d wanted me to get into Peter Stuyvesant High School--you know, the
genius factory, city-wide competitive exam to get in. Of course I didn't
make it. Biggest Failure of the Year, that's me."

"Heck, I never even tried for that. But how come you're here?"

"There's a special science course you can qualify for by taking a math
test. Then you don't have to live in the district. My dad figures as long
as I'm in something special, there's hope. I'm not really very interested
in science, but that doesn't bother him."

So after that Ben and I walk back and forth to school together, and it
turns out we have three classes together, too--biology and algebra and
English. We're both relieved to have at least one familiar face to look
for in the crowd. My old friend Nick, aside from not really being my best
friend anymore, has gone to a Catholic high school somewhere uptown.

On the way home from school one Friday in September, I ask Ben what he's
doing Monday and Tuesday, the Jewish holidays.

"Tuesday I got to get into my bar mitzvah suit and go to synagogue and
over to Brooklyn to my grandmother's. Monday I don't have to do anything
special. Come on over with your roller skates and we'll get in the hockey
game."

"I skate on my tail," I say, because it's true, and it would be doubly
true in a hockey game. I try quick to think up something else. We're
walking down the block to my house, and there's Cat sitting out front, so
I say, "Let's cruise around and get down to Fulton Fish Market and pick up
some fish heads for my cat."

"You're a real nut, aren't you?" Ben says. He doesn't say it as if he
minds--just mentioning the fact. He's an easygoing kind of guy, and I think
most of the time he likes to let someone else make the plans. So he shrugs
and says, "O.K."

I introduce him to Cat. Ben looks him in the eye, and Cat looks away and
licks his back. Ben says, "So I got to get you fresh fish for Rosh
Hashanah, huh?"

Cat jumps down and rubs from back to front against Ben's right leg and
from front to back against his left leg and goes to lie down in the middle
of the sidewalk.

"See? He likes you," I say. "He won't have anything to do with most guys,
except Tom."

"Who's Tom?"

So I tell Ben all about Tom and the cellar and his father disappearing on
him.

"Gee," says Ben, "I thought I had trouble, with my father practically
telling me how to breathe better every minute, but at least he doesn't
disappear. What does