Back to School

Racetrack is particular.

"Bullshit," Spot says, rolling the apple from one sunned palm to the other.

"Whaddaya mean bullshit?" Racetrack asks, thin brows furrowing.

"You don't like blondes."

"Who says I don't like blondes?"

"You said it, you ass."

"You wanna not call me an ass, please?"

"I would if you would stop actin' like one all the time."

"You gonna eat that apple or what?"

Spot tosses it up in the air and catches it with one hand. No. It is too good to eat.

"Later," is what he says, furtively. The object of their discussion is almost out of sight, the lace of her petticoat frothing beneath restrictive, Protestant calico. Spot squints, summing up the narrow shoulders, the sounds her shoes make, the pale flash of hair under the summery hat. It's long and thick, he can tell, done up in ropes, but it's the same as his. The same silver. Racetrack shifts on the low stone wall, patting his pockets. Spot lounges next to him, cap on his leg, suspenders lying dead around his waist.

"I saw her leg," Racetrack says.

"No you didn't."

"Jesus, Spot, I said I seen it didn't I?"

"Who's gonna flash her leg to a bum like you?"

Racetrack's scowl deepens.

"Anyway," Spot smirks, catching the apple again. "She ain't the type."

"And you would know a thing like that?"

Spot leans back on the low wall, daring the drop down to the crude gravel behind him, watching as she rounds the corner.

"She was fine," Racetrack says. His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow, his collar undone, face golden and shining in the heat. He pulls from his waist coat his only tin cigar box - Spot has known him long enough to know it's his only one - and neatly clicks the top open. He is particular with his things. Spot knows this as well.

"Don't like blondes much myself," Spot lets on.

"Yeah, well I do, don't I?" Racetrack says. He frees a Partagas from the tin the same thickness as Spot's thumb and brings it to his lips. Spot watches the shape his mouth makes around it - a sweet, dirty 'o', the flash of yellow teeth. Racetrack will not light it. He's been sucking on it, cold and unsmoldering, for a month now.

"They always look so pretty going," Racetrack says absently, placing the precious tin on the wall beside him. "Y'know, all done up for classes."

"Prefer 'em undone," Spot says, looking away from Racetrack's mouth.

"That's 'cuz you're a sick bastard," Racetrack replies casually. "Redhead."

"Yeah?" Spot looks down at his apple once more. The skin feels cool on his, even though the day is unseasonably hot and bright as a penny, and he knows the flesh beneath it is crisp. He rolls it from palm to palm, sparing only the briefest of glances at the girl as she walks past, clutching her satchel to her chest, gleaming in the heat.

"Don't like redheads anyways," Racetrack says a moment later. Spot grins. "You eating that apple any time soon, Spot?"

"How about I finally eat it when you finally light that fucking cigar?"

Racetrack takes it out from between his lips, grinning proudly, testing it's firmness with his fingers. "Beauty, ain't it? Got it for a song."

"It stinks," Spot mumbled.

"You stink."

"You stink."

"'Nuther blonde," Racetrack says, holding the cigar under his nose and inhaling. "To your left. Running a bit."

Spot looks over obligingly, and sneers. This one isn't half as pretty, and her face is wet as she takes past them at a fast clip.

"She's too skinny."

"I like skinny girls."

"Don't know what you're doing mooning after school girls all the time anyways," Spot mumbles, cupping the apple in both hands.

"I ain't sitting alone on this wall."

"I ain't got nothing better to do at lunch on a Tuesday, Christ," Spot says, face flaming slightly. "Why don't we go down to Manhattan some time? Get a look at some real women?"

"These is real women."

"These is kids."

"'Nuther redhead."

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't like redheads either," Spot says, kicking at the wall with his heels.

"You love redheads."

"I don't," Spot says. Racetrack puts the cigar back in his mouth. Spot licks his dry lips. "I like brunettes only."

"That ain't what you said last September."

"Maybe my tastes have changed."

"Maybe."

They fall silent. Racetrack leans back on the wall, happily sucking on his unlit cigar, glowing in the sun. Spot runs his fingers along the skin of the apple, noting a slight bruise near the stem, examining it gingerly. For the last three Septembers it had been fun watching the girls run back to school, but Spot was no longer keen to repeat their tradition. It just reminded him of things he couldn't have, school being one of them. Not that he'd want it. He was never good with words the way he was good with his fists, and it seemed like a bore anyways; who would want to be cooped up on a day like this? Racetrack clicks his tongue appreciatively and Spot glances up to see a true stunner, lips pinched with worry, speeding down the opposite sidewalk.

"There's your brunette."

"I don't like that brunette."

"Yeah? You not like that apple?"

"Jesus, Race, lay off. It's my only lunch."

"Least you got a lunch," Racetrack joked. Spot's felt a twinge at his friend's mirthless eyes, and he thought of the bruise on the fruit, pictured it suddenly soft and porous on his chest. That's what it felt like.

Scowling, he took a loud, large bite and passed it over.

"Thanks," Racetrack said grudgingly. They had known one another long enough to begin accepting small charities.

"Damn you," Spot murmured, watching his friend take a bite. "It's gonna stink like that god damned cigar now."

"Watch your mouth," Racetrack grins, words thick through the apple, but Spot is serious. He wants to preserve the way the fruit tastes - cool, green, like fresh water feels all over your tongue.

-

At quarter after one the last girl hurries by, throwing femininity to the winds and running. The apple is reduced down to a skinny core, and sits on the curb below their dangling feet. Racetrack carefully takes up his cigar tin which, Spot notes, has a new dent on one side, as though flattened under the weight of an unexpected body. He edges the Partagas into it's place of honor and lovingly closes the box. Spot watches his friends precise movements as he replaces it in his waistcoat, stretches the kinks out of his back, hops down from the wall.

"Come on," Racetrack says shortly over his shoulder. Spot follows.

They skirt the river, trudging back to the Brooklyn bridge, the shared lunch resting uneasily in both their stomachs.

"Brown eyes is pretty and all," Racetrack is saying, squinting up at the sun. "I like blue."

"Can't get any sweeter than dark eyes," Spot disagrees, kicking at a stone, mouth very dry. "It's...uh, whaddaya call it. Soulful."

Racetrack snickers. "I didn't know you was a poet."

"Maybe I am."

"Naw," he replies gravely. "You gotta know how to read to be a poet." He dodges the kick Spot aims at his feet, and the two grin nervously. They know where they are going.

"Irish girls are prettiest," Racetrack says.

"Maybe."

"What do you think?"

"I think 'maybe', you got ears?"

"Well maybe I don't, but I at least got brains."

"I got brains."

"Not brains enough to know that Irish girls is the prettiest."

Their footsteps take them down the long route, even though the afternoon editions are already stacking up in Newspaper Row, and most boys their age and stature are already lining up.

"I thought that brunette was alright."

"Yeah," Spot says, watching his friend out of the corner of his eye. "Alright."

The tip of Racetrack's tongue is between his teeth as he turns and glances quickly behind him. He cocks his head once and the two of them make a precise, neat turn down an alleyway. The sun is less hot here, it is cool as though sheltered by trees, but Racetrack is sweating, Spot sees it along his forehead, the sheen of his chest.

Racetrack lets out a long breath and pauses, edging his body into the deep well of a doorway. Spot turns around and mutely joins him, making sure not to look at his friend's face. The smell of the cigar surrounds him, but it doesn't stink like he says it does. It is a smell he could get used to. He thinks of Race's mouth around it, the shape of it, the way his breath whistled so sweetly, like a song. Racetrack clears his throat, hunches his shoulders, says nothing.

Their two shapes are wiry and suddenly small. Mutely, Spot leans forwards, presses his forehead against Racetrack's. His friend lets out a small, strange animal noise, and this kiss is quick, clumsy, wet in the hot afternoon. Spot pulls back, their foreheads still touching. They stay a moment like that, breath hard, hearts pounding. Racetrack seems suddenly smaller, but before Spot can even notice, he is straightening his shoulders, clearing his throat, and they spring apart as though nothing had happened.

"Better head back to Manhattan," Racetrack says casually, patting his waistcoat for his watch. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Bet you can't sell fifty today."

"Oh yeah? How much?"

"Enough to buy you a box of matches so you can finally light that fucking thing."

Racetrack laughs, throwing his head back, and Spot smiles too as they step out into the sunlight.

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