How quickly she had outgrown him. In the beginning she kept asking why he of all people, the handsomest man in the world, was interested in her. Perhaps that was why she never let him do any more than kiss her; she didn’t trust him. One of the reasons he dropped out of school was to earn money so he could drive her around, take her places. In the last couple of months, though, something went a little cold in her. He just wouldn’t let himself see it. Yesterday, walking with her down Main, they bumped into Rudy Kruger, who worked with her on the school newsletter. Esta came alive, she and Rudy debating Korea, joking around, the two of them throwing him, every now and then, the scraps of their smiles. God, it burned him. Of all people, Rudy Kruger, who called every foul in pick-up basketball, who had an ugly lumbering style at every sport but could still score, which seemed to go against some natural law. He had no grace, no feel for the game, was concerned only with the rules and what you could do more or less inside them to win. Rudy had to win. And he made a big song and dance about every bump he took. If you backed him too hard to the hoop or your pitch hit him, suddenly he was rolling on the ground, screaming sonofabitch. And like all those type guys, his sweat smelled strange—sweet. If you played him too close you could smell it on you for days. With five older sisters, it figured: Either he would be a fruit or what he was. His whole life surrounded by adoring women, there was nothing special about them to him. He had dated since sixth grade and would always act as if his girlfriend barely existed. You wanted to shake the silly mooning girl, ask her if she had ever seen him shoot the damn basketball.