"Who'm I?" Curtis asked. "Who could I be?"  They were on the living room floor, watching Mishima, Intergalactic Warrior Prince. It was nearly six o'clock, and Gordon's mother had invited Curtis to stay for dinner. (She'd actually wanted to take soup down the hall to Curtis's sick mother, but Curtis claimed that she was resting now, had best not be disturbed).

            
           "How about Monkey?"

            
           Curtis sat up abruptly. "That's a dumb name," he said. Monkeys are ugly, dirty."

            
            "No one is saying you have to be a real Monkey," Gordon said. "It's what a monkey symbolizes. Loyalty, quickness and all that. I think it's a way cool name."  He sniffed adamantly. "Be Curtis, if you want. I don't care."

            
            "No way. I'm Monkey, man."
            
            "Prove it," Gordon said. He felt wise beyond his years all of a sudden. Experienced. Fatherly. "If you want to be in The Organization, you need to show me what you can do. You need to earn it."

           Curtis began to bring him presents. A Sony Discman with Celine Dion's Greatest Hits still inside. A wallet containing four singles, a driver's license, a college I.D. card, and eight old receipts of ATM withdrawals. A University of Budweiser tee-shirt with the price sticker still attached. A black cat whose collar tag read:  "Hello, my name is Felix."

            
            "Stop stealing, "Gordon said. "No more stealing."  It was the last day of summer vacation. His mother had just bought him his new notebooks and a loose-leaf binder. The sober reality of school's imminence made him nervous and impatient. He was in no mood for foolishness.

            
            "Am I in?  I was gonna torch the dumpsters down by. . ."

            
            "For God's sake, Curtis. You're in. Let's just drop it and be normal."

            
            "Whatever," Curtis mumbled. He bent over and brushed an invisible smudge from his Air Jordans. Gordon didn't know people still wore those sneakers in the city.

            
            It rained that day. Bright and sudden showers that seemed to fall straight from the sun. The boys played soccer together for hours.

           Gordon woke before his alarm clock went off. It was still gray and foggy, but he was wide awake. He showered, dressed, slicked his hair and loaded his new orange knapsack.

            
            His mother fixed him scrambled eggs. He didn't eat, watching the clock, feeling a little tick inside his bowels. Curtis was supposed to be over by seven-fifteen so they'd have plenty time of to walk to the bus stop. He was late.

            
            "Everything's going to be fine. I wish I was going to school."  In her big, soft bathrobe his mother looked safe, protected from the world. Gordon envied her. She had no idea.

            
            At seven-twenty, he inspected the corridor and found it deserted. Curtis lived on the third floor, but since Gordon had never gone down there, or even been asked, it always seemed that he lived miles away.

            
            At seven-twenty-five, Gordon jumped up from the kitchen table, slung his knapsack over his shoulder. "Going to go get him," he told his mother. "I can't be waiting around all day."

           The fish-pale fat woman opened the door. She wore a nightshirt with a picture of a sad-eyed kitten on the front. Her hair was blonde and baby-thin, and when she saw Gordon she tucked it behind her ears. "Yes?" she said.

            
            "Hello, Mrs. Howells. I'm Curtis's friend, Gordon, and we're supposed to get the bus and, well, I don't want to rush him or anything, but it's getting late."

            
            "Call me Mickey," she said. "Come on in."

            
            "Thank you," Gordon said, stiffly. Something about her easy voice, her loaf-shaped breasts, made him feel very proper all of a sudden.

            
            "Curtis!" she screamed. She waited a few seconds. "No one rushes Curtis," she said. "He's got big ideas about himself. Take a load off, Martin."  She plopped down on a sofa strewn with newspapers.

            
            "Oh, I'm fine, thanks."  It was unsettling to see that this apartment was identical to the one he lived in. The same ugly, beige carpet, the same unimaginative configuration of rooms. But in this house the furniture looked cramped and mismatched, and there were dirty dishes on the coffee table. There was an unpleasant smell too, something yeasty and familiar that he couldn't quite place.

            
            "He's making himself gorgeous is what he's doing," she said, crossing her chalky legs. Gordon watched the downflow of blue veins with fascination. Her feet weren't even clean!

            
            "Well, we need to be hitting the road," he said. "Maybe I should go and. . ."

            
            "Very fashion conscious that one. Last month I ran into him at the pool, and he acted like he didn't even know me. Know why?"

            
            "Um. . ."

            
            "My bathing suit. Thinks a woman of my age should wear a one-piece with a frumpy little skirt. But there aren't any rules anymore. Not nowadays. All the rules have changed. I told the little so-and-so that. Said I'd buy me one of them thong things if I wanted."

            
            "I hope you're feeling better," Gordon offered.

            
            "From what?"

            
            "The flu. . . and everything."

            
            She snorted and swiped a pack of cigarettes off the floor. "Jesus. Do I look that bad?"  She leaned over and patted Gordon on the knee, and he winced perceptibly. She stared at him, amused. "Maybe you better go drag him to school," she said finally. "First on left."

           He didn't bother to knock. He barged right in. Curtis was stooping over, swabbing his sneakers with what looked like roll-on deodorant.

            
            Curtis looked up, startled. 'What are you doing here?  Mom let you in?"  He was wearing army pants, a black teeshirt and a blue sport coat that tugged across his shoulders. It had round, silver buttons. His hair looked big and smooth and perfect, as if carefully styled with a blow dryer.

            
            "It's late. I can't be late my first day at a new school."  Gordon felt a strange tingling in his scalp.

            
            "Just let me finish polishing. . ."

            
            "You don't polish sneakers, Curtis!  And kill the jacket!"  Really, there was something so desperate about Curtis. Why hadn't he seen it before?

            
            "Well, fine," Curtis said huffily. He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it neatly in his closet. The room was surprisingly tidy. In fact, alarmingly so. The bed was neatly made. A pine-tree air freshener was dangling on the doorknob.

            
            Gordon felt irritation sweep over him in waves. "What in hell is that?" he asked. "Looks like something my mother would stick in the toilet bowl."  He discovered that he had a sudden, irrepressible urge to hurt Curtis.

            
            Curtis shrugged, smiled agreeably. "Let's hit the road, Horse," he said.

            
            "Don't call me that. Let's forget all that."  Gordon heard his voice rise an octave, very shrill. "Don't call me Horse."  He felt a throbbing pain behind his eyes and sat down on Curtis's comforter.

            
            Curtis laughed and gave him a companiable sock in the shoulder. "No way," he said. "I'm gonna tell everyone to call you Horse, soon as we get on the bus. Here's Old Horse!  Old Whinny-Puss!  Who won last place in the Kentucky Fried Derby?  Old Glue-Boy!  Old Manure Butt!"  Curtis pushed open the door. "You coming or what?"