Arkansas by David Leavitt Read Free Book Online Page A

like me any better than I liked him. Contempt and lust: how is it possible that from such a devalued marriage as this, art could have been conceived? Yet it was. Indeed, as I look back, I recognize that there was something startlingly clear, even serene, about my partnership with Hunter, which no yearnings for domesticity defiled. Eric, on the other hand, I was always calling up and asking if he wanted to have lunch. He’d meet me when he had time, which was rarely, since lately he’d gotten busy with his juggling lessons.
    Yes, juggling lessons.
    Sometimes I’d go over to his house and lie on his bed, stoned, while above his head he hurled three red pins, or three sticks, or three white balls. Only the occasional “shit” or “fuck” interrupted his quiet, huffing focus. A ball bounced toward the window, or the pins clattered. Then he picked up the pins and started fresh, as the dense odor of his sweat claimed the room.
    He said he was hoping to get good enough to juggle on weekends for extra cash. He said he was working up to fire.
    And need I mention that those evenings never evolved into the erotic? Of course one hoped. Yet Eric was scrupulous, and—more to the point—not that interested. Sex with me, to his view, was a reward for a job well done.
    With Hunter, by contrast, sex was payment for services rendered. I hope I’ve made the distinction clearly.
    And of course he got his A. I learned only from Eric, who’d gotten A’s too and called me up before Christmas break to whoop about it. “Hasn’t Hunter told you?” he asked when I inquired, and when I said no, went silent. Then I tried to phone Hunter, but he was never at home. This didn’t surprise me, betrayal being the usual result when one starts making gentleman’s agreements with people who are not gentlemen.
    Anyway, what more should I have expected from a boy who buys a term paper, then tries to pass it off as his own?
    In the end I had to track him down at the UCLA pool. Dripping chlorine, the golden hair on his chest made my mouth water. I wanted to drink him.
    â€œHey, I’ve been meaning to call you,” he said as he toweled himself.
    â€œI’ve been trying to call you too. You’re never home.”
    â€œSorry about that, dude. I’ve been busy. By the way, my professor really loved that paper! I appreciate it.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    He dried under his arms.
    â€œSo anyway, the reason I’m here, Hunter, is that I’d like to know when you intend to fulfill your half of the bargain.”
    â€œSofter, your voice carries!”
    â€œWhat, you don’t want any of your friends to know I wrote your paper for you?”
    â€œSofter!” He pushed me into a corner. “Look,” he said, his whisper agitated, “it’ll have to be after I’m back from break. Right now I’m too busy.”
    â€œNo, it’ll have to be before you leave for break. Didn’t your mother teach you it’s never a good idea to put things off?” I patted him on the arm. “Tell you what, why don’t you come over to my dad’s place tomorrow around noon? He’s away for the weekend. We can put the Jeep in the garage.”
    â€œThe Jeep!”
    â€œYou did get an A, Hunter.”
    â€œBut I—”
    â€œWhat, you thought I was just going to write that paper for nothing? Uh-uh. You be there at noon.”
    I gave him my address, after which he limped off toward the showers.
    He was not a bad kid, really. It was just part of his affably corrupt nature to try to get away with things. Of such stuff as this are captains of industry made.
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    Probably the aspect of this story that puzzles me most, as I look back, is how word of my “availability” circulated so quickly through the halls and dormitories of UCLA those next months. I don’t mean that it became common knowledge among the student body that David