The Voice of the Night Read Free Page A

just the latest test, but he couldn’t imagine what Roy had wanted him to say or do. Had he passed or failed?
    Although he didn’t know what answers were expected of him, he knew instinctively why he was being tested. Roy possessed a wonderful—or perhaps terrible—secret that he was eager to share, but he wanted to be certain that Colin was worthy of it.
    Roy had never spoken of a secret, not one word, but it was in his eyes. Colin could see it, the vague shape of it, but not the details, and he wondered what it might be.

3

    Two blocks from his home, Roy Borden turned left, into another street, away from the Borden house, and for a moment Colin again felt that the other boy was trying to lose him. But Roy pulled into a driveway in the middle of the block and parked his bike. Colin stopped beside him.
    The house was neat and white with dark blue shutters. A two-year-old Honda Accord was parked in the open garage, facing out, and a man was leaning under the raised hood, repairing something. He was thirty feet away from Colin and Roy, and he was not immediately aware that he had company.
    “What’re we doing here?” Colin asked.
    “I want you to meet Coach Molinoff,” Roy said.
    “Who?”
    “He coaches the junior-varsity football team,” Roy said. “I want you to meet him.”
    “Why?”
    “You’ll see.”
    Roy walked toward the man who was working under the hood of the Honda.
    Reluctantly, Colin followed. He was not much good at meeting people. He never knew what to say or how to act. He was sure that he always made a terrible first impression, and he dreaded scenes like this one.
    Coach Molinoff looked up from the Honda’s engine as he heard the boys approaching. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, sandy-haired man with gray-blue eyes. He grinned when he saw Roy.
    “Hey, what’s up, Roy?”
    “Coach, this is Colin Jacobs. He’s new in town. Moved up from L.A. He’ll be going to school at Central in the fall. Same grade as me.”
    Molinoff held out one big calloused hand. “Really glad to meet you.”
    Colin accepted the greeting awkwardly, his own hand disappearing in Molinoff’s bearish grip. The coach’s fingers were slightly greasy.
    To Roy, Molinoff said, “So how’s the summer treating you, my man?”
    “It’s been okay so far,” Roy said. “But I’m mainly just killing time, waiting for preseason practice to start the end of August.”
    “We’re going to have a terrific year,” the coach said.
    “I know it,” Roy said.
    “You handle yourself as well as you did last year,” said Molinoff, “and Coach Penneman might just give you some fourth-quarter time in varsity games later in the season.”
    “You really think so?” Roy asked.
    “Don’t give me that wide-eyed look,” Molinoff said. “You’re the best player on the junior-varsity team, and you know it. There’s no virtue in false modesty, my man.”
    Roy and the coach began to discuss football strategy, and Colin just listened, unable to contribute anything to the conversation. He never had shown much interest in sports. If asked about athletics of any kind, he always said that sports bored him and that he preferred the excitement of stimulating books and movies. In truth, while novels and films gave him endless pleasure, he sometimes wished he also could share the special camaraderie that athletes seemed to enjoy among themselves. For a boy like him, on the outside looking in, the world of sports was intriguing and glamorous; however, he did not waste a lot of time daydreaming about it, for he was fully aware that nature had given him less than the necessary equipment for a successful career in sports. With his myopic vision, his skinny legs, and his thin arms, he would never be more involved in sports than he was at that moment—a listener, a watcher, never a participant.
    Molinoff and Roy talked football for a few minutes, and then Roy said, “Coach, what about the team managers?”
    “What about them?” Molinoff