Free The Game Player by Rafael Yglesias Page A

staring, their color deepening, as if he had a second set of eyelids that allowed him to shut out the world and still seem awake. And walking through one of the school hallways he moved close to the lockers, so close that his shirt caught in one of the handles, and he tore it badly. I asked him if something was wrong but he smiled like himself, amused that I had asked such a question, and said no, as if there were much more to it than that.
    That weekend, when most of Saturday had gone by without him coming over, I decided to go and see if he was home. I didn’t phone, because I thought he was avoiding me due to our fight and I wanted a chance to smooth it over. I was sure he wouldn’t let me come by if I called up first.
    Up the steep incline of Brian’s driveway, there is a path to his front door. I like walking up to things; as my leg muscles pulled from the effort, there was a proportional unveiling of the house. And from this bobbing vision I could see Brian and his father standing in front of the huge windowed side of their home. Mr. Stoppard, in dark blue slacks, so profoundly blue that they wavered into blackness, and a white shirt checked by slight intersecting blue lines, was a fine Gothic sight. His body seemed to impose on the scene; Brian stood with his head bowed, listening to him.
    I didn’t notice Mrs. Stoppard until she hurriedly got up from a couch in back of the penitent Brian and came forward into the center of the scene, waving to me. I was no fool, I knew there was a family discussion going on, but my peculiar fearlessness of involving myself in the troubles of others, kept me going. Mrs. Stoppard disappeared in the direction of the front door and I saw Brian make a move to go as well but stop when his father’s back trembled from an emphatic movement.
    I was sure that Mrs. Stoppard would ask me to go away by saying (I imagined her euphemism would be), “Until we finish a family talk with Brian.” But when I reached the door and it opened magically just as I was about to ring, she stood there in a state of confusion. I could hear Mr. Stoppard: “I would have killed someone for the chance you have.”
    â€œHello,” I said.
    She began to speak but then glanced at the living room and looked back at me helplessly. “Father,” Brian’s voice. “Hills is a good school. It’s not like the public school you went to.”
    Hearing that, I said, “I should go.”
    Mrs. Stoppard was dressed in a heavy wool skirt and a pleasant patterned blouse. Her hair was drawn back and held by a clasp. She looked much younger than my mother and that somehow made me feel sorry for her. She stepped aside, not responding to my offer at all, just saying, “Come in,” as if nothing had been said.
    Mr. Stoppard: “You haven’t given me one solid reason.” He and Brian were now in my view as I stood in the carpeted area facing the living room.
    Brian was looking at me and Mr. Stoppard also turned in my direction. He was a big man, and seemed to me especially huge in those days. His hair was very black and full, waving slightly over his head, so that his well-cropped haircut still had a shaped elegance. His face was broader and rounder than Brian’s, his complexion darker and yet heartier. His eyebrows were black dramatic against the deep brown of his eyes. It was a stern commanding face, even when he smiled, as he did on seeing me. He made a low, sweeping gesture with his left hand that was punctuated by his wristwatch’s thin, gold border.
    I assumed he had said I should come in, but I really didn’t hear the words. He was a vital, handsome man and I was more awed by that than by his almost equally formidable stature of the moment: a displeased father.
    â€œWould you like something to drink?” Mrs. Stoppard asked me.
    I thought it was an absurd question so I answered quickly, “No, I’m fine. I just came over to see