What Are Little Boys Made of?

ATLEE STOPPED writing, his pen hovering above his paper, listening to the school bus crunch along the gravel road. Richie was home... What Are Little Boys Made Of? by L. Conley Brown Psychology 3 I I L T L E E STOPPED writing, his pen hovering above his paper, listening to the school bus crunch along the gravel road. Richie was home. Swearing quietly, Atlee tossed his pen down and reached for another cigarette. He inhaled deeply and listened. If it was a good day, Richie would scamper up the stairs and go right to his room to read until supper. If not, well, Leticia would be up threatening to quit if something wasn' t done, or Joyce would be crying in his arms asking, what more could she do, for god's sakes? So he smoked and sweated and waited. Footsteps were coming up the stairs, light and fast. Then the door to his library swung open and Richie sauntered in. Atlee ignored him by picking up one of his pages and proofreading, hoping he would wander out again without any trouble. Stealing a look at his son from under half-closed lids, he wondered how the boy could look so much like his tall, lithe mother and still be so unlike her. Richie came over to the desk and picked up a paperweight, examining it casually. Then he put it back down. " F a t h e r , " he announced, " I have a new friend." Reluctantly, Atlee looked up. "Tha t ' s nice, son ." Richie had no friends. There were no children within walking distance, and the kids at school left him alone after the novelty of his stories wore off. ' 'His name is Shrug. He wants to know if he can live in our tool shed . " Richie trained his blue eyes on his father. Nobody should have eyes like that, Atlee thought. Least of all, a seven year old kid. "Wha t about his parents? What would they s ay?"