“You should take your dog to school,” Sharkey said. “Set him on Wilfred and those big mokes.”

“The thing of it is,” Blaine said, “he’s really a good dog.”

And that seemed like a rebuff to Sharkey, as though he’d timidly over­reacted.

“Want to come over after school?” Blaine said, and it sounded to Sharkey like a dare.

“I’m busy.” He did not want to explain that he was going surfing, because he was still learning, and to speak of surfing so soon after arriving in Hawaii would seem like a boast. But it was a private satisfaction, his secret pleasure, taking refuge on the waves.

Blaine said, “He won’t hurt you.”

“It’s not that,” Sharkey said. They both knew it was the dog. They were still walking, Blaine limping slightly. “Did you hurt your foot?” Blaine said nothing but still he walked, dragging his right foot. “Blaine, are you okay?”

The boy stopped and flexed his leg, and then, as Sharkey watched, his head cocked to the side, Blaine took off his shoe and poked at something inside, straightening it, a thickness of wadded paper.

“That looks like money.”

“My hiding place. Don’t tell anyone.”

And Sharkey saw at once that it was Blaine’s pitiful strategy to prevent the school bullies from finding his money and taking it.

Soon they were among other students walking toward the school, all marching in silence, then gathering at the playground like spectators assembling for a ceremony of savagery or an execution, something wicked to watch. Sharkey took a deep breath, as he did before paddling into a big wave, knowing he faced another whole day of “fucken haole” and “malihini” and “panty.” Lately it had been “Elvis,” because Elvis Presley had just given a concert at the Honolulu arena. He was menaced by the ugly faces of the boys, and it was worse somehow if a girl happened to see him or hear the taunts. The teachers were either indifferent or didn’t see, and some of them quarreled with each other. It sometimes seemed to Sharkey that they depended on the tougher boys to keep the others in order. It was all misery, and the only relief was hurrying away at the last bell.

For some weeks they shunned him, turned their backs on him when he passed them. It should have given him some peace to be left alone, but the isolation made him anxious, and their laughter and whispers were hostile. He did not exist. But he knew they’d resume, jostling him, and they did, making ugly faces, screaming, “Fucken haole!”