by Greg Trine
“So how was your Christmas?” she asked. “Santa bring you anything good?” She sprayed adhesive onto Paul’s foot and we began placing peppercorns. One at a time. Slow going.
“Knee pads,” I said.
She turned and looked at me.
“I’m on the wrestling team.”
“Really? You look more like the chess-team type.”
“We don’t have a chess team.”
“I know,” she said. “But you look the type.”
We were in a public place, so it’s not like I could rip my shirt off and show her, but it was fairly well documented that I had abs and pecs. Somehow I didn’t think that chess types could say the same.
“Knee pads,” she said, shaking her head. “Some Christmas present. No new pajamas? No CDs, books?”
“I got gift cards for Best Buy and Barnes & Noble.”
“No pajamas?”
“I’m a guy, Carol Ann. We don’t dress up to go to bed. We take our clothes off.”
She sprayed another patch of glue. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Leave it to girls to make sleeping so complicated.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” she said again. “Boys are so uncomplicated.”
We kept making our way around the front of the shoe, sharing stories of home life and school. Pretty tedious work, placing peppercorns one at a time, but talking to Carol Ann was not tedious at all. This girl was growing on me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Vern’s legs were hanging out of the Death Trap when I rode up. I walked over and spoke to his feet. “What’s happening?”
He was doing something under the dash and grunted, “New stereo. Hold on a second.” He crawled out and handed me the box the stereo came in.
I checked it out—multi-disk, six speakers. The price sticker was still there. “Wow, Vern, you really busted the piggy bank.”
“It’s for a worthy cause, Elroy.”
“Isn’t that a little like putting caviar on a Wheat Thin?”
“Probably.” He got back in the car and did some final tinkering. Then he pulled an iPod from his pocket and attached it. “But listen to this.”
He pressed “play” and out poured crisp electric guitar and a thumping bass and drums. He turned up the volume until my ears felt like they were ready to bleed, then turned it way down and looked at me.
“Spring break, baby. The Eastern Sierra. Gotta have tunes for that road trip.”
Okay, so maybe putting caviar on a Wheat Thin was a good idea. I had to admit, having a great sound system changed everything. Somehow the Trap was no longer the Trap. Vern had given it a soul.
And just in time for New Year’s Eve. Vern and I didn’t have any plans, but we knew Tuck would have something up his sleeve. That evening, when we showed up at his house, he was sitting on his front steps polishing his belt buckle. His cowboy boots were polished too, and every hair was in place—no hat.
“I had a hunch you guys would show up.”
“Getting ready to go somewhere?” I asked.
“It’s New Year’s Eve, gentlemen. I propose we celebrate the occasion.” He finished polishing his buckle and began threading the belt onto his pants. Then he stood up.
“What did you have in mind?” Vern asked.
“The Library.”
I groaned. “Perusing the Encyclopædia Britannica is your idea of a good time?”
“No, not the public library. I mean the Library. The club.”
“I thought you had to be eighteen to get in.”
Tuck grabbed his wallet and flashed us his driver’s license. “I have connections. Check out the birthdate.” It was a fake ID, but it looked real.
“Okay, so one of us is eighteen. What about Vern and me?”
“I have that covered. Let’s go.”
It was my turn to ride shotgun, but I let Tuck take it. He was the guy with the plan; he could have the seat of honor. “One more thing, guys,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“You need to change your clothes.”
Vern glanced back at me. “What’s wrong with jeans and a T-shirt?”
“Not on New Year’s Eve. Trust me.”
Either Tuck knew what he was talking about, or he talked a big game. But he was the most experienced guy I knew outside the Second Base Club. If jeans and a T-shirt wouldn’t get the job done, I’d go along.
We drove over to Vern’s house, and he hopped out, calling over his shoulder, “What’s the approved attire?”
“Shirt with a collar,” Tuck yelled. “Better pants.”
Vern came back out wearing cords and a dress shirt. His hair was wet, and he was busy trying to pull a comb through it. After a quick trip to my house, we headed to the Library. Vern’s car shook from the loudness of his new stereo. It was a whole different feel from just a few days ago. We pulled into the Library parking lot. One of the bouncers was out front, checking IDs.
“Look.” I pointed. “They’re not going to let us in.”
“Trust me,” Tuck said. “I told you I have that covered.”
We got out of the car, and Tuck took us around to a dark alley behind the building. “See that door?”
“What door?” Vern asked. “I just see darkness.”
“There’s a door down there. It opens onto the dance floor. I’ll go in the main entrance”—he tapped his back pocket, fake-ID check—“and let you in. Stay near the door and dance your way in.”
“Won’t they see us?”
“The far side of the dance floor is completely dark.” He pointed down the dark alley. “Stay near the door. Be back in a second.”
Tuck left, and Vern and I crept down the dark alley, feeling our way along the walls. Couldn’t see a thing. There was no way we’d find the—
“Doorknob!” Vern said suddenly.
I hit something and fell over. “Trash cans!”
I got back to my feet and felt around for Vern. “That would be my nose,” he said.
Ten minutes clicked by, then another five. “Something’s wrong,” Vern said. “Maybe he forgot us.”
My mind flashed on Tuck making out with some babe and forgetting all about his two friends. I shook the thought away. “If it wasn’t going to work, he’d come and tell us.”
“So what’s taking—”
The door flew open. Before we could react, Tuck grabbed us and pulled us inside. The door shut behind us. Loud music. Bodies dancing all around. I moved to the rhythm, following Vern, who was following Tuck. We walk/danced across the dance floor in some kind of mini-conga. A girl behind me put her hands on my shoulders, and the train extended itself. One by one, dancers joined, alternating guy and girl. Tuck looked back at us and smiled.
After the third lap around the dance floor, the train broke up and people resumed solo dancing. Tuck pulled us to the side. “Gentlemen, enjoy your evening.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I got you in, but I’m not here to babysit. The ladies are waiting. Let’s meet up in a couple of hours. Whoever gets the most phone numbers wins.” Tuck scanned the room until his eyes locked on two girls standing together. “Be good,” he called over his shoulder.
“Come on, Vern,” I said. “I gotta see this.”
I stayed close enough to Tuck to watch, listen, and learn, but not so close that he knew he was being spied on.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
Two girls who had been talking to each other turned toward him. One of them said, “I don’t dance.”
“You don’t have to dance,” Tuck said.
The girl gave him a look. “But didn’t you just ask—”
“You don’t have to dance,” Tuck said again. “Just stand there. I’ll dance.”
Tuck’s hips gyrated to the beat of the music. His feet shuffled. He did stylish things with his hands and arms, but his eyes stayed on hers. And he never stopped smiling. The girl couldn’t help smiling back. After
a while she began to dance. Tuck gestured to the dance floor. “I’m Tuck. Shall we?”
“Sarah,” she said, following him out onto the floor.
Vern looked at me. “Okay, I’m impressed.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Amazing.”
But somehow we realized that would only work for Tuck. We would have to find our own way. Vern said, “So what do we do now?”
“We get a grog and think it over.”
“A grog?”
“Something to drink.”
We made our way through the crowd toward the bar. On the way, we checked out the joint. The Library looked like a library. The four walls were bookshelves that reached the ceiling. A spiral staircase led to a balcony, which overlooked the dance floor. People were everywhere, upstairs and down—and all the girls were eighteen or older. Oh my!
I slapped my hand on the bar and said, “Root beer.”
“Easy, Wyatt Earp.” The bartender pointed to the soda fountain stuffed away in a corner. “Serve yourself. What size drink would you like?”
“Medium.”
Vern ordered the same.
We got our drinks and clinked paper cups. “To second base and beyond,” I said.
“Sounds good to me.”
I scanned the room, looking for Tuck. He was out on the dance floor with a different girl. He was an okay dancer, but what made him stand out, I think, was that he never stopped smiling and he looked his partner in the eye.
“Where’d he learn this stuff?” Vern asked.
“Exactly. He could open a school.”
We stood there watching as if it was Michael Jordan putting on a clinic. Sometimes Tuck would grab the girl he was dancing with and they’d slow-dance briefly, right in the middle of a fast song. Sometimes he’d lean in and say something and the girl would laugh or smile.
“Something tells me we’re not going to win the phone-number competition,” I said.
“Yeah.” Vern tossed his empty drink cup in the trash and turned to me. “Come on, Elroy. Want to mingle?”
“You mean like actually talk to some girls?”
“You mean women.”
“Oh my!”
“Exactly.”
We threaded our way through the crowd, trying not to look too eager. Some girls were already paired up with guys. Either they came with dates or they were in the middle of seducing or being seduced.
We made a lap of the room, then another.
“One of us is going to have to speak up,” Vern said.
“You mean like ask someone to dance?”
“Yes.”
I remembered what Tuck had said on cruise night. Just be friendly. If you can’t be witty or charming, just be friendly. Made a whole lot of sense.
I spotted two girls standing together. I cracked my knuckles. “Okay, I’m going in.” I walked up to one of the girls and blurted it out. I forced myself to say the words. “Excuse me, but would you like to dance?”
They turned toward me. Seconds ticked by. I tried not to read too much into their expressions. More seconds ticked by. And then one of them shrugged and said, “Sure, why not.”
I gave her my arm and led her out onto the dance floor as a song was coming to the end and the place fell quiet. The DJ came on the microphone and said, “Let’s slow things down a tad.”
Crap! A slow song.
I turned to face the girl, and she put her hands around my neck and moved in close. My hands immediately went to her waist. And it was a great waist! We circled once, twice. Her hips moved toward mine, but mine moved back. Couldn’t let her know what I was thinking. It was like the old A-frame hug, only it was prolonged and we were twirling. Our upper torsos were touching but our hips (my hips) were a mile away.
I glanced over at Tuck, who had his full body mashed up against some girl. He was looking right at me and making a face, putting his palms together as if to say, “Move in, Elroy. Let her know how you really feel.”
I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
We kept dancing, and when the song ended, I thanked the girl and she walked off. I didn’t even get her name. “I’m Elroy,” I mumbled as the music changed back to a fast song and all the clinging couples broke apart and started dancing individually.
I walked over to Vern. “You did it,” he said, then added, “I never saw two people dance so close together and so far apart at the same time.”
“I know.” But, like he said, I did it. I spoke up. I danced. That was more than he’d done. I scanned the room, spotted a girl standing alone, got behind Vern, and shoved him forward. “You’re on, Vern. Make me proud.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tuck won the phone-number contest hands down. He sat in the back seat of the Trap on the way home, plugging the numbers into his cell phone. He had seven numbers in all. Vern and I came up empty.
“You know how some companies sell their mailing lists?” Tuck asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“Just thinking. Anyone want to buy a hot girl’s phone number?”
“Get over yourself, Tuck,” I said.
“I’m trying. It ain’t easy.”
Vern drove us home, Tuck first, then me. Mom was sitting on my couch/bed reading when I walked in.
“How was it?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Fine. I danced.” I didn’t tell her I danced nine feet apart from my partner.
“Fast or slow?” Mom asked.
“Slow.”
She put down her book. “Please don’t tell me you did the A-frame dance.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you.”
“Why do boys do that?”
“Trust me, Mom. You don’t want to know.”
“I suppose not.” She grabbed her book again and turned a page. “Though I do have my suspicions.”
I did twelve and a half pull-ups on my pull-up tree, which was my PB (personal best), then sat on the front steps of the Airstream, waiting for Vern. It was our first day back to school after Christmas break, and it finally felt like winter. In southern California that meant you had to wear a sweatshirt for at least half the day.
Vern pulled up, and I got in. My mom was at the door with her fingers in her ears, shaking her head. She mouthed something to us.
“What did she say?” Vern asked as he shoved the car in gear and we took off down Casitas Pass.
“I think she wants you to acquire a muffler at your earliest convenience.”
“Yeah, I was thinking about that. Might be able to hear the stereo better.”
My school schedule for the spring semester was exactly the same as the fall, with one notable exception. I signed up for weight training for my sixth-period elective. I thought adding a little more muscle might help my chances on the wrestling mat, and it couldn’t hurt in the girl department. I’d continue doing pull-ups on my backyard oak tree, but I wanted something a little more formal.
So, for sixth period, I headed to the weight room, which was just off the boys’ locker room. There were two girls in the class who looked like Russian shotputters. The rest were guys. The instructor, Mr. Phelps, looked a lot like Coach Grogan, without the mangled ears.
“The key to lifting weights, gentlemen”—he turned to the two girls—“and ladies, is doing the exercises correctly and safely. I want you each to grab a partner. You will be training with that person for the rest of the year.”
The two girls immediately paired up. So did the guys. I was left standing alone.
Mr. Phelps looked at me. “Why don’t you join in with—”
And that’s when Sampson Teague showed up. He walked into the room looking like the god he was. “Sorry, Coach,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”
“Perfect,” Mr. Phelps said. “Now we’ve got an even number. Sampson, you’ll train with—”
“Elroy,” I said.
“Elroy.”
Sampson came over and slapped me on the back way too hard. “How’s it going?”
“It’s going okay,” I t
old him. I looked around the room. Maybe there was someone hiding in the corner that I could pair up with—anyone but Sampson. But the corners were empty. I was stuck with the potential-girlfriend stealer.
Coach Phelps demonstrated a few exercises—curls, keeping his elbows at his sides; shoulder presses, not coming too low and never locking his elbows. “We’re working the muscle, not the joint.”
The class then broke up and began training. Sampson walked over to the dumbbells on the rack against the wall and grabbed a few. “Tell me if I’m doing this right, Elroy.”
Did I have to?
Sampson curled the weights while I watched, one arm, then the other. Then he looked at me for feedback. I didn’t say a word.
“Well?” he asked. “Good form or not?”
I forced myself to speak. “Slow it down. Keep your upper body still.”
After his set, he handed the weights to me. I curled them once and stopped.
“What’s the matter?”
I put the dumbbells down. “A little too heavy for me. Need to go down a size.”
When I finished my set, we went to the leg machine, then on to shoulder presses. We were both sweating and breathing hard by the end of class, but I kept my comments to a minimum. I was Sampson’s partner because the coach put us together, not out of choice. I still had hopes that someone new would join the class so I could dump him. Let him know what it feels like to be rejected.
Sampson and I walked out of the weight room together and headed for the locker room.
“Thanks, Elroy,” he said to me. “You’re a good person to work out with.”
Whatever, dude.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
My match against Aquinas was some kind of fluke. Maybe it was because at the time I thought it was my one and only match of the season and I gave it my all. Maybe it was because my parents were sitting in the stands. I’m not sure. But I lost the next five matches, all of them JV. It wasn’t pretty. My only consolation was that no girls my age were there to witness it. Or not many, anyway. One of the teams we went up against actually had cheerleaders. Imagine being on your back and hearing a bunch of female voices chanting, “Pin, pin, pin, pin!”
Total humiliation. But at least the girls weren’t from Highmont. And Vern didn’t make the event more public by writing about it. He came to the matches and wrote further articles, just not about me. Mike Thomas and Todd Waylan, yes. Me, no.
