The Ninth Wave Read Online Free Page B

uncertainly.

She licked her lips and took off her glasses. Suddenly she looked

disappointed, the sort of dull surprise of a person who pushes against

a door he thought was locked and finds that it is open.

"Where will you go?" she asked. "Stanford, U.S.C., California?"

"Stanford," he said although he had never thought about it until a

moment ago.

"That's out of town. I'll miss you. You'll be gone for a long time."

"Sure. I'll take Hank and go to Stanford."

"Hank Moore?" she said. "I thought he didn't like you. You're always

arguing. I don't think he likes you."

"Doesn't like me?" Mike said. He leaned up on his elbow and stared at her.

Then he laughed. "O.K., maybe he doesn't like me. But he'll go with me. We

get along all right. Even if we're not best friends we got . . . we got

respect for one another." Then, because his last words made him suddenly

shy, his face went hard. "Don't worry about Hank. He'll go with me."

Her eyes misted as she looked at him.

"I'll miss you," she said. "You were my best student. I guess you're the

best student Manual Arts High has had for a long time. Everybody says so."

"Sure, everybody says so," Mike said ironically. "What do they know?"

I ought to be good at Manual, he thought, there aren't many good ones

there. That huge sprawling school was designed for the production

of mechanics, printers, welders, typesetters, linotype operators,

bookbinders, molders and auto repairmen. The same families that insisted

that their sons take a training course for a trade also insisted that

the school offer a college preparatory course. So there were always

a few tiny classes which studied Greek, Latin, English composition,

modern languages and the other college preparatory courses. Among this

little group Mike was the undisputed leader.

"Those lunkheads. What would they know?" he went on. "The competition

isn't very tough at Manual," he said.

"Will your folks be able to help you at Stanford?" Miss Bell asked.

"Are you kidding?" Mike laugtled. "They don't have a penny. I've had

to earn all my clothes money and spending money since I entered high

school. You know that."

"Look, Mike, I'll help," Miss Bell said. "I've still got some money left

from what Father left when he . . . died." Her father had committed

suicide the day after he sold the two Belgian hares to the poultry shop.

"I'd be glad to do it."

Mike watched her soft, nearsighted eyes search for his face, her lips

twitching as she tried to read his expression. He smiled at her and

her eyes widened and his smile was echoed in her face. No, Miss Bell,

not this, he thought. For months I've taken hamburgers, malted milks,

gabardine slacks, small change for rubbers, movie tickets, your car and

books from you. But this is different.

"No, I'll do it alone," Mike said.

"Don't be silly," Miss Bell said. Her voice was a little desperate. "I'll

make it as a loan."

"It's not my conscience," Mike said. "I just don't want help from anyone."

He sensed that this was the first loop in a snare. It came across the air

of the hot room, rested about him with a thin delicacy that he knew could

become a tough web of obligation as it was joined by dozens of other

loops of the snare. Her smooth plump face worked as she tried to read

the expression on his face; her lips smiled tentatively, then collapsed.

"Please, Mike, I'd like to help," she said.

Mike sat up, reached over to the table for a White Owl. He slid the cigar

out of its cellophane wrapper, put the band around his little finger

and lit the cigar. He opened one side of his mouth, let a thick white

curl of smoke float up past his eyes. Miss Bell's eyes squinted as she

tried to see through the smoke.

For a moment he thought of asking her to come to Stanford; to teach

up there. He could have the Buick, the hamburgers, the free food. And

she would always be waiting, her lips ready to tremble, her hand ready

to guide him to her body. Always ready. And then, for