Ronny blushed, a bit angry at being handled that way, but holding his temper, since this was Tate’s usual way of saying hello. He scanned the paper, saw it was what he expected, mildly surprised that Tate had bothered to buy the book. Ronny took a lot of history and thought he knew the survey course that this paper was for. “Okay, sure. It looks simple. It’s not even a very long paper.”

“I know. I’m a lazy shit.”

“I don’t have to try for an A.”

“Shit, no. People would know it ain’t mine if it gets an A. I just want this fucking incomplete off my back.”

Out of the dorm, big as Tate was, he had a more ordinary demeanor. His eye was still swollen from his car wreck, but in his jean shorts and baggy jersey he was less menacing. He still carried himself like a tank. At the moment he wasn’t scowling, mostly because he needed the paper written, of course, but it was a pleasant change. There was something freakish about his bulk; he had a belly the size of a beer keg. A fly was still buzzing around his face and he slapped at it and cursed. Ronny said, “Sure. Okay. I’ll get it done by tomorrow.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I already read that book over the summer last year. It’s a good book. He’s not asking you to write anything hard.”

“She. This bitch is a she. Actually she’s not even a bitch. I just never got the paper done.”

“So.”

Tate scratched his head. “You could bring it by the dorm tomorrow and see who I fuck tonight. She’ll still be there.”

“Hmm, no. Tempting but, no. Why don’t I call you?”

“Yeah. All right.”

“I can meet you here and you can take it to the history building.”

“See there. That’s why we call you the Brainhead.” Tate thumped him hard on the back. “What’s tomorrow, Friday?”

“Yes, Tate. Do you even know your exam schedule?”

“Are we having exams? Holy shit.” A girl crossing to the brick sidewalk from Woollen was watching him, so he performed a rambunctious mating dance for a couple of moments and grinned at her. “Okay, Braindead, I mean, Brainhead, this is now officially exceeding my attention span.”

“I need to get to work on this anyway.”

A moment like a click. Tate dropped his persona for just an instant, giving Ronny a sidewise look. He had a good face just then, calm and friendly, the kind of person you might trust. “You’re all right. You don’t mind I give you so much shit?”

“You wouldn’t give a shit if I did.”

“You’re probably right. But I’m in a good mood. I thought I’d ask.”

“Why would I mind?” It was on the tip of his tongue to say more. He had to take a moment to stop himself. “It’s all for football. I give back what I can. Minus the physical abuse.”

“What physical abuse?” Tate shook him around the sidewalk by the neck some more and shoved him toward the steps, then handed him a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. “Go home. You got work to do.”