Chapter 24

The first day of winter quarter was full of long lines: to pick up my schedule, to pay my tuition and fees, and to buy my books. In the process, I wrote two large checks, wiping out most of the money my parents had wired to my account.

That evening, I got together with Trip, Luke, and Jeff. Jeff was giving Luke a hard time, because it seemed like the Cajun had returned to school with half a grocery store.

“Mais, y’all,” he said, “I need this stuff.”

“Okay, okay,” Jeff said, “I can understand the Mr. Coffee—”

Luke was always complaining about the weak coffee.

“—but hot sauce, spices, and vegetables?”

“I told you,” Luke explained patiently, “if y’all used spices up here, I wouldn’t need to bring any of this stuff. But no one outside of Louisiana seems to’ve heard of basic ingredients like cayenne, garlic, or paprika. And don’t even get me started on The Holy Trinity.”

“The Holy Trinity? What the fuck is that?”

“Mais, bell peppers, onions, and celery.”

“But you can get those here,” Jeff argued. “Why bring ‘em back with you?”

Trip and I merely grinned at each other and ignored the escalating banter. “What’re you up to tomorrow?” he asked me instead.

“I think I’m gonna join the Flying Club,” I said. “And probably the Snow Skiing Club. Why? What’re you up to?”

“I think I’ll go with you to check out the clubs,” he said. “And I wanted to sign us up for intramural basketball. You still up for it?”

“Have we got a fifth guy?”

He shook his head. “But we’ll find one. Don’t worry.”

After Luke and Jeff stopped arguing about produce, we spent the rest of the night listening to a couple of new albums that Trip had gotten for Christmas (the Police, “Ghost in the Machine,” and Joan Jett, “I Love Rock n’ Roll”).

The next day Trip and I headed down to the University Center, where the extracurricular organizations all had tables set up. Once there, we marveled at the sheer number of activities: student government, the campus newspaper, professional organizations, academic fraternities and sororities, sports clubs, recreational clubs, and more.

When we passed the sports clubs, I made a startling discovery: the Wrestling Club. Even though UT Knoxville didn’t have an official NCAA wrestling program, they had the next best thing: a semi-official team, complete with matches against other wrestling clubs within the Southeastern Conference.

Trip ended up joining the Wrestling and Snow Skiing Clubs with me. He’d never done either before, but he was a natural athlete, willing to try anything. As planned, we also signed up for intramural basketball. (Trip even listed our unknown fifth player as Pistol Pete, “just to make people nervous,” he said.)

At the Flying Club table, I signed up for instrument ground school. Earl Walker, the instructor from my checkride, taught the class. Even better, club members got a discount on course fees and books.

By the time we left the UC, I had shelled out more than a hundred dollars. I’d also added quite a bit to my already full schedule.

The Snow Skiing Club met on the first Monday of each month, but had regularly scheduled weekend trips to Ober Gatlinburg, the local ski resort. They also had a big trip planned to Colorado over Spring Break, although I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go (my bank account was pretty anemic).

The Wrestling Club had practice every afternoon, from four to six o’clock. Since the club wasn’t the same as a varsity team, the practices were optional, but I planned to attend as many as I could. Matches were held on Saturdays, and were a mixture of home and away.

The intramural basketball schedule was a work in progress, since it depended upon the number of teams that signed up. But we were guaranteed to play at least one game a week, although the coordinator said it would more likely be two.

My ground school class met every Wednesday night, from seven to nine o’clock (in one of the rooms at the UC). The Flying Club itself had meetings every other Thursday, at seven o’clock.

On top of all that, I wanted to take advantage of Susan’s gift of flying time. I planned to fly on the weekends, but I’d have to book my time well in advance, since those were the busiest days for both instructors and rental aircraft.

My personal life was equally busy. Kendall’s roommates’ class schedules weren’t as obliging as the previous quarter, but we’d be able to get together in the middle of the day on Tuesdays, at least for a couple of hours. And we planned to eat breakfast together every day, of course.

Last but not least, I had to find time for Gina. While Kendall’s schedule more or less matched mine, Gina’s was once again very different. We had tried to synchronize them, but without much luck: my classes were mostly in the morning, while hers were mid- and late-day. I was determined to find a way to make it work, though.

When I called Gina that evening, I told her about all my extracurricular activities. Her sorority took up a lot of her time, but she was also planning to volunteer at the UT hospital.

“I think the biggest problem with our relationship,” she said, “is that we haven’t consciously made time for each other. That’s one of the reasons I gave you the Ultimate Boyfriend card. I mean, in high school, it was easy, ‘cause we saw each other all the time. But now...”

“No kidding.”

“Maybe we can have a ‘date night’ or something. You know, a special night where we’ve got a standing date. What do you think about that?”

“Sounds good to me. But when?”

“Sorority mixers are usually on Wednesday or Saturday, so how about Thursday or Friday nights?”

“Friday would be better, but I’ve got wrestling practice till six,” I said.

“And after that?”

“I guess I’m all yours,” I said.

The first day of classes was hectic. I tried to act nonchalant—the very picture of a veteran college student—but inside, I was as nervous as I’d been on my first day at UT.

After breakfast Trip and I headed to the A&A building; our eight o’clock class was Architecture 1002. The professor’s name was E. Stanford Littleton, although he didn’t tell us what the “E” stood for. I thought it was pretentious, but he seemed like a no-nonsense professor. When he dismissed us, Trip and I headed upstairs for our next class.

Professor Joska strode into the room precisely at nine o’clock, and we grew quiet. My entire project team from the previous quarter had signed up for the same section, and we were sitting together. Gracie Fisher and her team were in our class as well.

“Welcome to Architecture 1007, Design II,” Joska said, writing the section number on the blackboard. “I am Laszlo Joska,” he added, pronouncing his name with the usual soft sibilance. “If you’re not supposed to be here, please be kind enough to leave quietly.” Then he turned and regarded us with a steely gaze.

One student sheepishly gathered his books. “Sorry,” he said.

“A wise man,” Professor Joska commented as the guy left the room. Then he turned to the rest of us. “Anyone else? Can I convince any of you to drop this class? No? Okay, I’ll sign Drop/Add slips now.”

To my surprise, a student actually got up with a slip for Joska to sign, meaning that he was joining the class at the last minute.

“He must not know Joska,” I stage-whispered to Trip.

“Yes, Mr. Hughes,” Joska said as he signed the slip, “like a spider with a fly, my plan is to catch unsuspecting young architecture students and suck the life out of them.”

I felt a flush creeping up my cheeks: I’d meant for the people around me to overhear, not Joska himself.

Joska handed the slip back to the new student and gestured for him to return to his desk. Then he looked at me, his eyes hard.

I set my jaw, prepared for a scathing remark, but I didn’t shy away from his gaze.

He held my eyes for a half-dozen long heartbeats. Suddenly, he smiled benignly. “I trust you had a relaxing Christmas break,” he said.

Was he mocking me? “Yes, sir,” I answered, my emotions tightly controlled.

“Good,” he said. “I hope you’re rested and refreshed—”

I felt my eyes narrow in uncertainty.

“—so I can drive you until you wonder why you ever wanted to become an architect.” He turned to the class as a whole. “As Mr. Hughes is just beginning to understand, architecture is a serious business for serious people. I’m not your mother and I’m not your priest. Nor am I here to make you like me.”

The rest of his speech was much the same as the one from the previous quarter. Just when I thought I could safely zone out, however, he launched into something new.

“Most of you have survived your first quarter as architecture students,” he said, “which puts you head and shoulders above ninety-five percent of the student body. But from this point onward, things become more difficult. You are no longer novices, and I expect you to avoid the same mistakes you made last quarter. Hopefully, some of you will impress me with the gravity of your new mistakes, but I will be pitiless regarding things you should already know.”

Most of us looked around nervously.

“Now,” Joska continued, “I see that Mr. Whitman and Miss Fisher had the foresight to keep their project teams intact.”

For a moment, I panicked, thinking he might break us up.

“Since they went to so much trouble, I plan to reward their efforts. Two of the cornerstones of architecture are planning and execution,” Joska continued. “To that end, Mr. Whitman and Miss Fisher will each receive five extra credit points on every project this quarter.”

A collective gasp went up from the class. Those five points could easily mean the difference between passing and failing a project.

“Let that be a lesson to each of you,” Joska added. “Your progress toward a degree in architecture should be like a building design itself—the classes are part of a greater whole, and they build upon each other. Those of you who plan ahead will be rewarded, while those of you who do not will find that your efforts often fall short of success.”

At that point, he went through the process of selecting team leaders and assigning the remaining students to project teams. It was almost painful to watch, and I was glad I didn’t have to go through it again. When he was done, he looked at his watch.

“And now,” he said, “for the only time this quarter, class is dismissed early.”

We gathered our books and stood.

“Mr. Whitman, Miss Fisher,” Joska called out above the din, “please see me for a few moments on your way out.”

“I’ll wait for you,” I said to Trip, who nodded. Five minutes later, he joined me on the balcony above the atrium. “What’d he have to say?” I asked.

“You know those five extra points?”

I nodded.

“We’re gonna need ‘em.”

“Huh?”

“Joska basically told us that we’re guaranteed to get the points,” he said, “but that he expects us to work harder than anyone else in the class to earn ‘em. In other words, he’s gonna grade us harder ... just because.”

“That sucks, man.”

“Actually, it’s brilliant.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“No. Think about it,” he said. “He told the rest of the class that he rewards ‘planning and execution,’ but he told us that there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.”

“TANSTAAFL,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“So why is that brilliant?”

“With one stroke, he’s teaching two different lessons,” Trip said.

“You sound like you’re actually starting to like him.”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far, but I definitely respect him.”

“You’re nuts.”

“No, you’re just too focused on hating him,” he said. “Sure, he’s hard, but he’s fair. And yeah, he picks on you, but the sooner you figure out that it’s not personal, the better. He’s trying to toughen you up. I mean, think about it for a sec ... When he made that comment about the spider and the fly, what did you do?”

I shrugged. “Nothing. But what’s that have to do with anything?”

“How would you have reacted a couple of months ago?”

Once again, I shrugged.

To my surprise, Trip laughed. “You’d’ve burst a blood vessel in anger.”

I denied it, but privately admitted that he was probably right.

“Trust me, you’d’ve been steamed. But now ... what happened? Nothing, that’s what. You just took it in stride and kept your cool. I’m telling you, Joska’s brilliant.”

“Jeez,” I muttered, “five lousy extra credit points and you’re suddenly the guy’s biggest fan.”

“No,” Trip said, “I just recognize talent and ability when I see it.” Then he laughed good-naturedly and clapped me on the shoulder. “Why d’you think I hang around with you?”

I grinned abashedly.

“Besides,” he continued, “I don’t have to like Joska to see what he’s doing to us. That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

“No fucking kidding.”

“Come on,” Trip said, still chuckling. “You’ll see what I’m talking about sooner or later. Now, where’re you headed to next?”

“Calculus,” I said. “Ayers.”

“I’ve got Accounting, in Glocker. I’ll walk with you, my proud, stubborn friend.”

“I’m not stubborn.”

“You are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

I started to deny it again, but Trip’s laugh disarmed me.

“See what I mean?” he asked rhetorically.

“Who asked you anyway?”

My two remaining classes were full of the usual first-day stuff.

Intermediate Calculus was taught by a fidgety, dark-skinned Indian named Prakash Vajpayee. He was a graduate student, and his English was so heavily accented that I didn’t understand half of what he said.

After lunch I headed to Architecture 1320, Drawing II. Professor Ledbetter welcomed us and went over the syllabus. Since it was a two-credit-hour class, it only met on Monday and Wednesday. After class, he even pulled me aside and said he was looking forward to working with me. Flattered and a little embarrassed, I thanked him. Then I headed down to Studio 6, where I hoped to catch Siobhan (and Wren, I silently admitted).

“Oh, hello, Paul,” Siobhan said, her brogue cheery.

“Hi, Siobhan. I was just checking to see what the schedule is for modeling.”

She motioned me into her office, where she picked up a calendar. “Today and Friday are just orientation; I’ll be introducing the students to the syllabus, as well as the tools and media. So you and Wren aren’t scheduled until next week.”

“No problem.”

“You wouldn’t be interested in modeling for another class, would you? We had higher than expected enrollment for my Life Drawing class, so they added another section. And now,” she shrugged, “I find myself without models. The class is Tuesday-Thursday at 9:15 a.m. The pay isn’t much, but you already know that. It’ll double the amount you’re already making, though.”

The previous quarter I had a surplus from my birthday and graduation money. But that was all gone, and I owed my parents four hundred dollars on top of that. They were still giving me spending money—they expected me to repay the four hundred from my summer work—but the extra money from modeling would come in handy. “Sure,” I said immediately. “Who’s the female model? Wren?”

Siobhan frowned. “I talked to her earlier today, and she’s got a class conflict. Do you know anyone? Didn’t your girlfriend mention something about wanting to model?”

“Yeah, she did,” I said, already considering the possibilities.

“Do you two want to do it together?”

“Sure! Sign us up.”

“Shouldn’t you talk to her first?”

“Um, yeah, probably,” I said sheepishly. “But definitely sign me up. And pencil her in. I’ll talk to her tonight and we’ll let you know tomorrow. Okay?”

She nodded. “Have her stop by my studio. I’ll need to get a model release from her.” At that point, she glanced toward the larger studio.

I took the cue and headed for the door.

Once in the main studio, I looked for Wren. Instead, I spotted Christy. She saw me at the same time and smiled warmly. Siobhan and I headed toward her simultaneously. When I pulled up short, the auburn-haired professor grinned at me and gestured for me to go ahead.

I felt my face heating, but headed for the petite blonde nonetheless.

“Happy New Year,” she said.

“Happy New Year. How was Hawaii?”

“Great! I love it there,” she said. “Unfortunately, my brother’s going back to a squadron, so he’s moving to San Diego. Well, it’s good for him, so not ‘unfortunately,’ but I won’t get to visit him in Hawaii anymore. So it’s unfortunate for me.”

“That’s too bad,” I said.

“Oh, I’ll survive.”

“Now, this is ... Harry ... right? He’s a Lieutenant...”

“Lieutenant Commander,” she said.

“And he’s the one who flies F-4s?”

“Right, but his new squadron flies F-14s, so he’s going to training first.”

“Okay, so who flies A-4s?” I asked. “That’s ... Danny?”

“Mmm hmm. But he’s in the Marine Corps. He lives in North Carolina,” she added. “Cherry Point.”

“Oh, so he’s not that far away.”

“It’s far enough for anyone who doesn’t have a car,” she said.

“Maybe I’ll fly you there some time.”

She blushed. Shyly: “I’d like that.”

“Okay, so, what about the others?” I asked after a moment. “James...? And ... Rich?”

“Mmm hmm. James flies helicopters—Navy—and he’s in Jacksonville. Rich is in the Navy too, but he’s in Coronado.”

“Oh ... um ... where’s that?”

“San Diego,” she said, smiling quizzically. “I thought you used to live there.”

“Well, not really. I was born there, but I only lived there for about two months.” At her curious look, I continued. “My mom was visiting her brother and went into labor a month early. After I was born, she lived with my Uncle Hank ... until I was old enough to travel, I mean.”

“Oh. Then where’d she go?”

“Back to Gainesville, Florida. My grandparents drove to California to pick us up. I don’t remember it, though. I was only two months old.”

She smiled at my joke.

“Anyway, that’s why I didn’t know that Coronado was near San Diego. But ... back to your brother. What’s he fly?”

“Oh, Rich doesn’t fly. He’s ... um ... he’s a frogman ... he does underwater demolition and ... um ... other stuff.”

“Wow, cool.” Then I chuckled. At her questioning look, I explained. “I thought I had a hard time keeping up with just one sister. And you’ve got four brothers to keep track of.”

Her eyes tightened. Before I could say anything, she forced a smile and asked, “So, how was your ski trip?”

“Good,” I said, a little perplexed at the sudden change in subject. “Really good. We had a lot of fun.”

“Utah, right?”

I nodded.

“I’ve never skied there.”

“You know how to ski?”

“Of course,” she said. “We went to Hokkaido or Nagano all the time when we lived in Japan. And then in San Diego, we’d fly up to Squaw Valley. I started skiing when I was eight or nine, I guess. My brother used to...” She didn’t continue. “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “What was I saying?”

“Your brother used to...?”

She smiled wistfully, but didn’t answer. “I ... I’d better get to my seat. Siobhan’s probably waiting for me.”

Siobhan was talking to some other students, and the bell to begin class hadn’t rung yet. I didn’t know what had happened to Christy’s brother—or even which one—but her mood had obviously changed, and I didn’t want to make things worse by prying.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

With that, I watched her walk to her seat and simply sit there, lost in thought. Then she wiped her cheeks and glanced up. When she saw me, she smiled, but her eyes were sad.

Trip and I went to our first wrestling practice that afternoon. The club had actually been meeting since school began in the fall, so we were late-comers. The faculty advisor, Larry Travis, was the coach. He was also the strength and conditioning coach for the football team. Not surprisingly, he advocated wrestling as a way for his football players to stay in condition during the off-season.

I had a low opinion of football players as wrestlers. In high school, we had our fair share of cocky football players who tried out for the wrestling team, convinced that they’d show us how tough they were (compared to us, that is). After all, they said, they’d been through spring training, summer workouts, and an entire football season.

Invariably, they wheezed their way through the first week’s wrestling workouts and told us that we could quit going hard on them, that we’d made our point. I always loved the expressions on their faces when we told them that Coach had been going easy on us, since we were all soft from the off-season.

After that, most football players quietly went away, bound for the arms of cheerleaders and the sycophants who adored them simply because they were football players. I was always impressed with the guys who did stick around, but they were few and far between.

Consequently, I wasn’t all that enthusiastic about wrestling for a man who was also a football coach. It was a petty prejudice, but it was born of experience.

Not surprisingly, my preconceptions took a beating that day.

Coach Travis was anything but the stereotypical football coach. I later learned that he’d been an All-American football player at Michigan. As if that weren’t impressive enough, he’d been an All-American wrestler as well. The University of Michigan was no slouch in either department.

Unfortunately, he’d injured his knee his senior year, and had to give up a promising career playing professional football. But that didn’t stop him from enjoying the sports he loved.

When he found out I was the Georgia state runner-up in the 185-pound weight class, I expected him to immediately treat me as one of his stars. Instead, I was in for a rude awakening.

“You look pretty scrawny for a 185-pounder,” he said.

“Actually, I’m down to about 170 now.”

“And why weren’t you in the Club last quarter?” he asked, brushing off my excuse. “Do you want to wrestle or not?”

“I want to wrestle,” I assured him. “I’ve kept up my workouts and everything. I just didn’t know there was a Wrestling Club.”

“That’s no excuse. If you really wanted to wrestle, you would’ve found us. Anyway, you’re here now. At least you haven’t gone totally soft, although you look like you’re trying to make weight for a class ten pounds lighter than you need to be. And you,” he said, turning to Trip, “what’s your story?”

“I’m here with him,” he said, nodding to me.

“Have you ever wrestled before?”

Trip shook his head.

“Well, at least you don’t have any bad habits to break. And you look like the right type. Did you play football in high school?”

“One year, when I was a freshman, and five years before that. But I played baseball and basketball all through high school.”

“Good man ... well-rounded. Too bad you didn’t stick with football though.”

“Our first-string varsity quarterback got a full scholarship to Alabama,” Trip said. “I was good, but he was better. A lot better. Riding the bench isn’t my idea of a good time, so I concentrated on baseball and basketball.”

“How’d you do?”

“Our baseball team was state champion,” he said. “Twice. I was captain both years.”

Coach Travis’s eyebrows shot up. “And in basketball?”

“We did okay. Not as good as baseball, but we always had a winning season.”

“Good man. So, whaddya weigh? About 185?”

“About that,” Trip said.

“All right,” Coach Travis said. Then he looked at me. “You work out with Will and the 177-pounders. I don’t want you to get some harebrained idea to get down to 167 pounds. With your build, you need to bulk up. And you,” he added, to Trip, “you work out with the 190-pounders. Lonnie over there’ll get you started.”

With that, I got a taste of what the high school football players went through. My ad hoc workouts were nothing compared to a regimented wrestling workout. I also learned that my wrestling skills had dulled. Considerably. The number-one 177-pound wrestler, Will Treadway, worked me all over the mat. I managed one take-down, but he quickly reversed on me.

I did get a good look at the gym ceiling for the better part of two hours, though.

I didn’t particularly enjoy the view.

“That was fun,” Trip said as we walked back to the dorm. “Lonnie was showing me single-leg takedowns.”

I nodded.

“I can see why you like it,” he added. “All the other sports I’ve played have been team sports. And it’s a lot more physical than I thought it’d be. I think I’m going to like it, though.” He was excited by his new experiences, and talked about wrestling until we reached North Carrick. “But now we really need to talk about basketball,” he said as we walked down the fourth floor hallway.

We entered my suite and I unlocked my door. Trip followed and leaned against the sink while I tossed my things on the bed.

“We still need a fifth guy,” he said, “and I don’t know who we should ask.”

“Hey, Loverboy,” T.J. said from the doorway. Then he glanced at Trip. “Hey, Super Jock.”

“Hey, T.J.,” Trip said, unfazed by the nickname. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’. What’re you looking for a fifth guy for?”

“Intramural basketball. Why? Do you play?”

I was trying to surreptitiously give Trip the “wave off” sign, but he wasn’t paying attention.

“Yeah,” T.J. said. “Shooting point guard.”

“Are you any good?” Trip asked.

“I’m better’n Loverboy, here. I’ve seen him play. But if y’all need a fifth player, I could do it. Who else is on the team?”

“My roommate, Luke, and one of the guys from the other side of the suite, Jeff.”

“The Ragin’ Cajun and Four-eyes, huh?”

Trip frowned.

“Just kidding,” T.J. said. “Yeah, I’ll be your fifth player. Whaddya think, Loverboy, you want me on your team? Maybe I’ll show you a thing or two.”

The last thing I wanted was to deal with T.J. on a regular basis, but when I saw Trip’s hopeful expression, my protest died unspoken. “Yeah, all right,” I said at last, although I mentally kicked myself for doing it.

“Cool,” Trip said. To T.J.: “Welcome to the team.”

“Thanks. When do y’all wanna practice?”

After talking for a few minutes, T.J. headed back to his side of the suite.

“Hey, I’m gonna get cleaned up for dinner,” Trip said. “Remember, we’re supposed to meet Abby and Kendall at seven.”

A moment later the outer door closed behind him and I headed for the shower. As I walked past T.J.’s half-open door, I shook my head in disbelief. Once again, I was stuck on an intramural team with him and his attitude.

“There ain’t no justice,” I muttered to myself.

After dinner we went back to Kendall’s apartment. When Trip and Abby settled on the couch, I pulled Kendall toward her bedroom. Once there, I shut the door and told her about the modeling opportunity. She jumped at the chance, since we’d get to do it together.

“I kinda figured you’d want to,” I said. “But Siobhan said I should probably talk to you before I just signed you up for it.”

“Of course. I can sign myself up.”

I tried not to let my mild annoyance show. “Okay, then you need to stop by her studio tomorrow. She needs you to sign a model release.”

“This is going to be so much fun,” Kendall said. Then she turned pensive.

“What?”

“What about my pubic hair?”

“Oh, shit ... I hadn’t thought about that.”

“I don’t wanna stop shaving, but...”

“Maybe you can just wear bikini bottoms,” I suggested. “You know, like Susan does at camp.”

“Do you think that’d be okay?”

“I guess so,” I said. “I mean, Wren wore ‘em last quarter whenever she was on her period. So I guess it’d be okay if you wore ‘em all the time. Don’t you think?”

“It should be okay,” she said, still less than confident.

“It’ll be okay. I mean, Siobhan said she needed the model, and the class isn’t about drawing beautiful pussy lips.”

Kendall blushed.

“It’s about drawing the human figure. And trust me, you’ve got one helluva figure. So I’m sure they’ll love to draw it. Now, speaking of which,” I said, “I think we’ve got a few minutes before Trip and Abby will miss us. So, do you mind if I inspect the aforementioned figure? Purely for informational purposes, of course.”

“Purely for informational purposes,” she echoed, her eyes dancing with laughter.

“So, what’s going on with you and Abby?” I asked Trip as we walked back to Carrick.

“Nothing,” he said nonchalantly. Too nonchalantly.

“I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I wasn’t,” he said.

“Past tense.”

He smiled guiltily.

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s a sweet girl.”

“Oh, no argument,” I said.

“And I’ve gotta start dating again ... sooner or later.”

I glanced at him sidelong.

“What?”