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Show Why We Cry Butch and Fenn Stories 102 "It isn't just girls, though they do cry." He's holding his root beer in both hands, off the counter, but he hasn't taken a sip. I'm getting worried about Butch. I'm afraid he's going to ask Denise, who has left us alone and gone back to unpacking a carton of cough drops, if she will let him crush her toes with the pliers. In the name of science. "Oh, great," Fenn says, coming in, dragging his bat. "Who's buying." I'm so relieved to see him that I buy him a root beer. It's the first time I've done such a thing all summer, and it raises Butch from his trance. "Write that one down in the book, Butch," Fenn says. "Wait," he turns to me, "am I going to have to pay for this somehow?" "Nope." "Well," he says, hoisting the dripping mug, "I'll remember this, Larry, thanks." "How's practice?" "Run and shag. It's okay." "Fenn," Butch says, "Why do you go to the damn practices?" It's a hard question. As I think about it, I realize it is the hardest question Fenn's been asked all summer. He has his root beer to his lips, but the glass has stopped tipping and his eyes are roving around a little as he looks for an |