We all cracked up, laughing so hard the tears came to our eyes.
“I’ve got to remember that one,” Joe said, still laughing. “Somebody throwed away a perfectly good nigger. That is funnier’n shit.”
There was no more sun in the sky than there had been at seven in the morning. We all milled around on the hard clay ground behind the school, boys on one side of the yard and girls on the other, our breath coming out in puffs of vapor, like when we were little kids with these bubble-gum cigarettes and pretended we were really exhaling, holding our hands against our armpits to keep them from numbing. The few ugly trees at the edge of the playground were small and bent and bare. It was too cold to be outside, but it was recess, we had to be.
We checked out the snatch.
“Helen does.”
“My ass. She never has.”
“I heard she did once last summer.”
“You heard wrong.”
“She does.” Somebody pointed at another one. “Sally.”
“I heard that too.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Burt was the most skeptical. As far as he was concerned, they were all virgins until he’d checked them out personally.
“Sandy Weise for sure.”
“Bullfuckingshit.”
“She’s got to. Look at those knockers.”
“Just ’cause a girl’s got big titties doesn’t mean she fucks. I guarantee Sandy Weise does not fuck.”
“You made a move on her and she turned you down?”
“Take it from the pro. I know.”
I hung on the edge, listening to the banter but not joining in much. I didn’t think hardly any of the girls in our class had lost their cherries yet, just like none of my buddies have, even though they all carry a Trojan in their wallets, the roll making a commonly recognizable impression in the leather. Only a couple of the girls had, and everybody knew who they were, because they let everyone know. Like it was a big deal losing your cherry while you were still in junior high. My sister hadn’t lost hers until this summer and she was faster than any of them.
Darlene was standing across the yard with a group of her girlfriends. She was a virgin, that was for sure, I knew that like I knew my own heartbeat; she had to be, it would kill me if she wasn’t. She probably wouldn’t even do it in high school, she was that kind of girl. Saving it for her husband. Sometimes I would dream about what it would be like being married to Darlene. We’d live in Cheverly in a split-level house and have a new car every other year. I’d be in the Navy, commanding a boat or something, and we’d go up to Annapolis on the weekends and go sailing with our kids.
Then Danny Detweiler, the world’s biggest shithead, walked over to Darlene and her friends. He said something I couldn’t hear, but it must have been funny, because all the girls laughed, especially Darlene.
Danny and me have been mortal enemies since first grade. We were both big kids when we were little, good athletes even as grade-schoolers, we’d always be the first ones picked when somebody was choosing up sides. Danny’s pretty smart—not as smart as he thinks, but he gets good grades and I never have, so the teachers always liked him and never liked me. Danny’s family lives good, too. His father’s a roofing contractor and they have a nice big house in Cheverly. Danny’s father gets a new Oldsmobile Super 88 every other year—he’d just got a brand-new one last month, a cherry two-tone green job, the chrome dripping off it, I’d seen it when Danny’s mother came by after school one day to pick Danny up to take him to his piano lesson. Danny’s always had the neatest clothes, too, not raggedy old shit like I have to wear.
Darlene was smiling up at Danny. Motherfucker. I felt like walking over and punching Danny in his fucking mouth, knock half his teeth out.
Burt nudged me out of my fantasy, pointing across the yard.
“Hey, Ginger,” Burt called out.
Ginger Huntwell, who is this short slutty girl with pointy little titties, separated from some other girls and sashayed over to us.
“She does,” Burt told us.
“Says who?”
“Take it from the pro.”
We’d heard the rumors—that Ginger did it on a mattress down in the basement of an apartment building in Kent Village with grown men. The joke was if you lent your jacket to Ginger Huntwell it would be returned with come stains in the lining.
“Hi, Burt.”
“Hi, Ginger.”
“Hi, Ginger,” I kicked in. Doesn’t hurt to be friendly with a girl who puts out.
“Hi, Roy.”
She smiled at me. I’ve been told that she likes me. I didn’t know—I liked her okay but I was saving myself for Darlene.
“Hey Ginger, is that a new coat?” Burt asked.
“’Course not, silly.” She giggled, her voice real high-pitched.
How come girls with slutty reputations always have high squeaky voices? Nothing personal but she really is dumb. It all must have gone into her cunt, nothing left for brains.
“It fits so tight I thought you might’ve got it new for Christmas,” Burt said.
He was bullshitting her like a champ and fingering the material at the same time, his hand sliding underneath to her titties, feeling her up right in front of everybody. She smiled this kind of goofy smile and squirmed a little when he hit a particularly sensitive spot, which must’ve been her nipple. Feeling up a girl’s nipple right out in the open, Burt’s pretty cool.
“Didn’t your mother never teach you no manners?” she said, like she was all out of breath, finally removing his hand, but not before letting him cop her up good. She sounded to me like she was trying to act like Marilyn Monroe. She held Burt’s hand for a moment longer, then turned and walked back to her girlfriends, her low-slung ass pivoting in her tight wool skirt like two bowling balls trying to make a seven-ten split.
“I mean to have a piece of that before I die,” Burt gasped.
“He died with his boots on,” I drawled. “Ride ’em cowboy.” I could feel my own hard-on, even though Ginger didn’t mean anything to me. I’ve never jacked off to her, not one time. She’s too slutty for me. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere.
School was over for the day. Finally. Sometimes a day in this school feels like a week. A week, if it’s the wrong week, can seem like a year, an eternity. Everything’s a hassle, a challenge. It can wear you down.
I shuffled down the empty corridors, the taps on the heels of my Flagg Brothers clip-toe blue suede bombers echoing loudly on the scuffed-up tile floors.
This is the only time I actually like school, when it’s empty and quiet like this. You don’t have all the teachers and dumb kids pestering you and getting in your face all the time. If it was this quiet I could probably be a good student. I don’t know how anyone can work in all that racket the way it is during the regular day.
I entered the library, walked down the row of stacks, and took down one of the books from the set called
History of the United States Naval Operations in World War II.
The books are old and dog-eared, with pictures and descriptions of all the ships in the U.S. Navy used in the war, destroyers and aircraft carriers and battleships and everything. I know them like the back of my hand, I’ve read them all so many times.
I sat down at an empty table and started reading. Mr. Pitaro, who was the teacher in charge of detention hall this week, walked over to me.
“I don’t have your name down here, Roy,” he said, checking his list of detainees. The way it works is, if you screw up you get assigned to detention hall, which means you have to stay after school in the library. Nobody ever stays in the library after school unless they’ve pulled detention, not even the brains. I’m probably the only one who actually ever comes in here after school because he feels like it.
“I don’t have detention, Mr. Pitaro,” I explained to him. “I just wanted to read where it’s quiet. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
He was kind of taken aback, I could tell. It’s his first time running detention hall, that’s how come he didn’t know I come here just because I feel like it.
“Sure, yeah, I guess so,” he said. Like it was against the law to use the library or something. That’s the way this school is, even when you want to actually learn something they think you’re weird.
I got lost in the book. It really is a neat book, it’s kind of a bible for learning about Navy ships, which is real important to me. I must’ve been there longer than I realized because when I looked up for a minute to clear my head the room was empty except for me and the librarian, Miss Hughes, this ancient spinster who’s got three hairy moles on her chin. She’s pretty nice, actually, she lets me take out books and never charges me if I bring them back late. We’re often the only two people in the whole library, I think that’s one of the reasons she likes me, because I keep her company. It must get pretty boring, sitting in a library all by yourself.
The light was fading fast in the windows. Miss Hughes pointed to the clock on the wall. It was four-thirty, closing time. I put my book back on the shelf real carefully. I’d hate it if anything ever happened to those books.
Kresge’s five-and-dime is down the hill from the junior high. It’s a typical Ravensburg low-rent place, same as every other store in this hick town, selling cheap crap that’s either used up fast and thrown away, lipstick and stuff women use, or crap people don’t really want but wind up buying anyway because it costs practically nothing, like a new Speidel watchband.
I wandered around the aisles, aimlessly drifting. I like to do that sometimes, check out the cheap shit they’re selling. The customers were mostly housewives. Some had their hair up in curlers even though it was past four-thirty in the afternoon, sundown practically. A woman walking around in curlers out in public is about as tacky as it gets. They were doing women things, like testing the atomizers of toilet water or buying stockings or maybe having a soda at the counter. Hardly any boys ever come in here, it’s not a man’s kind of store, except for cigarettes and pipe tobacco and stuff like that.
I flipped through the small collection of 45’s they had in the record bin. It was my parents’ kind of stuff—no rock ’n’ roll at all, not even Elvis, Chuck Berry, or the Crickets. Tells you what kind of piss-poor store it was; about ten years behind the times.
“Can I help you?” This horse-faced saleslady stuck her face in front of mine. I could smell her breath she was so close. She had crappy breath, I almost felt like puking in her stupid face.
“Just looking,” I told her, playing real innocent-like.
“No loitering, boy.” She pointed to the sign.
“Yes, ma’am. I won’t be long.”
I moved away from her. She probably thought I was going to swipe something. As soon as any salesperson sees a teenage boy in a store that’s the first thing that comes into their feeble minds. Like every boy’s a common thief. I know plenty of girls that steal like bandits, they’ll come out of this store or Doc Goldberg’s drugstore and their pockets and purses’ll be bulging with nylons, makeup, lipsticks, anything they can stuff in. They’ll take stuff they don’t want, like pipe tobacco. Some even put stuff up their girdles, because they know no salesman would dare check under their skirts.
I knew I had to go home but it was cold out and I wanted to postpone the inevitable, so I drifted over to the notions counter where odds and ends are sold, stuff that doesn’t fit in any particular department. At one end of the counter were these stretch-band identification bracelets with a snap-open compartment that holds a photograph. They’re real popular in my school, they sell for a buck and everybody always wants one, you can insert your girlfriend’s or boyfriend’s picture and think you’re hot shit.
The nearest saleswoman was all the way at the far end of the counter, ringing up a sale. I nonchalantly strolled by the counter, took one more quick look to double-check that I wasn’t being watched, and without even breaking stride stuffed a handful of bracelets into the pocket of my new Ravensburg High jacket. That’s one of the good things about these jackets, they have real deep pockets. I was out of there in no time flat, and nobody even took a second look at me, that’s how shifty I was at doing it.
Once in a while I’ll hook a few of these. It’s like taking candy from a baby and anyway they’re not going to miss a few crappy bracelets. I’ll give them to my friends or sell them half-price. It’s not like I’m taking something valuable, they’d just sit there until they rusted out if I didn’t take them.
As I passed the school on my way home two girls came out of the gym and crossed the street, heading in my direction. They were wearing cheerleader uniforms under their jackets because there had been a pep rally after lunch for the basketball team. Then after school, they stay and practice.
One of the girls was Darlene. She’s co-captain of the cheer-leading squad, which has all the neatest girls in the school. It’s like if a girl thinks she’s neat, but she isn’t a cheerleader, then she really isn’t.
I slowed down so we’d have to cross paths, hoping her and the other girl, Joan Jackson, who’s real stuck-up even though she’s flat as a board, would split up and I could talk to the woman of my dreams.
They passed me by, giggling and pretending like they didn’t barely see me. I knew they did, though. I’ve got this feeling Darlene secretly likes me, but she’d never show it because I’m such a fuckup in school. Darlene’s a nice girl, she comes from a nice home, nice parents, probably has a nice dog that doesn’t jump on your leg and try to hump you.
I turned and watched them until they faded into the gloom. Then I put my head down against the wind and walked real slow up the street towards my house. You’ve got to go home sooner or later, even if you don’t much feel like it.
I
SAT AT MY DESK
, my new model spread out in front of me. It was a Revolutionary War-era frigate, thousands of little pieces, some so tiny I have to fit them together with tweezers and a magnifying glass—the kind of model only a serious builder will tackle, and I ain’t patting myself on the back saying that, it’s the truth. It’s about three-quarters done—I’ve been working on it every night for almost a month.
My room is like a miniature nautical museum, filled with ships and boats of various sizes and displacements, all of which I’ve made myself. I’ve been making models seriously for two years now and I’m damn good at it if I do say so myself, although normally I’m not the type who goes around bragging on himself. Other people say it, too, people who know what they’re talking about, like the guys who run the hobby shop where I buy my models. They tell me I’m as good as any of their adult customers, and they’re not blowing smoke up my ass, either. They appreciate a good builder no matter how old he is.