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my desk in English class today—about an hour after he tried to assassinate Nortie again in the hall with a blast from his chemical breath because Nortie had the audacity to try to get him to cough up Stotan information for free. The note said, “Learn all you can about Herb Elliot.” It wasn’t signed, but I’d recognize Jeff’s handwriting anywhere. It looks like he dipped the feet of a baby chick in ink, placed it on the page and set the little bugger ablaze. Big as he is on current events, Jeff’s a researching fool. You could have bet he’d be the one to crack this Stotan mystery, but you could also count on his not telling anyone what he found out. I do know who Herb Elliot is, so that’s a start.
    November 15
    Being the serious-minded student of current affairs he is, Jeff has appointed himself Frost’s official unofficial political analyst and at times he bowls you over with it. If you want the real reasons the Russians boycotted theOlympics, or the hot poop on the sudden unexplained disappearance of one unnamed assistant football coach and one similarly unnamed cheerleader, Jeff’s your man. For local, national and regional news, see Jeffrey Hawkins in flaming red color at six and eleven. Of course, he delivers each newsy tidbit like it’s the Russian invasion of Afghanistan or the release of the Iranian hostages, so some analysis on your own part is in order, but he’s a smart motor scooter and he does his homework. You’re making a mistake if you don’t listen to what he has to say, no matter how obnoxious he makes it.
    â€œUp for a little racial tension?” he asked me in the lunch line today. He showed up with Lion and Elaine, armed to the teeth with Doomsday warnings. Yesterday, Herb Elliot. Today, racial tension. The man has range.
    â€œSure, I haven’t got a lot else to think about,” I said, looking at Elaine and Lion, then back to Walter Cronkite. “What week is that scheduled for?”
    â€œComing soon to a theater near you,” he said, reached inside his coat and pulled out a rolled-up newspaper, unrolled it and spread it out on my tray. I put a plate of burgers—one dish the nutritional demolition squad in the cafeteria hasn’t yet learned to destroy—on top of it. The girl behind the counter informed me thatthere was a two-burger limit. I’ve been eating here once a day for the last four years and that rule has always been the same on burger day. “Really?” I said. “Sorry, I didn’t know that.” I put the rest back and, when she looked the other way, slipped an extra under my coat. I tell you, it’s a never ending battle.
    We moved out into the dining area, over by a window, and set our trays on a table. Lion opened his bookbag and removed a Mason jar and a Tupperware container that he filled with milk and peanut butter respectively, for later consumption. There is no late-night food service in his palatial digs like there is in homes with regular families, so he stocks up in the cafeteria. Once when one of the guys who cleans the tables in the cafeteria told him he couldn’t be taking food off the premises, Lion told him it was okay, that he was one of three athletes in the nation who’d been awarded athletic scholarships to high school, and there was an “all you can eat” clause in his. That’s the last that was said. No one messes much with Lion. The kindest thing said about his presentation of himself is it’s “different” and that’s not the half of it; and he’s a real horse. Except for maybe Jeff, he’s the biggest guy I’ve ever seen call himself a swimmer. We are not talking svelte and streamlined here. These are guys who, when we’re up to10,000 to 12,000 yards a day and their percentage of body fat is zero or less, still weigh in around 190. Lion and Jeff do not look like the swimmers you see atop the Olympic podium;