Free Boys & Girls Together by William Goldman

me.”
    Walt stuck his nose close to the pudding and that was when Arnold pushed his face down, right into the bowl. The pudding splattered all over and Walt’s glasses were caked with chocolate so he could hardly see.
    “All right now, what’s the fuss?” Maudie, big and black, stood by the table.
    “Walt had an accident,” Arnold hollered. “He thought the pudding smelled funny and then he had an accident.”
    “I do believe you’re right,” Maudie said, picking up Walt’s bowl, sniffing it. “I must have used spoiled cream. It sure does smell funny.”
    “It does?” Arnold said, and he sniffed at his bowl of pudding until the great black hand slammed down, shoving his face into the chocolate. Arnold kicked but the hand held firm, forcing his nose flat against the bottom of the plate. Arnold flailed his arms but the great black hand did not move. It pushed and pushed and only when Arnold began coughing convulsively did it raise up.
    Arnold ran sobbing from the room, crying, “P.T., P.T.” over and over.
    “He’s going to tell them,” Walt murmured. “He’s running right to them.”
    Then Maudie had him, shaking him hard. “You! You are so gullible I want to cry. You know what that means? Gullible? It means sucker and you stop being one!”
    Then Arnold was back in the kitchen, screaming, “You’re gonna get it now, you’re gonna get it now!” and then P.T. strode in, followed by Emily.
    P.T. pointed to his eldest son. “You do that, Maudie?”
    “Bet yo’ass!”
    P.T. hesitated, staring at the folded black arms. “Oh,” he said finally. “Well, you probably had a good reason.”
    “That’s my feeling.”
    “Just checking,” P.T. said, and he returned to his guests.
    Emily approached Maudie. “Maudie,” she whispered, “you must try to watch your language in front of the children.”
    “You’re absolutely right, Emily. I gotta do that.”
    “Yes,” Emily said, and she followed her husband. Arnold just stood there, staring around.
    Walt looked at him. “Chicken!” he said. “Yellow chicken!” Arnold began to shake. Then he (1) stamped his foot in anger; (2) burst into tears; (3) fled.
    “He’s yellow,” Walt said. “I never told them. Never even once.”
    “Shut up and eat your pudding,” Maudie said. Walt ate his pudding. And didn’t it taste good!
    Gino Caruso was the only marble player in school as brilliant as Walt. Gino never fudged or spit during an opponent’s turn. He simply knelt by the perimeter of the big pot circle, his chin resting on his knees, his dark eyes bright. Then, when his turn came, he would knuckle down fairly and begin to shoot, his deadly fingers cleaning out the pot with startling speed. He and Walt would usually battle around the big pot circle late in the afternoons, after they had beaten all other comers soundly. Then, their pockets crammed with spoils, they would engage each other in epic struggles that sometimes lasted till dark. Gino won some, others Walt won; always the caliber of play was outstanding. But Gino was more than just a marble player; he was quick, brighter than most, and easily the most graceful on the jungle gym or at tag or pom-pom-pullaway.
    “Hey, Gino,” Walt said. It was autumn and they were standing together on the playground during recess.
    “Hey, Walt.”
    “Hey, Gino,” Walt said again, feinting with his right, sending a straight left that grazed Gino’s arm.
    “Pow,” Gino said, moving his lithe body this way, then that, getting Walt off balance, delicately landing a light right to the chin.
    “Watcha doon?” They continued to spar.
    “Watcha mean, watcha doon? When?”
    “After.”
    “School?”
    “Yeah.” Walt drove in with a right and left to the body, but Gino was much too fast, so both punches missed.
    “Some stuff for my old lady.”
    “That take long?” Walt tried a roundhouse right, but it wasn’t a good idea; Gino gave him three fast ones in the ribs and was gone from range before the