Ice (Shooting Stars 2)

He gazed at the doorway to the living room.

"Are your parents at home?"

"Mv mother is, but she isn't feeling well and she is in bed," I said. He nodded.

"Well, can we sit down for a moment?" he asked.

I led him into the living room. He looked over every possible seat as if he wanted to be sure to choose one that wouldn't leave a smudge on his immaculate suit. Our apartment was far from dirty. The furniture might look worn, but there wasn't any dust nor were there any stains. He chose to sit in Daddy's chair. I remained standing.

"Well, now." he began, his fingers touching at the tips. "I suppose you're aware of what went on today."

I nodded.

He tilted his head and almost smiled.

"I was obviously quite taken by surprise when I received the phone call from the principal. My Baiwin? Fighting? I remember girls on the playround pushing and kicking him around and him not lifting a finger to defend himself-- or even to voice a complaint, for that matter. I thought he was without any self-respect. Other children his age could wipe their shoes on him and he would stand there obediently as if he were a living rug. I can tell you how much that bothered me, and when he began to gain weight. I thought it was just a logical

consequence of the softness in his spine. He has no pride."

"That's not true." I cried.

He snapped his hands apart as if I had driven mine through them.

"No," he said nodding. "I realize now that there are some things that will motivate him to stand up for himself, to care about his self-image and the image he presents to others. One thing at least. I should say," he concluded, gazing up at me and nodding.

I waited, my arms now wrapped around my body, under my breasts.

"You know I'm referring to you. This fight today was over you, as I understand it. He was defending your honor. Of course, he received three days' suspension at just the wrong time of his highschool life, when he's expected to do well on his exams and prepare to enter a prestigious institution. He's got his heart set on this Juilliard. but I have gotten him to at least apply to Yale and Harvard."

"Mr. Noble--" I began, but he put up his hand to stop the traffic of my words.

"How. I asked myself, how can I take advantage of this rather embarrassing situation so it won't be a complete loss? I make my living doing that for others in a sense. so I should be able to do it for myself, don't you think?

"For the longest time. I have tried without much success, to get Balwin to look at himself in the mirror and see what everyone else sees. I have tried to explain, to demonstrate, to emphasize just how important appearance is in this world. People, for better or for worse, most often judge others on the basis of their looks, the image they present. Clothes do make the man. Miss Goodman, and so does your personal hygiene and your physical self.

"In Balwin's case it's deplorable. He has nice clothes to wear and he takes good care of his wardrobe, but you can't turn a pig into a swan merely by dressing it in pretty feathers."

"Balwin is not a pig," I blurted.

He stared at me and then closed his eyes for a moment as if he had to seize control of his raging emotions.

"No," he said opening his eyes again, "He's not a pig in spirit even though someone looking at him might think he overindulges, as do pigs."

"What do you want from me?" I demanded, growing tired of listening to Balwin's father tearing him down.

"I want you to get him to lose weight." he said.

"What?"

"You heard me. I want you to get him to shape up, to improve his self-image. I know you can motivate him now because of what's happened. That shows some commitment to something other than his music.

"Of course, I don't expect you to do this without receiving some compensation so I am prepared to make this offer... I'll give you ten dollars for every pound you get him to shed from now until the end of the school year," he stated.

I simply stared at him.

"Twenty pounds gets you a quick two hundred dollars. I'm sure you could use it," he said, glancing around the living room. "No," he said after another moment of my silence and my famous penetrating stare, "I should improve this offer. Tell you what. I'll increase the dollars per pound with every five pounds so that pounds one to five, you'll get fifty dollars, but pounds six to ten, you'll get double that, a hundred dollars, and then pounds ten to fifteen, we'll make triple and quadruple the amount for fifteen to twenty. Anything more than twenty, give you fifty dollars a pound. How's that sound?'

"Stupid," I said. "Insulting. Depressing, disgusting and insensitive," I concluded. 'Balwin will lose weight when he wants to lose it and not because I tell him to lose it."