by C. D. Payne
At that moment a dark shadow fell across our table. I looked up into the violet-highlighted eyes of Sonya Klummplatz, who was smiling at me while pointedly ignoring my companion.
“Oh, there you are, Rick. I’ve been looking for you, honey. We need to discuss the colors I’ll be wearing to the spring dance on Saturday.”
My Love released my hand and gazed at me in stunned surprise. True to his Gallic roots, Rick S. Hunter could only shrug.
After Sheeni left in a huff, Sonya informed me that she would be wearing a lilac gown (no surprise there) to the dance, and that I should keep that in mind when selecting her corsage.
“Definitely no yellow mums, honey,” she stressed. “I don’t want to wind up looking like the Easter Bunny.”
Since My Love opted to eat her bland bagged lunch with odious Vijay, rather than risk another Sonya encounter, I walked the few blocks to my apartment and fixed a sandwich. Lunch is always the most stressful part of the school day for friendless new students, and Rick S. Hunter is not the type of guy to linger on the fringes and be snubbed.
Later in driver’s ed I drove all the way to Hopland on Route 101 at freeway speeds and had only one minor near-miss with a logging truck. On the return trip I sat next to Apurva in the back seat, and we had a hurried whispered conversation. I told her that I had met Sheeni recently in Mexico and she had assured me that the father of her kid was some guy named Nick Twisp. Apurva brushed back a tear and replied softly, “Yes, Rick, I know.” I thought she would appreciate hearing her husband wasn’t a two-timing louse, but it didn’t seem to cheer her up.
8:15 p.m. Taking no chances, I just called Joanie in Oakland from the pay phone down the block. To my surprise and displeasure my mother answered. It was the news I wanted to hear, but not a person I wished to speak with.
“Miss Joan Twisp please,” I said in Rick S. Hunter’s most resonant voice.
“Who’s calling?” she demanded suspiciously.
“Uh, Polonious DeFalco,” I replied, saying the first name that popped into my head.
“Never heard of you. Joanie’s out walking the baby.”
Do infants have to be walked like dogs?
“Fine,” I said, “I’ll call back tomorrow.” Click.
A brief but illuminating conversation. Sheeni’s check must have gone through. I may be in the chips!
TUESDAY, April 13 — After my class in California problems (social studies floundering for relevance), I spotted My Love loitering beside Rick S. Hunter’s locker. I shifted my body language into smoldering languor and sidled toward her.
“Hello, Sheeni.”
“Hello, Rick. Where’s your Miss Klummplatz?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Isn’t she your girlfriend?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I lied.
“Want to cut class with me?”
“Sure, Sheeni.”
“I haven’t seen your new place, Rick.”
“Let’s go check it out.”
We dumped our books in my locker and strode purposefully toward the nearest exit. Once off campus I wanted to take Sheeni’s hand, but decided I’d better resist the urge.
“What class are you cutting now, Rick?” asked My Love, also keeping her hands to herself.
“Computer lab.”
“Vijay says that class is a joke. He says everyone ignores Mr. Hiesgweem and just plays computer games or cruises the Internet for porno.”
“Some do, but I’m working on my programming skills.” I felt I could use a brush-up after that Geezer Virus fiasco.
Sheeni was appalled when I told her my class schedule. “They put you in life skills, Rick? I thought you had to be retarded to get in that class.”
“Well, it’s not a prerequisite, but it helps. Yesterday we studied how to create a shopping list for the grocery store. And here I’d just been grabbing things off the shelves.”
“Rick, you could have the most scholastically unchallenging schedule in the history of secondary education.”
I admitted that I tend to wash up in sixth-period study hall with no homework to occupy my atrophying brain.
My Love was full of superlatives today. She said my new digs smelled nice, but declared it was the “most depressing and squalid” apartment she had ever seen.
“You only say that because it’s in Ukiah,” I replied, putting my secondhand kettle on to boil. “If this place were in Greenwich Village or Clichy, tourists would be raving over its picturesque Bohemian charm.”
Sheeni glanced into my bedroom cave. “Is this where you sleep? Sonya must have taken one look at that purple sofa and lost her last shred of inhibitions.”
“Sonya’s never been here. Tea or instant coffee?”
“Just hot water, Rick. I’m sick of throwing up. I suppose you don’t find me attractive now because of my condition.”
“I never said that.” To prove it I kissed her lovely, sweet lips.
My Love never got her hot water. We wound up together on my lumpy bed. I blocked the last sliver of light from under the closed door with a strategically placed towel. We quickly shed our clothes and groped for each other in the all-encompassing darkness. I was thankful I had showered that morning in gym. So as not to smell like the old Nick, I have switched to a trendy new deodorant called Male Stench.
“Rick, have you always dreamed of making love in a coal mine?” inquired My Love.
“Sorry, Sheeni, but I vowed to my adoptive parents before they died that no one would see me naked until I was married.”
“A curious promise. What about the 35 guys in your gym class?”
“They don’t count.”
I caressed her exquisite breasts.
“Gentle, Rick,” she cautioned. “My nipples are very sensitive now.”
My Love ran her fingers over my chest and shoulders (feeling for scars?).
“Rick, from what I can detect in the total absence of light you appear to have the same body-type as your father’s—thin but muscular.”
My morning Dogo exercises were working!
I kissed her lips and felt a warm hand grip my T.E. with the lightest possible touch.
“How’s the wounded veteran?” she asked. “It feels OK to me.”
“I guess we can chance it. Shall we bother with a condom, Sheeni? I haven’t had sex with anyone since I got out of the hospital, where I passed every blood test known to man.”
“I aced a battery of tests myself in Arizona,” replied My Love. “And I couldn’t get any more pregnant if I tried. Besides, you’d have to be a bat to locate a condom in this room.”
And so while my computer lab classmates searched the Web for vicarious erotic thrills, we experienced the real thing—and on school time too. The darkness, unfettered flesh-to-flesh contact, and rich donut aromas combined for a profoundly soul-satisfying sensory experience. Afterwards, we rested in each other’s arms and thought our private thoughts. I glided a hand over the tactilely inviting contours of her perfect ass and wished I could freeze that moment forever. I thought about our embryo and wondered how it was getting on.
“Do you know what sex it is, Sheeni?” I asked, caressing what I presumed was her abdomen.
“My mother took me to a doctor in Santa Rosa last Friday. She didn’t dare involve our regular doctor because of the scandal. It’s a girl, not that I care.”
A daughter! How strange that a guy could engender a girl. Somehow I had assumed it would be a boy.
“Rick, do you have a passport?” inquired My Love.
“Sure.”
“Would you like to go away with me?”
My heart seized.
“Where? When?” I asked.
“To Paris. I’m leaving when my passport arrives. I’ve requested it be processed with expedited service. I’m hoping it arrives by the end of the week. Don’t worry, Rick, I’ve got plenty of money.”
Right, Sheeni, and I know where you got it.
“Oh? Where did you get it?”
I asked.
“From my old friend Nick. It comes to nearly $200,000.”
A modest half-million dollar understatement. It appears Rick S. Hunter is not entirely to be trusted.
“Doesn’t Nick want it back?” I asked.
“I suppose, but it’s his kid that is obliging me to run away. So in a sense he is financially liable. We could get an apartment there and go to school. You could learn French and find your relatives.”
“Your parents will track us down, Sheeni,” I pointed out. “And they’ll murder me.”
“No, Rick, I’ll leave clues that will make it appear that I went to Los Angeles. They’d have no reason to suspect I’d gone all the way to France. I have a secret post office box here in town. That’s where I’m having my passport sent.”
“I have a post office box too. What’s your number?”
“312.”
“Mine’s 418. I don’t know, Sheeni. I’ll have to think about it. Who else knows about your plan?”
“Just Vijay. He wants to go, but he doesn’t have the nerve to leave his parents.”
“So I’m your second choice?”
“No, Rick, although I seem to be your second choice for going to dances.”
“What can I say, Sheeni? Sonya asked me before you did. Besides, you’re grounded and your parents hate me. They’d never let you go to that dance.”
“I know, Rick. Vijay’s devastated that I had to decline his invitation.”
Poor Vijay! But I think François may have a plan for dealing with that despised interloper.
Since we had lingered in bed into the lunch hour, I fixed My Love her requested sandwich (plain lettuce on white bread, no mayo), then made something more calorie-laden for myself. After dining intimately at my rickety table, we strolled back to school in time for sixth period, which I spent in study hall musing on Sheeni’s dramatic proposal. It’s very good that Sheeni likes Rick S. Hunter enough to invite him to run away with her (not to mention have unprotected sex with him), but very bad that she wants to go to Paris on my money. I’m terrible at foreign languages, a fact I know would prove a hindrance in defending My Love against hordes of horny, avaricious, Sartre-quoting Frogs.
Securing a bathroom pass from the study-hall monitor, I slipped into Redwood High’s most private student phone booth and dialed Sheeni’s number. Her 5,000-year-old mother answered on the second ring.
“Hello, Mrs. Saunders,” I said in my best Indian accent. “This is Vijay Joshi.”
“Has your sister come to her senses about giving up Trent?”
“Not yet, Mrs. Saunders. And the child does complicate matters. Now I have something most shocking to relate that concerns your daughter.” I told her about the planned escape, passport application, and secret post office box. Many expostulations of maternal rage and anguish followed. Eventually, she regained her capacity for coherent speech.
“My husband Elwyn knows the postmaster. We’ll intercept that passport!”
“Very wise, Mrs. Saunders. But you mustn’t tell your daughter that I informed on her. If she doesn’t learn of my confidences to you, I can keep you further updated on her activities.”
“Oh, Vijay, would you do that for us?” she blubbered.
“Gladly, Mrs. Saunders.”
“Thank you, Vijay. I always liked you in spite of your family. You’re a very nice young man for being a godless foreigner.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Saunders. And good day to you.”
That should keep My Love nicely confined within our territorial borders. And if Mrs. Saunders does spill the beans, it will be Vijay who takes the rap for back-stabbing treachery.
Emptying all my pocket change on the little shelf under the phone, I dialed Mom’s number in Oakland and fed in the quarters. This time, fortunately, my sister answered.
“Nick, why didn’t you talk to Mother when you phoned yesterday?”
“Call me Rick, Joanie. Did Sheeni’s check go through?”
“It went through. We hired a very nice lawyer. She filed an injunction against Lance to prevent him from evicting us. Can you believe that jerk is trying to kick Mother out of her own house?”
Well, I could see how a bullet or two to the testicles might incline one toward revenge, but that could just be the male point of view.
“Joanie, I want you to mail me $30,000 in small bills to my post office box in Ukiah.”
“Don’t be silly, Rick. We can’t send that much cash through the mail. Besides, we need money for Mother’s expenses. She’s been suspended from her job, you know.”
“OK, mail me $25,000.”
“We might be able to manage $10,000, Rick. But it’s awfully risky.”
We compromised on $15,000, which my sister promised to send tomorrow by Priority Mail. Talk about greed. Those chiselers are grabbing three-quarters of my $60,000.
Why is it that everyone treats my money like a public resource? Shouldn’t people of means have some say in their personal philanthropy? Can’t a guy decide he’s maxed out on his charitable contributions for the year? How ironic that with capitalism triumphant across the globe, I may be bourgeois society’s last Victim of Communism.
WEDNESDAY, April 14 — After Rick S. Hunter confided to My Love in the hallway before first period that he would love to run away to Paris with her, we took the rest of the morning off to celebrate. Not surprisingly, most of it was spent in my pitch-black bedroom exploring the limits of the Human Sexual Response—even venturing, much to my amazement, into the realm of female-to-male oral pleasuring. Doing it in the dark is fabulously erotic. I can only assume blind people have wonderful sex lives as partial compensation for their dearth of vision. Eventually, we got most of our clothes back on straight and sat down ravenous to another impromptu lunch.
“Any sign of your passport, Sheeni?” I asked.
“Not yet, Rick. Every day I cut the last period to check at the post office. Yesterday I was late getting back to school and kept my mother waiting nearly five minutes. She was pretty hostile. I hope she doesn’t suspect anything.”
“Sooner or later she’ll find out you’re cutting class.”
“I suppose—not that my teachers lament my absence. I have a tendency to point out their more egregious errors.”
I picked up my ringing telephone. It was Sonya Klummplatz tracking down an expectant but elusive lunch partner.
“Oh, hi, Sonya.”
My Love made a face, grabbed her purse, and quickly departed.
“Rick, honey, are you sick?”
“No, Sonya, I took the morning off for independent study. What’s up?”
“Rick, I was wondering if you’d like to invite any of your upperclassmen buddies to double-date with us on Saturday?”
“Sonya, I only transferred to your school on Friday. I don’t have any friends yet.”
“Well, you seemed pretty chummy with Sheeni Saunders. No matter. I thought perhaps we could go with my friend Lana and her boyfriend Fuzzy DeFalco. He’s not much to write home about, but his parents are loaded.”
“OK,” I sighed.
“Good, Rick. You can drive Fuzzy’s car. He’s only 14 and doesn’t have his license yet. What color is my dress?”
“Army fatigue green?”
“No, silly, it’s lilac. Now don’t forget!”
Wow, I get to drive Fuzzy’s vintage Falcon after just one week of driver’s ed. A scary prospect, but at least François is thrilled.
6:45 p.m. After wasting an entire period of driver’s ed practicing parallel parking (François needs road miles!), I discreetly followed Apurva to the public library, where she was soon immersed in a thick book from the “Motherhood and Child Care” shelf. I dropped my life skills textbook, stooped to pick it up, and pretended to be surprised to see her.
“Oh, hi, Apurva.”
“Hello, Rick,” she replied, hiding the motherhood book under her notebook. “I’m sorry you had so much trouble parking today.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s
good we live in a rural area. I don’t know why Mr. Nurlpradt is so obsessed with parking. I mean, it’s not like we’re all planning to move to San Francisco tomorrow. Say, I hope you don’t think I was butting my nose in your business the other day.”
She reddened. “No, of course not.”
“I just know that sometimes it’s nice to have someone to talk to—especially since we’re both the new kids in school.”
“Yes, Rick, it can be pretty lonely. I, I saw you talking to Sheeni Saunders in the hall today.”
“She hasn’t asked me to spy on you, Apurva. We’re just friends.”
“I, I didn’t mean to imply anything, Rick. It’s just that I’m, I’m so confused.”
“Can I buy you a cup of tea?”
“What? Oh, I don’t know …”
“Come on, Apurva. I’m pals with the waitress at Flampert’s. Maybe she’ll sneak us a brownie on the house.”
No such luck, but Ida did provide free refills of hot water. We sipped our tea and discussed the challenges of teen life and cross-cultural marriage.
“Rick, you seem very empathetic for a boy,” commented Apurva. “You must have a sister or two.”
“How did you know?”
“I suppose they all have their troubles with boys?”
“Sure, but nothing we can’t work out together. They value my advice.”
Like Rick S. Hunter’s mythical sisters, Apurva let down her hair and poured out her heart, filling me in on her sudden trip to Mississippi with Trent, the rift her marriage caused with her parents, her surprise pregnancy, and her distress over Trent’s reaction to Sheeni’s accusation of paternity.
“I don’t understand you American boys,” she complained. “Perhaps I should have obeyed my father and gone back to Pune. Why can’t Trent deny that he is the father of Sheeni’s baby? Is it because he wishes that it were true? I know he still loves her. He refused to do anything when she broke into our house.”
“Oh, he’s just trying to be a good sport, Apurva. Your husband’s been brainwashed. He’s sat through too many lectures by gym coaches on sportsmanlike conduct.”
