by Greg Trine
I ran my hand up and down her side as we kissed, and that’s when I realized something. My forearm was touching her breast. I was halfway to second base! The forearm is connected to the wrist, which is connected to the hand. I adjusted slightly so that my wrist was where my forearm had been. I opened one eye to check that her eyes were still closed. They were. She was into it. I thought I heard her moan. Or maybe that was me. We kept kissing, passionately kissing. And then—
I went for it. All the way to second base.
She broke off the kiss and pushed me away. “Okay, down, boy.”
I glanced at my crotch. Too late. I pushed against her outstretched arms and began fumbling with the top button on her sweater.
“Elroy, I said stop!”
My ears weren’t hearing. I kept fiddling with the button.
“Elroy!”
The button came off in my hand. Oh, crap. It was ornamental. The sweater was a pullover. I looked up just in time to catch her hand across my face. SLAP! Only it wasn’t a slap. It was her fist. Her ring dug into my cheek.
“You ripped my sweater,” she said. “I told you to stop.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t hear.” I didn’t want to hear, was more like it.
She moved as far away from me as she could, as if I was some kind of leper. I sat there feeling stupid, stroking my cheek. Neither of us spoke. We were stranded until Tuck got back to take us home. After a while, I couldn’t take the silence and got out of the car. “Sorry, Rachel. I’m an asshole.”
“Yes, you are.”
I stood by the car and looked down at the lights of Highmont Ridge. I could be cruising Thompson with Vern in the Trap. Instead, I was being a jerk with a girl I hardly knew. An hour later, Tuck and Cindy showed up. The look on my face must have said it all.
Tuck just shook his head sadly. “Get in, Elroy,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Mom was up reading when I got back to the Airstream. “How’d it go?” she asked, looking up from her magazine.
“I’m kind of tired,” I told her. “Mind if we talk about this tomorrow?”
“No problem.” But she didn’t get up. Either she figured I’d eventually spill the beans if she lingered long enough, or she forgot that the couch she was sitting on doubled as my bed.
I stood there waiting. Then I pointed. “That’s where I sleep.”
“Oh, right.” She jumped up and went to the kitchen and started doing something in the sink.
“I like the lights out when I sleep,” I said. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Mom. I promise.”
“Fair enough.” She turned out the kitchen light and headed down the hall to her bedroom.
The next day, I still wasn’t in the mood for conversation. I could see her staring at the scratch on my cheek from Rachel’s ring. But I wasn’t talking. At least not about the blind date.
Over breakfast I asked, “Do monks really have to take a vow of poverty?”
“Are you giving up on girls already? You’re only sixteen.”
“Keeping my options open,” I told her. “But solitude is sounding pretty good right now.”
That’s all I was saying. She knew something hadn’t gone right on the date. She didn’t have to know the details. After breakfast, I went out back and hung on my pull-up branch for a while, but couldn’t bring myself to do one. Finally, I dropped to the ground and headed into the canyon. I forced the events of the previous night to the back of my brain—a long hike might do me good.
That night at Ernesto’s, it was less busy than I would have liked.
“Did you take up boxing?” Juana Maria had a nose for details, and right now she was nosing about my cheek. I still wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
“Don’t ask,” I said.
“Well, I’m asking. What are friends for?”
“I’ll tell you later,” I told her.
“Did you get in a fight or something? If so, did you win? What’s the other guy look like? Was it over a girl? Speak, Elroy.”
A customer walked in and saved me from spilling the story. Juana Maria was a little better at getting me to talk than my mother, or almost getting me to. But I wasn’t ready yet. The memory was too fresh.
Back at school, I went about my business. I was glad to be there. I needed something to focus on, something to keep my mind from thinking. Which is kind of weird, if you ponder that one. Isn’t school a place you go to think? It did give me some welcome mental distraction, though. For a while.
Sampson Teague, who wouldn’t get my vote as the world’s most sensitive person, noticed my post–punch-in-the-face funk. I was in the middle of a set of curls when he said, “What’s her name?”
“Excuse me?” I put the weights down and looked at him.
“It’s gotta be about a girl. It’s written all over your face. That’s girl torment if I ever saw it.”
I nodded. “See this mark on my cheek?” I asked.
He leaned in close for a look and whistled. “Nice one.”
“I guess you could say I forced my attentions on a young lady who didn’t appreciate it.”
Sampson took another look at my cheek and nodded. “She does good work.”
After class we headed back to the locker room together and Sampson put a hand on my shoulder. “You know, Elroy, not all girls are like that.”
“Like what?”
He pointed to my cheek. “Like that. Some girls are . . . nicer. I’m part of an organization here at school. We put on parties. Lots of girls show up. Friendly girls.” He punched me lightly on the shoulder. “Know what I’m saying? Friendly girls. We’re having a party this Friday and you, Elroy, are invited.”
“Not everyone in your”—I made quotation marks— “ ‘organization’ likes me.” In fact, I was pretty sure that a certain oversized hairy fellow hated my guts.
“There are a few jerks, but you’ll be my guest. If anyone bothers you, I’ll take care of him.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s always a good time. You should come.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
An invitation to a Second Base Club party. How do you like that? Sampson kept bringing it up throughout the week. “Friendly girls,” he kept saying. “You’ll have a great time.” I didn’t give him an answer, but I was leaning toward saying yes. In the meantime, I spent a few nights at Ernesto’s.
“Your boxing injury is looking better,” Juana Maria said. “Looks more like a cat fight now.” She meowed and made her fingers into claws.
I touched the side of my face. The wound was healing, and I was slowly getting back to normal, mentally. Rachel was probably back in Atlanta by now. I forced myself to think of something else.
“So how was your spring break?” I asked her. Spring break was a while ago, but I had to talk about something.
“You mean Easter vacation? I go to Aquinas. We don’t call it spring break.”
“So how was it?”
“Awesome.” She held her arms out to the sides and spun around. “Like my tan? I spent the week at the beach.”
It was a great tan. In fact, it was a great everything. It’s not often that a girl asks to be checked out. I gave her a brief but thorough examination.
“Not bad.” I spun around. “Like my freckles? I spent the week in the mountains.” Actually, it was a few days.
She told me she loved my freckles. According to her, I had the most adorable freckles.
I fought back a blush and lost. There’s only so much hot-girl attention a guy can take. I stared at my arm. “Really?”
“Yep, and you know what else?”
“You’re a big fan of warts?”
She shook her head. “You rocked at Battle of the Bands. I liked your music a lot.”
Wow. Cute and with good taste. What more could a guy ask for? Juana Maria looked up at me and smiled, and my heart skipped a beat. Or two.
I forced myself to say something.
“Uh . . . I thought you liked country? Shania Twang.”
“I like rock too. When are you playing again?”
“Not sure. We haven’t played at all since I was tomatoed onstage.”
“That guy was an asshole!”
I shot her a look. “Juana Maria.”
“Oops. Did I say that out loud?” She laughed. “But he was. Some of the crowd liked your song, and I was one of them. I wanted to hear more.”
I imagined myself onstage playing music with this pretty Mexican girl in the audience, watching my every move. Kind of a hot thought, actually.
“Thanks,” I said. I gave her a hug and held her a second longer than necessary. I don’t think she minded.
We got busy seating customers and making salads. It didn’t start slowing down until after nine-thirty, and we finished our shift wrapping silverware for the next day.
“Are you busy Friday night?” Juana Maria asked.
“Friday?”
“Yeah. My little sister is turning seven. We’re having a party for her. I’d like you to come, if you’re not doing anything.”
I flashed on her so-called psycho father and his baseball bat.
The Second Base Club party was on Friday. Let me think, watch a seven-year-old unwrap gifts or hang out with some “friendly” girls. Hmm . . . what to do?
Juana Maria poked me with a finger. “So—what do you say?”
“Sorry, Juana Maria, I’m busy that night. Rain check?”
“Absolutely.” But she had a look in her eye. A hurt look.
I was a jerk, okay? But I couldn’t stop myself. I had to go to the Second Base Club party. I’d watched them from a distance all year. Sampson had asked me, and I couldn’t take that lightly. Still, in the back of my mind I knew I was making a mistake. And I’d hurt a good friend in the process. I was such a fool.
The next day, at weight training, I told Sampson that I was in.
“Excellent,” he said. “I’m telling you, Elroy, trust me on this—you’ll have a good time.”
We worked through our circuit in record time. Coach was so impressed that he sent us to the showers early. Then we headed to the parking lot.
“You need a ride home?” Sampson asked.
Vern and the Trap had always been my ride home, but I found myself nodding. “Sure.” It was strange being included as part of the in crowd. We got into his car, which was a late-model Mustang, and headed out of the parking lot. We passed Vern on the way. He was standing near the Trap, looking at me with his hands raised: What gives?
I had no idea. Here I was invited to an in-crowder party and being driven around by the head in-crowder. How had I gotten here? I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to analyze the hell out of it. Just go with the flow, I told myself. It had worked before.
But something was nagging me, something hard to ignore. True, I was hanging with the head in-crowder, but I’d hurt two people to get there. Two friends. Two very good friends.
On Friday, I started getting ready for the party fairly early. I took an extra-long shower, ignoring my mother pounding on the door to remind me about our small septic tank. Then I shaved the few visible whiskers on my face and splashed on aftershave, something I’d picked up at the Walgreens the day before.
I put on clean jeans and a dress shirt, the same outfit from Battle of the Bands. The tomato stain was gone, and it was wrinkle-free.
“So you’re not going to join the monastery after all?” Mom asked.
“It’s still an option, but . . . nah.” I twirled. “How do I look?”
“Sexy.” Moms should never say the word “sexy.” “Handsome,” maybe. But never “sexy.”
A few minutes later, we heard the roar of an engine. Crap! I forgot to tell Vern I’d made other plans. He pulled to a stop in front of the Airstream and got out. I opened the door.
“Ready, Elroy? Let’s make like a tree and”—he gestured down the road—“you know.”
“I do?”
“It’s Friday, man. It’s you, me, the Trap, and whatever happens, happens.”
Once again, the word “jerk” flashed before my eyes. I’d ignored a beautiful girl who adores my freckles, and now I was about to ditch my best friend. A knot formed in my stomach.
“Vern.” It was all I could say.
“Elroy.”
We stood there looking at each other. Finally, I forced myself to speak. “I can’t go tonight. I made other plans.” But even as I said the words, it seemed ridiculous. What was wrong with me? Had I lost my mind completely?
“This has something to do with you and Sampson, doesn’t it?”
I nodded. “Yeah.” Keep it short, I figured. I had no reasonable argument. I was hurting a friend, plain and simple, in favor of a group of people I hardly knew.
“They’re a bunch of assholes, Elroy. They’re not your friends.”
“Sorry, Vern,” I told him. “I’m really sorry.” This was true. I was sorry. I was a jerk and I was sorry. But for some reason, I just couldn’t stop myself. Even as I saw the hurt in Vern’s eyes, memories flashed inside my head—Marisa turning away when I tried to kiss her, Carol Ann’s stiff-arm, Rachel’s well-placed left hook. I had to go through with this.
“You’re not one of them. You’ll never be one of them.”
I didn’t say anything, but I knew he was right.
“Vern,” I said again, at a loss to say more.
He shook his head. “Whatever, man.” He got into the car and drove away, his middle finger extended out the window.
I shut the Airstream door and turned around to face my mother, who was standing there with her arms folded across her chest. “Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked.
What could I say? She saw what had happened. I’d just rejected my best friend in favor of a guy I didn’t know all that well.
“Elroy, what’s going on?” Mom asked.
“Nothing, Mom. Everything’s fine.” But I knew I was lying even as I said the words. There was nothing fine about it. Treating a friend like shit was never fine.
CHAPTER THIRTY
A few minutes later, I heard tires crunching on the gravel in front of the Airstream. Unlike the Trap, Sampson’s car didn’t give you an audio alert from a mile away. I opened the door.
Sampson called out the window, “You ready?”
“Yeah,” I said. Then I turned to my mom to tell her good-bye. She was standing behind me, peering over my shoulder.
“Who’s your friend?” she asked.
“Sampson. Gotta go, Mom. I’ll see you later.”
“I’d like to meet him, Elroy.” She gave me her I’m-your-mother-and-what-are-you-up-to? look.
I wasn’t sure what I was up to. Hurting the people I cared about? The image of Vern’s extended middle finger kept playing in my head. I knew this was the wrong choice. But I’d already gone too far. I couldn’t go back now.
I waved Sampson over. He shut off the engine and stepped out of the car. I think I heard my mother catch her breath. She wasn’t used to my hanging out with the stud muffin of the school. Her eyes kept flicking from me to Sampson and back, like we were the oddest pairing she’d ever seen.
“Mom, this is Sampson Teague,” I said.
“Hello,” she said.
Sampson extended his hand. “Any mom of Elroy’s is a mom of mine.” When she didn’t laugh he added, “It’s nice to meet you.”
It was pretty hard not to be charmed by the guy, but I could tell my mother was resisting.
“We won’t be too late,” I said, jumping off the porch and heading to the car. I wanted to get out of there before she imposed a curfew. I didn’t know who these friendly girls were, but it might take most of the night to find out. “Bye, Mom.”
We got in the car and took off down Casitas Pass.
“Your mom’s nice,” Sampson said. “She’s also hot. Really hot. Extremely—”
“You can stop now. She’s my mother.”
“Oh, yea
h, sorry.”
We drove north of town along the 101 and pulled off onto some kind of private driveway. I didn’t ask any questions, but kept wondering, What is it about going up into the hills when you want to get lucky? I checked out the terrain. There were no oil pumps, just acres and acres of citrus, a barn in the distance. We pulled in front of a huge ranch house surrounded by about thirty cars. Loud music played, and I heard laughter.
The party was in full swing, all in-crowders, and I was invited.
I held out my arm to Sampson as he put the car in park. “Go ahead,” I told him.
“Go ahead what?”
“Pinch me.”
He laughed. “Expect the time of your life, Elroy.”
“If you say so.”
We got out and walked toward the entrance. One of the football players—probably a lineman, from the size of him—was standing out front beside a couple of ice chests full of beer. “Hold up, you two.” He tossed us a few beers. “You know the drill.”
I looked at the beer in my hand, then at Sampson. “The drill?”
“Gotta down a beer before you join the party. Kind of an entry fee.”
He cracked his open, and so did I. I sipped while Sampson guzzled. Then he crushed the can against his forehead and flipped it onto a pile of empties. I drank mine at my own pace while Sampson stood there tapping his foot. What can I say? I’m a wimpy drinker. When I finished, I dropped my can on the ground and crushed it with my foot. Pointing to my forehead, I said, “I may need to use this later on.”
Sampson and I went inside the house. The whole place seemed to vibrate with the loudness of the music, and it smelled like beer. People were everywhere, standing in groups, flopped on couches, a few couples making out. Yes, there were lots of girls. And they looked pretty friendly.
Somebody yelled, “Sampson!” Suddenly he was surrounded, and since I was standing near him, so was I.
“What’s he doing here?” I turned and saw Hairy Jerry looking right at me. He seemed bigger than the last time I saw him. And he smelled of alcohol.
“Elroy is my guest, Jerry,” Sampson said. “Do you have a problem with that?”
