While we're waiting, I avoid looking at Buddy. "I thought this was a get-t ogether for our class," I whisper to Ellie. "Bobbi Jo doesn't even go to Eastern—plus she's only fourteen."
Ellie looks surprised. "Don't you like Bobbi Jo?"
"Of course I like her. It's just that..." Honestly, it's just that when Bobbi Jo's around, boys notice her, not me. But I'm not about to admit that to anybody.
Cheryl slings her arms around Ellie and me. "Hey, you all." She's wearing enough perfume to knock you over.
"He's here," Ellie hisses, not looking in Buddy's direction. "Damn, damn, damn." Cheryl glances at Buddy, still sitting on the hood of his car, still smoking, still watching us. "I was hoping he wouldn't come."
Buddy doesn't move, but he stares hard at Cheryl. Some of his friends have joined him. Like Buddy, they wear tight Levi's and white T-shirts. Vincent, Chip, and Gene. My father would never let me date guys like them. Not that I'd want to. Their droopy eyes and curled lips scare me.
With an eye on us, Vincent says something to Buddy and laughs. Buddy doesn't even smile. He just keeps watching Cheryl. It's creepy the way he looks at her with that cigarette hanging out of one side of his mouth, like he thinks he's Marlon Brando or something.
"He's going to ruin everything," Cheryl says. "I hate him."
"We won't let him near you," Bobbi Jo says.
"We'll be your bodyguards," Ellie says.
"Or to be more exact," I add, "your Buddy guards."
We laugh, draw closer together, and walk toward the rec center, arms linked. We're a gang, all four of us. Buddy and his friends aren't going to ruin our fun.
But maybe it won't be fun. Maybe it'll be like all the other parties. Everyone will dance except me. I'll be the wallflower, hiding in the girls' room trying not to cry, wishing I was home, wishing I hadn't come. My mood plunges, I feel like leaving now, before anything bad happens. But of course I can't leave. What would the others think? I have to stay even if I end up crying in the girls' room.
Gary stands by the record player. He's got a stack of forty-fives ready to go. At school he's the guy who runs the movie projector in science class. He sets up the microphone when it's needed. He does sound effects for school plays. I wonder if he ever feels like I do. Maybe he's just pretending to like being the disc jockey while the other kids dance.
A few couples are slow dancing to "Unchained Melody," one of my pretend songs for Don. Slow and dreamy and romantic. Perfect for slow dancing. I dedicated it to him once on a late-night radio show: "To Don from a secret admirer."
When the disc jockey read what I'd written, I almost died of mortification. What if Don guessed I was his secret admirer? I was scared to go to school the next day, but he acted the same as always, kidding me about the picture I was painting in art class. "A masterpiece! But wait, is this horse crippled?"
Nora—a nice kid, but who likes nice kids?
I watch the couples hold each other tight, swaying slowly as if they're dancing underwater. As if they' ll die if they're separated. Cheryl and Buddy used to dance like that at parties in Ellie's basement rec room. Not anymore.
At least they'd been in love. Maybe it didn't last long, but still...
"Hey, Nora." Ellie nudges me. "Let's get a soda."
The four of us head to the cooler. We don't want to stand around looking like we're waiting for someone to ask us to dance. There aren't many boys here yet, and the ones who are here have partners. Or, like Buddy and his friends, they're leaning against their cars, smoking and watching the scene.
"I thought there'd be lots more kids," Bobbi Jo says, obviously disappointed.
Cheryl looks around and shrugs. "It's early."
Before we finish our sodas, kids start arriving. Cars pull into the parking lot, radios blaring. Doors slam. The concrete floor fills with dancers, jitterbugging now to "Maybelline."
That's when Ralph Stewart shows up. What's he doing here? He's from Don's neighborhood, a basketball player, a big wheel, not the type to hang out in our part of town. I crane my neck, hoping to see Don follow him in, but it's just Ralph. He stands there, scanning the crowd.
"Oh my God," Cheryl whispers. "He came! I asked him, but I didn't think he'd really come." Her face is red. I can almost hear her heart beating faster.
I glance at Ellie. She doesn't look surprised. This must be another secret they shared walking to school.
With a big grin, Ralph saunters over, takes Cheryl's hand, and leads her into the crowd of dancers. Cheryl laughs, tosses her ponytail, moves fast, hips shaking. Ralph matches her every move. He's so cute, I think. Maybe not as cute as Don, but almost. How does Cheryl get boys to like her? What's the secret? Will I ever figure it out?
Suddenly Buddy's beside me lighting a cigarette, his eyes focused on Cheryl and Ralph. "What the hell is Ralph Stewart doing here?"
He asks like it's my fault, like I should apologize. My face burns and I shrug. "How should I know?"
"Cheryl invited him." Bobbi Jo leans past me and grins at Buddy. "They're dating, if you want to know."
I stare at Bobbi Jo. I thought Ralph was going steady with Sally Smith. She wears his ring around her neck. I've seen it. Suddenly I feel like I'm not really part of Ellie's neighborhood. I don't live here, I don't walk to school with Cheryl, she doesn't tell me her secrets.
I glance at Ellie. She's shaking her head, sending signals to shut up, but Bobbi Jo ignores her.
"Cheryl thinks he's going to ask her to go steady tonight," she tells Buddy. "He might even give her his class ring."
"What do you know about it?" Buddy sneers. "You should be home playing with dolls or something."
Bobbi Jo's face turns red. "I'm almost fifteen," she says. "I know plenty."
"Don't make me laugh." Buddy starts to walk away just as "Maybelline" ends and Wild Bill Doggett comes on with "Honky Tonk." The music has a deep dark driving rhythm that you feel inside. You want to dance, and not just ordinary jitterbug—you want to use your body in strange new ways. Twist and sway and move your hips. I can't explain the effect it has on me—it's almost scary.
I wish I had the nerve to go out there and dance like Cheryl and Ralph—not exactly the dirty boogie, but pretty close. At the junior prom, a bunch of wild kids from Holly Court got thrown out of the gym for doing it. The look on the chaperones' faces was really funny. You'd have thought it was the end of the world.
Boys whistle and shout as Cheryl boogies. She shoots a look at Buddy like she's taunting him. Making sure he notices her short shorts and tan legs and low-cut top.
"That bitch," Buddy mutters. "Just look at her. I could kill her."
Cheryl whispers something to Ralph. They both look at Buddy and laugh.
"Oh, come on," Ellie says to Buddy. "Don't you ever watch TV? They do stuff like that all the time on the Milt Grant show."
"Not like that, they don't." Without another word, Buddy walks away.
"Honky Tonk" ends, and "Tutti Frutti" starts. Paul asks Ellie to dance and Walt asks Bobbi Jo. That leaves me sitting there by myself as usual. Just as I'm thinking I'll go the girls' room, Charlie shows up. "Come on." He sticks out his hand. "Let's dance."
I take his hand and follow him into the crowd. He's shorter than I am. But he's funny, and I like him the way he likes me—as a friend. Dancing with him is a whole lot better than crying in the girls' room.
"Gary," Charlie shouts, "put on Little Richard next—'Long Tall Sally.'"
As soon as "Tutti Frutti" is over, Gary drops the needle on "Long Tall Sally," and Charlie and I laugh. It's his song for me—he's dedicated it to me more than once on radio show call-ins: "And now, for long tall Nora from short skinny Charlie, here's Little Richard singing 'Long Tall Sally.' "
Ellie thinks Charlie likes me more than he lets on, but I don't believe it. I want him as a friend, not a boyfriend. Someone to have fun with. Besides, I can't imagine kissing a boy shorter than I am.
Charlie spins me in close. "Oooh, baby!"
&nbs
p; I laugh and step on his foot. When he spins me, I bump him with my elbow. He does a dirty boogie move and I imitate it. "Oooh, baby," we shout.
By the time the song is over, we're laughing so hard we can't dance. It's dark now. A few couples drift away from the shelter's lights toward their cars, toward the woods. The night air is hot, humid, heavy. An almost full moon has just risen over the dark mass of trees. Somewhere in the shadows a mockingbird sings, almost like a nightingale, I think.
"Unchained Melody" is playing again. I picture myself with Don, dancing, slow and close, his cheek pressed to mine. He'd be singing to me and me alone, his lips pressed to my ear, his breath a tickle on my cheek. Why can't life be the way I want it to be? Just once?
But it's only Charlie I'm with, and we're walking back to the picnic table, talking about chemistry. I'm scared I'm getting a C or even worse and he's telling me not to worry so much.
He's right, I do worry too much. All the time, about everything. Chemistry and math are just little things on my worry scale. I worry about being too tall, too skinny. Sometimes I have weird thoughts and then I think I might be secretly crazy. What if I crack up someday? Lose my mind? Go nuts? What if I end up in Spring Grove Insane Asylum? The people there howl when the moon's full, at least that's what a boy in my math class told me. He should know. He lives on the street that ends at the asylum grounds. There's a big iron gate and a guard in a little booth and a tall fence with spikes. I'd be afraid to live on that street.
Do other people ever worry about the kind of things I worry about? I glance at Charlie. Not him. He's still talking about chemistry and how much trouble he'll be in if Haskins gives him a C.
It's just me. There's something wrong with me, with my brain or something. I might have a tumor, I might die young before I even graduate from high school.
We sit down beside Walt and Bobbi Jo. I try to push the heaviness in my head away. I smile, I laugh, I pretend I'm just like everyone else. The Great Pretender. I'm good at that. Acting normal.
While Gary chooses the next record, Cheryl and Ralph join us. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright. She's holding Ralph's hand.
Over on the other side of the rec center, just where the rec lights meet the dark, Buddy is watching her. He's looking at Cheryl like he hates her.
Cheryl notices Buddy and holds Ralph's hand tighter.
Ralph grins at Bobbi Jo. "Aren't you a little young to be out this late?"
"Less than two years to go and I'll be sixteen," Bobbi Jo says.
"Yeah, but when you're sixteen, we'll be eighteen," Ralph reminds her. "You'll never catch up with us."
"I can pass for sixteen right now," Bobbi Jo says. "I told that cute guy at the Esso station I was sixteen and he believed me. He wants to take me out, but I know what my father would say if he showed up at our front door. He won't let me date." She pouts for a second and then smiles at Ralph.
How I wish I had dimples like hers. But maybe they wouldn't look as cute on me. Maybe my face is the wrong kind for dimples. Too long maybe, too plain.
Ellie and Paul come over. "It's too hot to dance," Ellie says. "Look at my hair, it's all frizzed up and I'm roasting."
"There's a cure for that." Cheryl drops her voice low. "Ralph's got a couple of six-packs of Rolling Rock. We're going over to the playground. Want to come?"
I glance at Ellie. If we get caught with beer, we'll be in a lot of trouble. She looks a little worried, but she says, "Count me in."
Bobbi Jo grins. "Me too."
Me too, me too, me too ... I will if you will ...
We walk across the baseball field lit by lights from the rec center. Our shadows stretch out toward the woods, long and thin with impossibly small heads.
For maybe the first time in my whole life, I'm doing something really reckless. Beer. The nice kid is going to drink beer. Maybe the nice kid will get drunk. Maybe the nice kid will make out with somebody. Who knows what the nice kid might do on a warm, dark summer night?
Drinking Beer and Making Out
Thursday, June 14 Night
Nora
NEAR the playground, a bunch of guys are playing pickup basketball. Thud, thud, thud, the ball bounces. Thwang, it drops through the net. Somebody curses. Somebody laughs.
Buddy joins the boys on the court. Did he follow us across the field? Must have. My arms prickle a little. It scares me to think about him skulking behind us. He's stupid and mean and I don't like him. Don't trust him either. Those squinty eyes of his, that narrow foxy face.
Why can't he just leave Cheryl alone? Can't he see she doesn't like him anymore? She likes Ralph. No, she loves Ralph. Anyone can see it in her face, in the way she looks at him. Maybe Ralph's looking at her like that too, but I'm not sure. Boys are harder to read than girls.
Except for Buddy, who still looks like he hates Cheryl. But he used to look at her like he loved her. Which I think he did. But she stopped loving him and that's the problem. It seems to me, if I was ever lucky enough to have a boyfriend, I'd never stop loving him. True love forever. That's all I want. Isn't that what everybody wants?
Before Cheryl sees him, Buddy slips away from the basketball game. Walks up behind her, grabs her arm, forces her to turn toward him, his face close to her face. Close enough to kiss.
Ralph and Paul have gone to get the beer out of the car. Bobbi Jo, Ellie, and I stand there paralyzed. We don't know what to do.
"You cheating little bitch," he mutters. The veins in his neck stand out like cords. His face is red. His hair is in his eyes. He looks wild, crazy, mad enough to do anything. Hit her. Strangle her.
"Get your hands off me." Cheryl doesn't look scared. Just angry. She tries to yank her arm free, but Buddy holds tight.
I look at Ellie and Bobbi Jo. We should do something, say something, but we just stand there like we're watching a play. Not something real.
Suddenly Ralph is there, his hand on Cheryl's other arm. "What the hell's going on?" he asks Buddy. "Let her go."
Buddy's grip on Cheryl tightens. He scowls at Ralph. "Go back to Dulaney where you belong."
Ralph's face reddens. "This is a free country," he says. "I can come here anytime I want."
Buddy lets go of Cheryl and she moves closer to Ralph. "Leave me alone," she says. "Get the hell away from me."
The boys face each other. Ralph's taller than Buddy, but Buddy's arms look strong. He has the look of a guy who knows every dirty trick.
The other kids crowd around them, pushing each other, shouting, egging them on. "Fight!" a boy yells. "Fight!"
The night is turning into a movie, the kind James Dean and Natalie Wood would be in. It excites me in a strange way.
Cheryl looks pleased to be the center of it all. She flips her long blond ponytail this way and that, staring at Buddy as if she's daring him to fight.
Then Charlie steps in between Ralph and Buddy. He's shorter than either of them. Skinnier. His shadow slants across the basketball court.
"Why don't you just forget it?" he asks. "If a fight starts, some nosy SOB in the neighborhood will hear it and call the cops. They're always prowling around here looking for trouble. They'll spot the beer and arrest us all."
Ralph scowls at Buddy. "Just leave Cheryl alone. She's not your girl anymore."
"She can go to hell for all I care." Buddy picks up a beer bottle and turns to his friend Gene. "Let's get outta here."
Followed by a couple of other guys, they walk over to Buddy's car. Before he opens the door, Buddy turns back and shouts at Cheryl, "If you died tomorrow, I wouldn't shed one tear."
Revving the engine, he drives away with a screech of tires that leaves the smell of burning rubber behind. I can hear the old Ford with its rusted-out muffler long after it disappears.
"Nice going, Charlie," Ellie says. "I really thought they were going to fight."
"Me too." Cheryl sounds a little disappointed, I think. She squeezes Ralph's arm. "I was hoping you'd beat the crap out of him."
Ralph laughs
and puts his arm around her. "Come on, let's get a beer."
"Good idea," Charlie says. "How about you two?"
Ellie and I look at each other and grin. We're almost seventeen, with one more year of high school, the best year, ahead of us. We're practically old enough to buy beer legally. Well, in five years, actually.
"What about me?" Bobbi Jo asks.
"Wouldn't you rather have Kool-Aid?" Charlie asks.
"I'm not a baby," Bobbi Jo says. "Give me a beer too."
Walt puts his arm around Bobbi Jo. "Aw, let her have one."
Charlie opens the beer and hands us each a bottle of Rolling Rock. Little bottles, not enough beer to make you drunk.
"Just don't tell your father," he says to Bobbi Jo. "I don't want to go to jail."
"Why would I tell him?" Bobbi Jo asks. "I'd be grounded for life. Or sent to a Catholic girls' school in Switzerland."
"Saint Bernard's Academy of Lost Souls?" Charlie asks.
For once I get the joke, but Bobbi Jo doesn't. "No, I think it's Saint Ursula of the Alps or something like that."
The beer has a harsh taste. Sour. I don't really like it, but I pretend to. People say some things are an acquired taste. Beer must be one of them.
Ralph takes beers for himself and Cheryl and hands a bottle to Paul. "Damn," he says. "That's almost the last of it already."
"After we finish these," Paul says, "I'll collect some money and buy a case."
We sit around the table, laughing and talking, remembering funny things from our junior year and making plans for senior year. And after. When we're finally free of public school. Paul and Charlie and Walt are going to hitchhike across the country after we graduate, working odd jobs and seeing places like the Grand Canyon and Old Faithful. They'll be home in time to start college.
Ellie and I have an idea we'll get waitressing jobs in Ocean City and spend the whole summer at the beach. We'll get great tans and save enough money for fall clothes. We'll start college dressed like Seventeen models.
Mister Death's Blue-Eyed Girls Page 2
