Mohawk

fourth floors. He’s not certain that what darted in front of him was an animal, but it must’ve been.

6
    Randall Younger stared out the second-floor classroom window at the dark, weatherbeaten statue of Nathan Littler, the town father, on the sloping lawn in front of Nathan Littler Junior High. Already several members of the gang of boys who called themselves the Cobras were beginning to congregate at Nathan’s feet, even though last period had over fifteen minutes to go. For Randall, last period was math, and he was bored. The material his teacher was trying to cover should’ve been clear to anybody who’d read the book, but most of Randall’s classmates didn’t read books of any description and would never have allowed themselves to be pressured into reading a math text. The private school that Randall had attended in the city had been much more demanding, and in the two years since he and his mother had moved back to Mohawk, Randall had occupied his time waiting for his classmates to catch up. It was exhausting work. The Mohawk kids had pretty high opinions of themselves, but most of them lacked natural ability and desire, at least when it came to schoolwork. As a result, Randall was fast coming to the conclusion that the only way he’d ever be accepted was if he regressed. To that end he had recently adopted a few simple measures. By purposely flubbing questionson exams, he was able to avoid the chorus of groans that had for more than a year greeted his announced test scores. Perfection rankled just about everyone, including the teachers, whereas mediocrity made people feel comfortable. The Jewish kids could get away with excellence because it was just the way they were brought up, but Randall was not Jewish. His father was just a mechanic at the Pontiac dealership, so better things were expected of him. Therefore, instead of scoring a perfect hundred on a recent science test, Randall had allowed himself a mere eighty-eight, and the prettiest girl in the class had smiled at him approvingly. Indeed, if she hadn’t been going with the best wrestler in school, Randall might’ve asked her out to a movie some Saturday afternoon. He wasn’t exactly afraid of the wrestler, just aware that he had a way to go before his own credentials were rock solid.
    When the bell rang, Randall tossed his things in his locker and drifted along with the crowd toward the double doors, ducking into the gym at the last moment so he could slip out the door that opened on the alley behind the Mohawk Grill. Randall didn’t believe in tempting fate. The day before, he was waylaid by Cobras who insisted he join. For a dollar a week, they’d make sure nobody bothered him. That wouldn’t have been such a bad deal except that the Cobras themselves were the only ones who ever bothered him. Only the biggest and most athletic boys escaped paying dues. Randall himself had avoided the issue for over a year because no one knew exactly who he was and because he had a way of blending in. But now Boyer Burnhoffer, the Cobra leader, who had already spent two years in reform school, had him figured, and Randall knew he’d have to join pretty soon if he expected toescape a thrashing. The Cobras bragged that they had once killed a boy who refused to join. Randall didn’t believe it, but it was vaguely unsettling to know that it was murder they aspired to. They had stopped Randall at the foot of Nathan Littler’s statue, and Boyer Burnhoffer—his shirt unbuttoned to the waist in the late October chill, his breath reeking of onions—had wondered out loud, his nose only an inch or two from Randall’s, what the boy could have against becoming an honorary Cobra. Randall had known they wouldn’t dare to beat him up there on Main Street in front of the school, so he stalled and made an excuse about his grandfather waiting in the hospital. That wasn’t true, of course. Mather Grouse had been released earlier in the week, but the ploy for sympathy worked and Randall got away after promising he’d join by the end of the week.
    The situation was far from critical. All he had to do was make sure he always had a dollar in his pocket and exercise normal vigilance to avoid parting with it until he had to. It wasn’t forking over the dollar that bothered him, but giving people money not to beat him up seemed a bad precedent. By leaving through the gym, he was able to flank the Cobras, who were quite attached to Nathan Littler, in whose august