Yearbook (23 page)

Leonard Hauser was notified by Dr. Potter personally, making certain the Eagler would cover his remarks.

At two o’clock, an hour before the scheduled event, Dr. Potter met with Corky in his office.

“Have a seat. ‘’

Corky sat in front of the large desk. Dr. Potter stood at the window. The championship trophy sat on the sill, staring, appropriately enough, onto the athletic field.

“You know, of course, Waterfield has known few students of whom we’ve been more proud.’’ The principal patted the huge loving cup with affection.

Corky sat back and relaxed. “Thank you, Dr. Potter.”

“So it grieves me to have to discuss your English studies.”

“Sir?”

Dr. Potter opened a manila file. “Mrs. Bartlett reports you still haven’t handed in your paper on A Tale of Two Cities.”

Corky said nothing.

“She says you’ve done poorly on your last two tests and that you’ve missed classes. “

Corky sat up straight. “English came period before practice, Dr. Potter. I needed extra warm-up time.”

“We can appreciate that.” Leaning against the trophy, Dr. Potter cleaned his glasses. “But at Waterfield, studies must come first. “

Corky tried remaining calm. No one had said a word about classes, grades or book reports during football season. He assumed they were being lenient, letting him off the scholastic hook in return for nothing less than the trophy now holding up Dr. Potter’s elbow. “What happens now?” Corky asked.

“If we didn’t have such a high personal regard for you, Corky, I would have let Mrs. Bartlett handle this herself. But you are special to us and we want to see you going on to greater things.”

Corky looked at the floor.

The principal continued. “As such, I’ve convinced Mrs. Bartlett to give you until the end of this week to turn in that book report. If not, she’ll be obliged to flunk you.”

Corky looked up. Flunk me!?

“And if you flunk now, you won’t be able to take English Regents in June. You won’t graduate on time, won’t be able to start college football in the fall, and so on down the line. I’m afraid it’s that serious.” Dr. Potter put his glasses back on.

Corky’s hands were wet.

“So we expect to see that book report right away. Buckle down. Apply yourself. “

Corky wanted to punch pompous Potter right in his clean glasses. “I’ll take care of it, sir.” He stood to leave.

“That’s the Eagle spirit!”

At three o’clock, Dr. Potter held his press conference. Those present included Leonard Hauser, Amy, Guy, Ken Crawley and several faculty members.

Standing before the American flag, Dr. Potter announced that the propaganda sheet known as the Gadfly would not be tolerated at Waterfield. The articles on America’s racism, on the undertaxed rich and overtaxed poor, and in particular the one of Dr. Potter’s alleged policy of censorship were clearly the work of misinformed, Communist-inspired agitators.

Dr. Potter then announced he was assigning Ken Crawley to head a committee which would get to the bottom of this radicalism.

Amy wrote as fast as Dr. Potter spoke.

When the oration was finished, Guy was instructed to get a shot of the stalwart principal lighting a match and setting fire to the subversive “rag of filth.”

Leonard Hauser smiled. It was going even better than he’d imagined. All this publicity. The
Eagler
would now report the event in banner headlines, and his next
Gadfly
would be even more eagerly awaited.

As the two-sheet mimeographed circular burned in Dr. Potter’s crusading hands, Guy took pictures. Placing his camera case on the principal’s desk, he couldn’t help noticing an open manila file with the words
Carl Henderson, Jr.
typewritten on top.

While Potter gave his “Let me tell you what makes America great” speech, Guy pretended to put his camera equipment in order. At the same time, he read the report.

Corky had to be alone.

After leaving Dr. Potter’s office he ran past the front doors, straight to his Chevy. He cut his last-period class and spent the time racing around the back roads of town.

The car spat and backfired. His fingers squeezed the steering column as if the force of his grip might transfer some of his anger.

Not graduate on time? Impossible. That was for dummies, greasers, rejects.

Eyes straight ahead, he floored the pedal.

The ride didn’t help. He was still burning when he pulled into the garage.

“Now we’ll see!” Carl hollered good-naturedly from the living room as Corky walked into the house. “Now we’ll see who’s the real boss!”

Shit! Corky hung his parka on the coat rack. Monday. The old man’s day off. He would be in a playful mood!

He was. Hurrying into the hallway, Carl put up his dukes. “Let’s go!”

Corky held his breath. Nothing doing. Not now. I’ve had enough for one afternoon. He quickly raised both hands above his head, giving up. “No thanks. You win, Dad. You’re the wheel of the house. It’s all yours.”

“One quick tumble!” Carl smacked his lips. “Feeling my oats today, boy. Gonna lick you good. “

“Not me, Dad. I’m not going to fight. “ Corky walked away.

Carl reached out and slapped him across the back of the neck. “Hey, big shot! Wassa matter? I’m not good enough? I taught you to fight and I can still whip your ass! Don’t you get uppity with me!”

Standing still, his back to his father, Corky closed his eyes, hoping he could contain the dynamite keg smoldering inside. When his father next shoved him from behind, it blew up.

Whirling, he grabbed his father by the front of his shirt. “No more!” he shouted. “I don’t want you touching me! Not ever again, goddammit!” Without thinking, he pushed the huge man to the floor.

A horrified Dora ran in and went straight to her husband.

Corky looked down at his father, sprawled on the rug, and was immediately sorry. But before he could apologize Carl yelled, “Get out! Get outta my house! You better be the hell out of here before I get up or you’ll never walk again, you son of a bitch! That’s a promise!”

Ripping his parka off the rack, Corky stormed out.

Dora shook her head. “You all right?”

“Damn right, I’m all right!” Carl scrambled to his feet, Dora tried to help.

“Get away! I’m no cripple. The day some punk eighteen-year-old can take me is the day I quit living, you understand me? Hell, I would’ve creamed him, except he took me by surprise. Let him push me again! Let him dare. Big star! He doesn’t know who he’s fooling with!”

“Carl, you’re too excited—”

“I am not!” A vein on Carl’s forehead throbbed as he screamed, “At least he got one thing right… I’m the wheel of this house!”

Walking out of Dr. Potter’s office, Amy asked Guy to meet her after school.

Guy was sure she wanted to talk about the Gadfly. He was wrong.

“Where shall we go?” asked a sprightly Amy, locking her arm around his as they hopped down the front steps.

“How about Teahouse of the August Moon?”

“That dreary spot? Poo. Let’s go to the Sugar Bowl. Hang out for a while.”

“Sugar Bowl?” Guy was amazed. “You hate it,”

“Says who? It’s not without its quaintness. Besides, von never know who you might run into.”

Guy shook his head. “Amy Silverstein, just another bobby-soxer …”

“Well, maybe those dopey girls have more on the ball then I thought.”

“Sickening.”

Guv and Amy entered the Sugar Bowl. She took a fast look around the crowded hangout. “Gee. American bandstand, Pat Boone and Clearasil. There is a teen-age heaven, after all.”

“Get a hold of yourself, Amy.” Guy led the way to a window booth in the front.

“It’s all so romantic!” She sat down.

“Thought you said sentiment w as dead!”

“So I did. Well, I guess it’s time for a renaissance!”

“All right. Enough of this boy-meets-girl crap. What about the
Gadfly?”

“What about it?” Ann was vague.

“Aren’t y ou going to get in trouble?”

“Certainly not,” she said, looking from table to table. “Potsy Potter doesn’t really care about us. He just wants to hear himself talk. And Ken Crawley knows we re behind it, but he wouldn’t say anything to incur the wrath of the fourth estate. Like any politician, he needs good press.”

“It’s all too confusing for me.”

“Me too. Let’s have a hot fudge sundae!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m in training.”

“Suit yourself.” Amy took a pencil from her purse and was about to doodle Corky’s name across the paper place mat when she looked out the window and saw him pulling into a parking spot. “Omigod! He’s here!”

“Who?”

“Him-Who! I’ve got to comb my hair. Fast lipstick job!” Amy bolted from the booth. “It’s times like these I wish Greta Garbo had published her beauty secrets.”

Corky slammed the Chevy door and stormed into the Sugar Bowl. Guy waved to him.

Corky rushed over. “You seen Ro-Anne?” “Nope.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait! Where you running?”

“Gottafind her!”

“But I have to talk to you!”

“It can wait!” Corky hurried from the shop.

Guy left the booth and ran after him, shouting, “Hold it!”

Corky was jumping into his car as Guy caught up. “Listen. I saw your report file in Potter’s office today. You may be in trouble!”

Corky tapped the steering wheel impatiently, then started the engine. “Get in!”

“But I left Amy back—”
“Get in!”
Guy got in.

The Chevy roared off, down Poste Avenue.

She’s going to kill me, thought Guy. She’ll come out of the bathroom looking her worst best, neither of us will be there and she’ll never speak to me again.

“Let’s have it, kid!” Corky demanded.

No time to talk in circles, Guy gave it to him straight. “You got English problems.”

Corky put pressure on the pedal. “You mention this to anyone, anyone at all kid, it’s your ass!”

“Come on. You think I’d ever do anything like that? All I want is to help.”

“Help? How, kid? No way I’m gonna be able to get through that dumb Dickens by the end of this week. Impossible. It’s a fucking shitty world is what it is.”
“Wrong!
I got the whole thing figured out.”

Corky pulled the car to the side of the road. “What the hell you talking about?”

“It’s all very simple, really.” “Yeah? How?”

Guy smiled knowingly. He had the answer in one word. “Amy.”

THIRTY-ONE
 

EVELYN SILVERSTEIN OPENED THE
door early Tuesday evening and knew it was a miracle. After all these years, the answer to a mother’s prayers.

“Hi, I’m Corky Henderson.”

Evelyn unleashed her hospitality. “Please come into my living room. French Provincial. Such an elegant style …”

In the bathroom, Amy hastily applied finishing touches of a new mascara. It was so easy that afternoon when the woman at the five-and-dime demonstrated.

Amy followed the steps as shown and now looked like a racoon. Damn. Frustrated, she fast slapped cold cream on to remove her blackened eyes. That Corky was already in the living room being devoured by Evelyn sharpened her need to get out there and rescue him.

“I can’t imagine what’s keeping her.” Evelyn smiled girlishly. “Amy’s always punctual. What can I get you while we wait? A cold drink? Fruit? There’s still some layer cake—chocolate.”

Corky squirmed. “Nothing, thanks.”

“I bought it Thursday, so it might be a bit stale, anyway. Cookies?”

“No. Nothing, thank you. “

Freshly scrubbed, Amy appeared. “I see you’ve met my mother.”

“Indeed!” Evelyn confirmed. “Such a large, strapping lad, Amy. I was wondering how one starts to feed it.”

“One doesn’t, mother. It comes already nourished.” She turned to Corky. “Shall we go to my room?”

Amy had spent the afternoon tidying, and she and Corky now sat on straight-back chairs, staring across an uncluttered desk.

Amy handed him a pen and pad, opened the book and read aloud, “ It was the best of times, it was the worst of times/ “ She looked up. “What does that say to you?”

Corky shrugged. “Nothing. It’s a stupid contradiction.”

“Precisely.” As she then slowly explained why the author had chosen to begin his story with a series ofopposites, the door slowly swung open and in with a trayful of goodies came Evelyn.

“Thinking always makes
me
hungry. Figured you two might want to nosh. Nothing fancy. Two beautiful bananas, peanuts, raisins, and if this isn’t enough for hearty appetites, please feel free to go through the fridge yourselves. I can also cut open a beautiful ripe pineapple if you’ll eat it.”

Amy stared at the ceiling while Evelyn placed the tray on her desk.

“I’m watching television with your father, should you need me.” Evelyn left the room and, for the first time ever, closed the door tight behind.

Alone at last!” Amy joked.

Corky pointed to Dickens.

Twenty minutes later Amy had synopsized the plot and social significance of the classic. Which was what she’d agreed to do when Guy asked if she would help Corky out of his dilemma.

Now Corky wanted more.

“How will you remember what I’ve just said?” she asked. “You haven’t taken a single note.”

Corky placed a hand on her knee. Amy tried to ignore it. “Now tell me something about Madame Defarge. “

“I’d rather not.”

“Why?”

Corky popped a few peanuts into his mouth. “Bores me.”

“That may well be. But you’ve got to know the story before you can expect to write any kind of—”

She didn’t get to finish what she was saying because he put his hand behind her neck and brought his mouth to her.

Their lips met, reunited for the first time since New Year’s, mixing her lip gloss with the salt of his peanuts.

He could feel her submission as her back gave in, her shoulders relaxed and, from somewhere deep within, there surfaced a delicate sob of pleasure.

This was it, Amy realized. Ecstasy, no matter how brief, no matter the length of time between encounters, was most assuredly worth the investment. The piper had to be paid.