All-American (8 page)

“Sure, sure I remember. I mean I didn’t recognize you, but I remember you now all right.”

They were moving out the door together, down the corridor, laughing. Really High School wasn’t so bad after all. It was grand to find a friend, especially this friend, someone beside Gordon Brewster. The black-haired boy had attached himself to Ronny and tagged around with him ever since his first days. Ronald felt happy at having someone beside Gordon as a friend.

Her voice dropped but nevertheless he heard her distinctly. “...in that game... you were wonderful... I never thought... you’d win... definitely I never did....”

He looked up quickly. She meant it. Yes, she certainly meant it. Did she know his part in the Goldman accident? No evidence of it, nothing in her look which said so. Then from the rear came that same voice, high-pitched, penetrating.

“Oh... Pretty Boy... oh, Ronny...”

He turned sharply. Usually he paid no attention; this time he was angry. Let me catch that guy and I’ll kill him. Let me get my hands on him and I’ll beat him up. I surely will. Standing on his toes and looking over the heads of the boys and girls in the rear, he attempted to glance back. Several of them around were laughing, for everyone had heard it, but there was no way of identifying the speaker or guessing whether he was the same one as before.

Later that day he was upstairs after school in the long corridor on the third floor shutting his locker. Gordon Brewster, whose locker was nearby, came over.

“Say! Know who’s riding you? I do.”

“No! Do you really! Who is it... Wait a minute. Hold on now.” Maybe after all it was best not to know. To forget the whole thing. Often at the Academy he had seen this technique practiced, and there was only one way to beat it. Just pretend you never heard and keep on pretending. Give those birds the least satisfaction and they’d never let up. “Nope. No thanks, Gordon. I really don’t care to know.” He slammed his locker shut and started away down the corridor.

For several days Gordon had either been near his locker or waiting after school at the head of the stairs as he came down to go home.

“Ok, jess as you say, Ronald.” He panted along beside Ronny who was taking big steps, anxious to get out and away. Down the stairs, along the corridor to the main door. Outside the exit stood Stacey in the sunshine. He looked at them scornfully as they left the building together.

“Hey! I’m gonna ride along with you as far as West Avenue. Do you mind?” asked Gordon.

“Who? Me? No.”

He did mind, though. Why did he mind, he wondered, as he got his bike from the rack; why did he care? For one thing he was tired of the kid who for more than a week had been sticking to him in the cafeteria, after school, between classes. Ronald was not at all certain he enjoyed having Gordon as his only friend at Abraham Lincoln High. No, that wasn’t true. Not his only friend now. Sandra. Sandra Fuller. What a wonderful name. It fitted her, too. So she had seen him at the game in the fall. Then she must have seen the runback of that kick, and the touchdown.

They rode down Harrison Street together. “I’ll only go as far as West Avenue. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ronald, can I?”

“Tomorrow?” He was puzzled and also somewhat annoyed. Was this going to be a steady thing? “Why sure. Only what’s the matter? Something wrong at school, Gordon?”

For a few yards they pedaled along in silence. Then the black-haired boy replied. “It’s Stacey, see. He says he’s gonna beat me up.”

“Stacey! What’s he got against you? What did you ever do to him?”

“Nothing. He’s that way, that’s all. Says he doesn’t like me. Says if he catches me he’ll sure beat me up. He will, too. He tried it on Goldman last year but Goldman was too big for him. But he did it to one kid. Here’s West. I’m all set here. G’bye, Ronald. See you tomorrow.”

He rode off alone down the sloping street, fast, faster, and disappeared around a corner.

H
IS DAD LOOKED OVER
at him, took off his glasses and put down the evening newspaper. A bad sign.

“You mean to say they cheat?”

The words sounded cruel and wrong. Ronald found an answer difficult.

“Why, no, not exactly that, Dad. See, at the Academy classes were smaller and the teachers could see everything. Here they can’t.”

“But wasn’t there an honor system, or some such thing in effect there? How’d that work out?”

“It worked out ok, I guess. In exams they just trusted you. If a guy cheated, we gave him the silent treatment, that’s all. At Abraham Lincoln the teachers patrol the class during tests, and it’s sort of fun to fool ’em.”

“Fun!”

“Aw, Dad, you know, you remember. You used to fool your teachers. It’s a kind of game. Everybody does it. Besides, they snoop around. So the kids all do.”

“Yes, but you aren’t fooling the teacher. You’re fooling yourselves.”

Ronald was far from impressed. He had heard this before. “That’s what they keep on saying. They always say that. But just the same...”

“Look here, Ronald.” His father lit a cigarette. Ronald wished he had gone to his room and turned on the Fred Allen program. This was going to be unpleasant. “Tell me about your work. How about your schoolwork? How’s it coming along?”

“He’s brought his books home tonight for the first time in a week!” His mother, always at the wrong moment. “He never brings his books home anymore.”

“Is that right? How’s it happen you don’t study at home, Ronald? You had to work every night at the Academy; it’s a fine thing to get habits like that. I’m afraid you’re neglecting your studies.”

“Oh, no, Dad. I’m not, not at all. You’re wrong.”

“But you’ve been out three or four nights a week lately. I’ve noticed it, your mother has noticed it.”

“Oh, no, Dad. I think you’re mistaken. I’m not neglecting my work at all. Why I got an A on that last English paper, a B plus in the history test, and an A...”

“Well, Ronald.” His mother became determined. “You don’t mean to say you work the way you worked at the Academy.”

“Mother! You don’t understand. I don’t hafta.”

“Have to, Ronald, not hafta. I do hope you won’t use the slovenly English those boys at High School...”

“Oh, Mother...”

His father, however, was far more interested in the problem of his work than his grammar. “Look here, how do you mean you don’t have to work, Ronald?”

“’Cause I don’t, that’s all. ’Cause I know the stuff, most of it. If not, I can always do it in my first study period at school.”

“Then you mean it’s easier?”

“I dunno, I guess so. Yes, the work’s easier. At Abraham Lincoln they give you a chapter of history instead of three chapters, or thirty lines of Latin instead of eighty-five like we got everyday at the Academy. See! I can get it all, the lessons I mean, in my study periods.”

Again his mother had to say something. “But that rainy afternoon last week when I called for you in the car I noticed all the girls took piles of books home with them.”

“The girls! The girls! Of course the girls take books home. What else have they got to do ’cept paint their fingernails? We fellows have to do sports and things. You didn’t notice any boys taking books home, I bet.”

“But, Ronald...” His father was interested now. Funny, the sort of things which interested older people. Imagine anyone being interested in lessons. Yet his father was interested in the Tigers, too. “But, Ronald, suppose you weren’t prepared.”

“I am prepared. Anyhow it’s different at Abraham Lincoln.”

“How is it different?”

“Well, at the Academy if you aren’t prepared you get a detention. That means you just don’t go out for baseball practice. You stay in with the teacher all afternoon and work. If you misspell a word you have to write it down fifty times after school. Here, if you misspell a word, they just tell you it’s wrong, and the kids say, they say, ‘Aw, I can spell it right.’”

“Don’t they give you detentions at Abraham Lincoln?”

“No. ’Nother thing, the classes are so big you don’t get called on so often.”

“I see. You don’t have to be prepared.”

“But I am prepared, Dad. I know the stuff ok. Point is, most of the fellows don’t half the time; they aren’t so well prepared as we were at the Academy.”

“Where you had no girls and no movies and nothing to do except get your lessons for the next day.”

“Gee, Mother...”

“How many in your classes, did you say, Ronald?”

“Well, Dad, that depends. In French and algebra they’re smaller. In the others they’re pretty large. Now in English, for instance, there’s about thirty-five or more. See, the teacher has so many kids she doesn’t get around to everyone in her class. Miss Davis, in English, for instance. They say she has about three hundred themes to read and correct before Christmas, so she reads them all and grades them carefully the first time, and then gives you about the same mark the rest of the year.”

“Ronald! I don’t believe it.”

“The kids all say so, Mother; that’s what the kids say.”

The telephone rang. Ronny started quickly but his mother was quicker.

“Yes? Yes, just a minute.” She half-sighed into the telephone. It was her girl-voice. He could always tell by that tone, a tone implying anything but cordiality. It was a wonder anyone ever called him. Were other boys’ mothers like that? Probably not.

“Hullo.”

“’Lo, Ronny.” There was a silence. Then he felt her presence, smelled again the pleasant odor of her clothes and her lipstick. “This is Sandra.”

As if he needed to be told!

“Oh. G’d evening.”

In the background his mother was making furious signs, pointing at the schoolbooks on the table in the hall where he’d dropped them. Her eyebrows were raised and she kept indicating the books. He understood her sign language well enough. Gosh, sometimes mothers were simply terrible.

“Uhuh... uhuh...”

Sandra continued, talking fast. Between his mother’s movements and the surprise of the telephone call, he could hardly understand what the girl was saying. Could he what? Could he come over for a little while? Inside something went thump-thump-thump. He found it hard to reply. His mouth was dry. It made no difference, for she continued without pause.

“...Have you heard Artie Shaw’s... Concerto for Clarinet... you heard it... you haven’t?”

“Yes... I mean... well, I guess not.”

“An’ I got Cab Calloway’s ‘Jumping Jive.’ Don’t you just love him, Ronny? An’ his ‘Minnie the Moocher.’ Oh, definitely, I love him...”

“Yeah, he’s snazzy.”

“Do you know the house?” Know the house! Of course he knew the house. He knew the house all right. “It’s the one with honeysuckle in front of the porch.” Again something went funny inside Ronny. That honeysuckle vine was noticeable from the street. It had a long swing hammock behind it, well concealed from the street. And the other way round, thought Ronny.

“Yeah. Uhuh. Uhuh.” That seemed to be about all he could manage to get out. How could you talk to a girl when your mother was doing a one-act show with eyes and hands right in front of you?

“Then you’ll be right over?” There was almost anxiety in her voice, and he felt queer for the third time.

“Ok. G’bye.” The telephone was hardly down when his mother spoke.

“Now, Ronald.” Whenever she began in that tone it meant trouble. Oh, gosh. “Now, Ronald. You must
not
go out this evening. Please forbid him to go out, Dad.”

That’s it. Passing the buck to Dad. Gee, this was terrible. This was worse than the Academy. A fellow had a call from his girl, and his parents acted like... like it was a reform school.

Unexpectedly his father came to his rescue. “No, I won’t forbid Ronald to go out. He knows better than either of us whether or not he can afford to go out. You’ve got to let him assume responsibility for his own acts....”

“But he’s been out twice this week already, once to that stamp club and then to the movies. Now these girls!”

“It’s not either these girls, it’s Sandra Fuller.”

“Sandra Fuller?”

“Yes.”

“Well, whoever she is, she can’t be a nice girl, pestering you at home like this. If I’d called your father up...”

“Oh, Mother...”

“Now, now. Look here, this is entirely up to Ronald. He should make his own decisions. He knows he can’t even take his College Boards for Yale unless he gets A’s and B’s in all his studies. He must stand at the top of his class.”

“But, Dad, I told you, I got a B in the last history test; B plus it was, honest I did.”

“All right, all right. It’s up to you, Ronald. You’re old enough to be on your own now. You chose to leave the Academy and go to High School. So you must decide these things for yourself. If you feel able to go out tonight, that’s your responsibility.”

It was a responsibility he felt quite willing to accept. Why not? The French was a pipe; he knew that. The history was easy, too. The English theme could be done without trouble in his first study period. Of course the Latin was harder. Yes, that was harder. And Mrs. Taylor was plenty strict. True, the lessons were shorter than those at the Academy; but the one for tomorrow was really difficult, and she expected you to know it. It began
Quid nunc Catilina
. Not to be laughed off.

Oh, well. The thought of Sandra’s hair, blonde, down the back of her neck, and that rose-colored sweater, and the hammock behind the honeysuckle on the porch pushed the next day with its Latin class from his mind. He went upstairs.

Thank goodness! There was one clean shirt in his drawer, his best one, too. Then a necktie. His were a sorry, messy lot, creased and wrinkled. He tiptoed into his father’s room and took a brand-new tie, blue with gray stripes, a necktie that cost money. It matched his shirt perfectly and his best blue suit. Downstairs his mother was still talking, and he could hear words and sentences rising from the living room.

“...These girls today... never get into college, he’ll never...”

He wet his hair, brushed it, put on his suit coat, and in order to avoid more conversation and more complication did not go down the front way but sneaked out by the back stairs. This meant he could not go into the hall closet for his coat; but fortunately the evening was warm. Out the back door for his bike. Ordinarily with Dad in that mood he could have asked for the car and probably got it. However, what with the necktie and his mother’s unconstructive attitude, he decided it best to say nothing and remain unseen.