Chain Letter (8 page)

“Thanks,” Tony muttered, not sure if he was being insulted. The car heaved back and
charged forward, jumping the first speed bump, heading toward the steep exit at the
rear of campus.

“Take care!” Neil called out his window.

Tony was crossing the parking lot, aiming for the boys’ locker room, when Joan popped
out of the metal shop, striding toward him. Joan was the only girl in the school taking
metal shop. She was fond of making heavy brass necklaces and stainless steel arm bands.
Wearing an assortment of the metal armor, tight red shorts and a loose purple blouse,
she looked ready for fun and games. Tony was not happy to see her.

His lunch last week with Alison had been great. She’d been so interesting to talk
with. He had been surprised. He had gone out with a number of girls and had always
viewed them as people—not necessarily an inferior class, you understand—who were there
to have fun with. The thing was, they always treated him as a celebrity. Joan, for
all her bizarre quirks, was not an exception. Indeed, more than any girl he’d known,
she saw him as some kind of sex god; that was beginning to annoy him.

On the drive to the mall, Alison had seemed to fit the standard mode. She told him
how she had seen every touchdown he had ever thrown, how he would undoubtedly be drafted
by the NFL in his freshman year in college and how Steven Spielberg would probably
be looking to use his face in a movie sometime soon. Then she must have sensed his
lack of interest for she settled down and started to talk like a
real person
who had not been preprogrammed by MTV and
People
magazine. She was so funny! Every bit as witty as Kipp and a hell of a lot better
looking. They had talked about everything except football and the Caretaker, and after
taking her back to school,
he had found himself replaying in his head over and over again their time together.
He’d read the literature—he had the classical symptoms of infatuation.

He hadn’t spoken to Alison since. Neil might get upset. Joan might kill him.

“Tony!” Joan said, kissing him on the lips before he could defend himself. “Have you
been avoiding me?”

“Of course not.”

“Liar.” She poked him in the gut. “Tell me why and tell me straight.”

“I’m in love with Kipp.”

“So you’re gay?” She asked slyly, leaning close. “Can you prove that you’re not? Say,
in about two hours? My parents . . . ”

Lightning hasn’t struck yet.

Something large and loud crashed.

The explosion came from the direction of the steep exit his friends had just used.

Tony forgot about Joan. He was running the sprint of his life. No tumbleweeds obstructed
his path. The sun was out and he knew where he was going. No sharp edge of the road
tried to catch him looking. Still, he was on
that
road again, feeling the same time-warping panic.

At the crest of the hill that fell beneath his feet at a forty-five degree angle,
he ground to a halt. The car had plowed into the fifteen-foot brick wall that theoretically
shielded a neighboring residential area from the noisy antics of the student body.
The front end was an accordion, and cracked bricks littered the ruined roof. The windshield
was gone. Tony covered the rest of the way at a slow walk, afraid of what he would
find.

Neil was picking glass out of his hair. Kipp was changing the station on the silent
radio. “Do you want a ride home, too?” he asked casually.

Tony discovered he had been holding his breath and released the stagnant air. No,
this was not that night. This was only a warning. “What happened?” he asked.

“My brakes took a holiday on the hill,” Kipp said, demonstrating the mechanical failure
by pushing the unresisting brake pedal to the floor.

“Coincidence?”

“I don’t think so,” Neil said, putting his hand to a bloody spot on his forehead.

“Are you OK?” Tony asked.

Neil nodded. “Just banged my head. I should have had my seat belt on. I’ll be all
right.”

Kipp and Neil carefully extricated themselves from the front seat and sat on the curb.
Tony could see others approaching in the distance—Joan included—and wanted to make
a quick inspection before he had an audience. Crouching to the ground, wary of the
glass shards, he scooted under the back wheels. The front tires were totaled but he
would be able to see if the rear brakes had been tampered with. At first he was confused—relieved,
in a sense—to see that the screws that bled
the brakes had not been loosened. Then he noticed the dark red fluid smeared over
the lines themselves. A closer inspection revealed that they had been minutely punctured.
The saboteur had been clever. Had the screws simply been loosened, the fluid would
have run out the first time Kipp had pumped his brakes and he would have become suspicious.
As it was, with the tiny diameter of the holes, he had had to hit the brakes four
or five times—about the same number of speed bumps between where Kipp
always
parked and the hill—before losing them altogether.

“Were they fixed?” Kipp called.

“Yeah.” Tony pulled himself back into daylight. From the expression on his face, Kipp
could have just finished tea with his mother. Neil, on the other hand, looked like
he was about to be sick. “The lines were punctured—a nail, maybe even a pin. Didn’t
you notice them slipping?”

“Nope. My favorite song was on the radio.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Tony said, “you both could have been killed. And look at the
mess your car is in.”

“I can see,” Kipp replied calmly. “But neither of us
was
killed, and I have insurance. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not taking this lightly.
I have another calculus exam tomorrow, and I think I’ll flunk it.” He stood, brushed
off his pants. “Now if you will excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom. Hitting walls
at forty miles an hour always does that to me.”

Tony watched him leave with a mixture of admiration and exasperation. He helped Neil
to his feet. Neil’s head
had stopped bleeding but he must have banged his leg. His limp was much worse. “You
should just rest here,” Tony said. “Somebody has probably called the paramedics.”

Neil shook his head, his arms trembling. “I hate doctors, I don’t want to see them.
I only want to get to a bathroom.”

“Neil . . . ”

“Tony, please?” he pleaded, adding quietly, “I think I peed in my pants.”

Tony tore off his shirt and wrapped it around his friend’s waist. “I’ll help you,
don’t worry. I have extra sweats in my locker that are too small. You’ll be OK.”

“Thank you,” Neil whispered, his eyes moist.

They huddled across the street. An ambulance could be heard wailing in the distance.
Half the track team was pouring down from the stadium and Joan was leading a contingent
of teachers and students out of the parking lot. “You both got off lucky,” Tony said.
“Your face could have gone through the windshield. Kipp could have cracked his skull
on the steering wheel. It’s a good thing he started wearing his seat belt.”

Neil nodded weakly. “It’s a good thing Brenda refused to get in the car.”

At the foot of the hill, they stopped and stared at each other.

B
renda handed Alison the early edition of the
Times
the following Monday morning and sat down without comment beside her in the fifth
row of the theater. Alison opened to the classified section and searched for a minute
before finding the ad.

B.P. Tell Mr. H. Worst Director World Front Everyone

“You cannot tell Mr. Hoglan that,” Alison said, not really surprised. This was only
number three, but in a queer sort of way, she was already getting used to the Caretaker’s
messages. “It would hurt his feelings.”

“I’m not worried about his feelings. I’m worried about getting kicked off the play.”

“But you hate playing Essie.”

“How can you say that? Or are you just so anxious to run the whole thing?”

“Right. I’d look real cute on stage answering my own questions.” Alison was getting
a mite sick of Brenda’s jealousy. “So, are you going to do it?”

“Do I have a choice? I don’t want a brick wall to fall on me.” Brenda glanced at the
door, their sleepyhead cast stumbling in followed by their bright-eyed teacher. She
added, “I just hope the jerk gives me half an excuse to chew him out.”

With the opening night of
You Can’t Take It with You
rapidly approaching, Mr. Hoglan wanted them to run through all of act one today,
finishing the other two acts Tuesday and Wednesday morning. Everyone seemed comfortable
with their lines. Unfortunately, Fran had yet to return the props—God knew what she
was doing with them. So far, Fran had been able to stall Mr. Hall. She didn’t want
to repaint Teddy until she was sure the Caretaker was through enjoying the goat. Kipp
thought she should go ahead with the job, collect the money, get another command to
restyle it as a pig, receive another request to fix it, and keep collecting the money.
Fran did not think that was funny.

Alice did not appear on stage until approximately ten minutes into the play so Alison
sat in the seats not far from Mr. Hoglan and waited to see if Brenda had the guts
to carry through. Since there were few nondrama students present, she briefly wondered
how the Caretaker would know if Brenda
had committed the foul deed or not. Then she had the disturbing idea that the Caretaker
must
be present. She scrutinized the six people unconnected with the play who were watching
the rehearsal—three girls, three guys—and didn’t recognize a single one. They must
be either freshmen or sophomores, aspiring actors, too young, so it would seem, to
be behind such a complex scheme. Then she realized that if Brenda did tell Mr. Hoglan
off, the whole school would know about it by break, and the rest of the city by lunch.
One way or another, if he or she had listening ears, the Caretaker would know what
had gone down.

One thing you had to give Brenda, she didn’t hesitate. She had hardly appeared on
stage when she began to do Essie’s idiotic stretching exercises in an unusually obscene
manner—spread-eagled and the like. Mr. Hoglan called for a halt.

“Brenda,” he said kindly, waddling his way to the front, tugging thoughtfully at his
gray beard, not knowing he was about to have his professional qualifications severely
questioned. “This is not an audition for
Hair.
Why are you being so . . . suggestive?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Brenda said.

Mr. Hoglan did not like to argue. “Could you please perform Essie’s limbering exercises
as you have done for the last three weeks?” He turned back toward his spot in the
last row. Brenda stopped him with a word.

“No.”

Mr. Hoglan paused. “What did you say?”

“I’ll do them the way I feel is best. You’re the one who’s always telling us to be
natural on stage. Well, that’s exactly what I’m doing, letting it all hang out. Although
I don’t know why I listen to you at all. To tell you the truth, I think you’re the
worst director in the entire world.”

Fine
, Alison thought, she had got the line out. Now if she could tactfully withdraw, Mr.
Hoglan might let it pass.

But either Brenda thought the Caretaker would want more blood or else she really was
speaking her mind; and when Brenda started on the latter, a brick wall couldn’t have
shut her up. Alison began to squirm in her seat.

“Brenda,” Mr. Hoglan said, startled, “that’s very unkind of you. I think you should
apologize.”

“This is a free country. I can speak my mind. You have your tastes and I have mine.
And our tastes are far, far apart. Of course, I’m not a perfect Essie. I was never
meant to play such a dumb cluck. But you said I didn’t ‘have the right look for Alice.’
What’s that supposed to mean? Alice is pretty. I’m pretty. So why did you pick Alison
over me? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re a talentless, pompous, burned out—”

“Enough!” Mr. Hoglan said sharply, his red cheeks puffing up like a beaver’s. Alison
felt terrible for him. “Since that is how you feel, young lady, your part will go
to someone more appreciative. Please excuse yourself from the room.”

Brenda swallowed painfully, lowering her head, realizing
she had let herself get carried away. But as she trudged down the stage steps, passing
the instructor, she did not stop to apologize. She walked straight for the door. Alison
flew after her, catching her in the hallway. Tears were forming at the corners of
Brenda’s eyes but she would not let herself cry.

“Are you OK?” Alison asked.

“I’ll live.” Then she stopped and gave a lopsided smile. “How was I?”

Alison put an arm around her shoulder. “It was a great performance. I’m sure the Caretaker
would be proud.”

· · ·

Tony asked Alison on a formal date the day after Brenda’s parents grounded their daughter
for two weeks for shooting her mouth off. The proposal happened under fairly trite
circumstances. They were passing in the hallway and she just happened to drop all
her books. He stopped to help, and when she was all in one piece and through thanking
him, he asked if she was busy Friday night. She did it again. She said “yes” when
she meant “no.” But he got the picture.

Alison dressed for the date with care, several times in fact, hampered by a lack of
information on what Tony had planned. She donned an expensive flowered dress, squeezed
into a pair of tight jeans, finally settling on what seemed a compromise, a green
plaid skirt and a light turtlenecked sweater. She worked on her makeup for an hour
and discovered when she was cover girl perfect that she was allergic to an ingredient
in a previously
untried blush—she couldn’t stop sneezing. She was washing it all off when she saw
Tony’s Ford Tempo cruising up her deserted block. She was lucky to get on her lipstick.

Tony charmed her mother and reassured her father, and still Alison was glad when they
were out of the house and seated in his car. He was wearing dress slacks but an undistinguished
short sleeved shirt, and she decided their attire was fairly matched. The upholstery
had a fresh new smell.