.
    Glee’s protests were aborted by the other kids’ urgency to be under way. “Oh goodie,” Dickie Huber said, hugging Glee and giving her a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Two girls for me, my good luck, huh?” His date looked peeved. David thought to himself that Dickie Huber was a creep who wanted to get under Glee’s skirt; he could hardly bear the minute it took for them to pull away. His last view of Glee was of her glaring angry face as she looked at him through the back window of Buddy’s pink BelAir. They really are her friends, he thought. Why does she like me?
    He raced to shower and dress. He had washed his tennis shorts after Kimbrough’s call, adding extra bleach to make them as white as possible. He wore a white polo shirt with a pale blue collar and ribbing at the armholes, a birthday gift from his mother. He could kiss her for it now. He had scrubbed his tennis shoes, too.
    No women were at the club courts. The players were all men and boys. Sons and fathers, David guessed. He seemed to be the stand-in for Kimbrough’s lack of a son. The other boys were older than David, young men about to go back to college. He heard the schools’ names floating in the air all morning: Baylor, Texas, Yale. Bobby Birdsong, who had been All-State, and nominated for All-American, who might have picked any of a dozen schools if he had played football, was at Dartmouth, for the rowing team. The other guys kidded him. He said he had seen a photograph, and had wanted to leave the prairie for water. Still a team player, he pointed out. David felt a moment, just a moment, of complete rapport with Birdsong.
    The boys treated David with neutrality. He was someone’s guest, that was all. They did not seem to remember him, and why would they? As a freshman and sophomore, when they might have known him, he was still a skinny and unremarkable little boy. Even now he was small in the chest, with thin arms, no matter how much he worked out. The two or three years the others had on him had filled them out. He felt dwarfed, outclassed.
    David played seriously, but until the last couple of sets, he avoided the smashing drives that characterized his best games. He was—face it—awed by the company. He studied the haircuts of these boys who had been at schools in the East. The styles were different, a little longer. Somehow, Eastern.
    He made himself concentrate on the ball. He was really glad he had on a new shirt.
    They shook hands all around. In a moment David realized they had all gone off to shower and change. So here I am again! he thought, damning himself for not bringing clothes. He stood bewildered at the edge of the court, sweat running in rivulets down his face and neck. His shirt was soaked. Kimbrough handed him a towel, and then with another, began mopping his own face and neck and thighs. “Almost too hot for this, isn’t it?” he asked David amiably. David dabbed at himself. “The heat doesn’t get to me too bad, sir,” he said. “I like feeling I’ve worked hard.” He fought the urge to raise his arm and check his odor.
    â€œSure you do!” Kimbrough barked. He threw his hot arm across David’s shoulder for a moment and steered him across the broad patio, past the pool, to a table with a large umbrella. Kimbrough was putting off a healthy smell himself. David felt better. “Have a seat there, young man,” Kimbrough said, “I’ll hurry up something to drink.” He took their towels.
    Mrs. Kimbrough and Beth Ann were already at the table. Mrs. Kimbrough was smoking. In front of her on the table were an ashtray and a tall frosted glass beaded with moisture. She wore