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CHAPTER THREE

Next morning, I got up, showered, dressed, spent half an hour on my hair, because I just couldn't’t get my cowlick to stay down. Looked like Old Faithful erupting in the middle of my part. I slathered some of Mom’s blue goo on it and let it dry. It turned to stone, but at least it wasn’t sticking straight up anymore.

            First period was science. Mrs. Kershaw let us sign yearbooks for part of class. I liked Mrs. Kershaw, but I had trouble with science. Most of it had nothing to do with writing, which was what I was interested in most. I sat with three other students at a black-slab table. Each table was set up for doing experiments, with a sink, water, and compartments underneath to keep our equipment.

            The main thing I hated about science was John Sheppard. He sat at my table. He was a jock, but a smart one. For him, science came easy. Like his life. His Dad owned some big engineering company. Big bucks. Girls swarmed him like flies to Shinola. He played the guitar pretty good, too—had his own band called Hot Gravy. If you wanted to know someone who had everything, John Sheppard would be a candidate. Brains, athletic and musical talent, money, girls, popularity. Only thing he didn’t have was something nobody would know about—unless you took a shower with him. We were in P.E. together. He always seemed so wary when it came to take one. He’d wait until everybody was done taking theirs, and then he’d come to the shower area, take off his shorts, step on the spongy foot pad that was supposed to disinfect your feet so you wouldn’t get athlete’s foot, and he’d stand facing a wall and take a short shower. When he was done, he’d walk with his hands down in front of his privates, grab a towel, wrap it around him and quickly go back to his locker. But I saw him. If these girls only knew. Not a single pubic hair. Bare as a ten-year-old’s. Most everybody else had a good patch growing down there. Not John Sheppard. In an odd way, it put life in perspective for me.

            John Sheppard had no idea I hated his guts, and I liked it that way. I handed him my yearbook and asked him to sign it. He found his picture, signed his name like a movie star across it, handed it back and returned to talking to Annie Quinlan.

            “Want me to sign yours, John?” I said, trying not to sound too eager.

            He didn’t turn towards me, but he said: “What do you think?”

            “You don’t ask to sign a yearbook,” Annie giggled. “God, Matt, you put people on the spot doing that.”

            “He signed mine.”

            “‘Cause you asked him. God.”

            John tossed it across the table. It slapped down in front of me.

            “Sign it if you want,” he said. “Only your picture.”

            I didn’t want to anymore. I wanted to rip the page out and make him eat it. Not that I could. He had a few pounds on me. And he lifted weights probably.

            Becky Foster, who sat at my table, rolled her eyes. She was a plain-looking girl with brown, frizzy hair who wore glasses, but I liked her. She had such a dry sense of humor I had to listen carefully to tell she wasn’t serious.

            To John, she said: “They actually fit your picture in that little box?”

            “What?”

            “In the yearbook.” She sat beside me, pulled his over to her, turned to John’s picture. “This box.”

            He didn’t get it. “What’s she talkin’ about?” he asked Annie. Annie shrugged. “Everybody’s picture got put in a box.”

            Becky glanced at me. Her lips folded tight. She tried not to laugh. John glanced at me, then back at Becky, over to Annie sitting across from him.

            “I just got it,” Annie said. “Becky, that’s mean.”

            “What?” John said.

            “She’s saying your head’s too big.”

            He leaned across the lab table, grabbed his yearbook. “Hardee-har-har.”

            Becky winked at me. It was the first time a girl had ever winked at me. She may as well have kissed me. Had the same reaction. I never considered how erotic a wink could be. I saw Becky Foster in a different way from that moment. And it was that wink that did it. A distinct attractiveness bled through her plain face. It was scary. You never see someone the way they really are, until they do something that seems completely out of character. Plain girls don’t wink. I knew it wasn’t a romantic wink, but it didn’t matter. For me, Becky Foster would forever be sexy.

            “I’m sorry, John,” Becky said, reaching for his yearbook. “Let Matt sign it.”

            John cocked his head to the right, thinking. Then let it flop to the left, still thinking. He sucked his teeth.

            “Can’t hurt,” he said and slid it over to me.

            “Gee thanks,” I said. Becky turned away. Probably so she wouldn’t react. She must have known how he made me feel.

            I found my picture. I signed my name below it. I knew when I handed it back he wouldn’t read it. One of his girlfriends’ pictures was next to mine. She hadn’t signed her picture. Maybe she wouldn’t. But if so, she’d read my personal note.

            John, you have everything. Well…except pubic hair.

* * *

            In choir, I sat with the girls. I was an alto. The other boys were tenors or basses. My voice hadn’t changed enough and with all the singing I’d done throughout my involuntary career as a P.K., I’d developed a range that included the ability to reach two F’s above middle-C—without resorting to a sissy falsetto.

            I loved choir. Not just for sitting with the girls. But it was one thing I did well, and one place where I was looked up to as a leader. Star quarterback, home-run hitter, free-throw thriller rolled into one. In fact, at the beginning of the year, Miss Roberts, the choir teacher—and a stone fox—made me the assistant choir director. She taught me how to conduct a choir. How to read music better, pull the parts together, and control the balance with a mere flutter of a hand, a finger to my lips. And she touched me a lot. Mostly on the arms and the face. Sometimes in showing me how to move my hands to the correct time pattern—two-four time, three-four time, four-four time. But sometimes, she touched my face, my back—my thigh once. She had these eyes, these black pearl eyes. Her eyebrows hung low in thin black lines made with a pencil, and she wore tight dresses, just above the knee, and bright red lipstick. And her tongue licked her lips when I talked to her. Maybe it was all innocent. Maybe she couldn’t help it. Why would a woman in her late twenties like boys my age? I kept asking myself that question. The Devil kept answering. And I liked what he had to say.

            That Tuesday afternoon, Miss Roberts sat at the piano, and I sat between Debbie Burnside and Georgina Wicket, who always smelled like acetone, because she worked after school in her parents’ print shop. My leg softly touched Debbie’s bare leg. She glanced at me, shifted in her seat, but didn’t move away. Miss Roberts watched over the top of the spinet piano.

            “Pay attention, Deborah, please.”

            Debbie sat up straighter. “Yes, ma’am.”

            “Altos, you have to come down on that E. Going up to it doesn’t work—you’ll sing flat. Listen how Matt does it. Matt, sing those three measures, beginning with the C-sharp. Watch, girls. He opens his mouth, drops his chin. He comes down on the note. Matt, go ahead.”

            I was both embarrassed and flattered by her choosing me from the group.

            “Come down, or goes down?” one of the boys in the back mumbled. Too loud, though. Everyone laughed. Miss Roberts heard the remark.

            She stood up, trained her eyes on the tenors and basses.

            “Who said that?” No one answered. “That was lewd and uncalled for,” she said. “Who said it?”

            No one answered. The girls turned around to stare icily at the boys.

            Debbie whispered, “They’re jealous.”

            I’m thinking, Of what? That I can sing like a girl? She read my mind.

            “You sing beautifully, and you don’t sound like one of us girls. You sound like...like Mike Love. You sing like a Beach Boy.”

            Miss Roberts folded her arms. “We’re not leaving today until whoever made that nasty remark apologizes to Matthew.”

            No one spoke up, but something about their expressions must have given the culprit away.

            “Victor,” Miss Roberts said. “It was you.”

            Victor Villanova was a bass. He was the biggest boy in the choir with the lowest voice, and a face like melted wax.

            “Come up here, Victor.” He obeyed. He smiled at everybody with his crooked teeth, pulled up his pants by the belt loops and faced the choir.

            “Sorry, Matt.” A snort escaped through his nose.

            “You think you’re a real gas, don’t you Victor?” Miss Roberts said, sitting down at the piano. “Face the choir, Victor. Sing the bass part, from the beginning, by yourself.” He was petrified. His eyes bored into me. He wanted to choke me. But he sang. And it was pitiful. He barely stayed on key. Reaching down to the lower notes, his chin mashed against his chest. He looked like a baboon burping and sounded like a bull moose. Miss Roberts winked at me. That was twice. Twice in one day that a female winked at me. First, Becky Foster in science, now Miss Roberts.  But this time the reaction was...well, bigger. Big enough that I folded my hands in my lap and hoped to God that Debbie Burnside wouldn’t notice. 

            When Victor finished, the whole tenor and bass sections applauded.

            “That’s enough of that, boys,” Miss Roberts scolded.

            As Victor passed by me, he threw daggers with his eyes.

            “Now, may we continue?” Miss Roberts asked. “Matthew. Demonstrate those measures.”

            I sang them easily, concentrating on my technique, pushing in with my abdominal muscles to create a smooth firm tone. When I finished, Debbie patted my hands, still folded in my lap. The vibration awakened the big reaction underneath. 

            “Kids, you have two more days before graduation, so study your parts at home. Practice in a mirror. Open those jaws.” She opened her mouth wide, reminding me of a striking rattlesnake. “We are, after all, the accompaniment to this commencement. We make it something more than just words.” The bell rang. “Let’s make this a memorable treat for the ninth-graders.”

            I stood up. Debbie put her hand on my arm.

            “See you tomorrow, Matt,” Debbie said. She hesitated.

            “Thanks for the nice things you wrote in my yearbook, Debbie.”

            “You’re welcome. I meant them.”

            We stood there a moment, both collecting our books from under our seats. Victor walked by, bumped my arm as I tucked my books under my armpit, shooting them out onto the floor.

            “Oh, golly,” he said, laughed and walked on with a pair of tenors.

            Debbie helped me pick them up. “Guy, what a fat creep,” she said.

            “No big deal.”

            She handed me my notebook. The rings had sprung open and papers flopped out.

            “Matthew,” Miss Roberts called. “Can I see you before you leave?”

            “Sure.” I turned back to Debbie. “Oh, about this summer. Maybe I can get my Dad to drop us off at the beach or something.”

            She nodded. “I’d like that. If he can’t, my brother drives.”

            “Where do you live?”

            “Porter Ranch.”

            Porter Ranch was where a new development in the northern San Fernando Valley. Her parents had money. That made things tricky. Money always made things tricky. Especially for a boy from a family that said money was the root of all evil. Well, Debbie Burnside was definitely not evil. But then, I hadn’t seen her yet in a bikini.

            She touched my shoulder and left class. I watched her leave, but my gaze was intercepted by Miss Roberts, leaning on the edge of the piano, a funny smirk on her face. The kind your mother gives you when you’ve done something really cute.

            “Deborah’s a very nice girl,” she said, folding her arms.

            “Yeah.”

            “You don’t have to get somewhere do you?”

            “I ride my bike home.”

            “Good. I want to talk to you about this summer. I’m organizing a chorale of singers—the best from all three grades—to travel to college campuses, convalescent hospitals, maybe some outdoor concerts in parks. We’re going to San Francisco, Lake Tahoe, San Diego, a bunch of places. It’ll be fun. And you’ll be with others who enjoy singing, take it seriously as you do. We’ll have a ball.” She clasped her hands under her chin. “Sound like something you’d want to do?”

            “How long?”

            “Two weeks.”

            That was a chunk of summer. But if Debbie went....

            “Is Debbie going?”

            “I didn’t ask her.”

            “Are you?”

            She hesitated, wetted her lips with her tongue, and then sighed.

            “Does it matter?”

            “I’d like her to go. She’s good.”

            “She’s fair, Matthew. I want the best to go.” Her hand cupped my chin, held my head up. “Besides,” she said, “you’d never keep your mind on your music with her around.”

            I didn’t say anything. Her thumb ran down my jawline as she pulled her hand away.

            “Think it over. Talk to your parents. You’ll have to come up with a hundred dollars to help pay for food and lodging.”

            That was my out. “A hundred?”

            “Yes.”

            “Boy, I don’t know. That’s a lot of money. She drummed her hand on the top of the piano, biting her lip. “My parents don’t have that kind of money.”

            “It’s a worthwhile investment, Matthew. I’m sure if you sell it—if you tell it in that way, your parents would let you go.”

            “Maybe.”

            She thought a moment. Finally, she said: “Tell you what. Whatever your parents can’t pay, I’ll make up the difference. How’s that? You can’t refuse that deal. Matthew, I need you to go. You’re very talented. If you don’t, who’ll assist me?”

            “I appreciate it, Miss Roberts.”

            “School’s almost over. Call me Alice.”

            “All right...Alice.” That sounded funny.

            She held out her hand. I looked at it for a second and realized she wanted to shake mine. I shook hands with her. It was a gentle grip. She held it much longer than I remembered was the usual hand-shake time. I hadn’t shaken too many ladies’ hands, so maybe it was different with them. Not maybe. It was.

            “Talk to your parents and let me know by Thursday. I have to make reservations. We leave right after July 4th.”

            I nodded, took my hand back.

            “See you tomorrow, Matthew.”

            “Bye.”

            As I went out the door, I thought she hissed. But it was only the sound of the gizmo on the door that kept it from slamming.

* * *

            I cut through the alley that ran behind Lassen Street on my bike as I always did. I was daydreaming about Debbie and me at Zuma beach, drinking Cokes, lying in the sun, bodysurfing. The alley ended at a field. I’d follow a worn path across it to Devonshire Street.

            When I got off my bike to walk it around the wooden barrier at the end of the alley, there were suddenly bikes and boys everywhere, blocking my way.

            Victor Villanova crossed his arms. His grin looked like a snarl. His teeth were as yellow as corn. All I could think at the moment was, Doesn’t he ever brush them? It was the wrong thing to be thinking. He uncrossed his arms and slugged me in the stomach.

            I couldn’t breathe. My knees buckled, and I dropped to the dirt. My bike fell on top of me, handlebars bashing me in the head. I gasped, thinking I’d never take another breath the way my stomach had collapsed.

            “That’s right, Matthew,” Victor said in a scratchy falsetto, “open that mouth real wide. Go down on that note. Get some air first.”

            Boys laughed. I rolled on my back. They stood around me, four of them, like heathens over a sacrifice.

            I didn’t know two of the boys. The other boy was Tommy Gillette, a ninth-grader who was always nice to me. When I looked at him, he stopped laughing, stuck his hands in his pockets.

            “Kick him,” one of the other boys said to him.

            “You kick him,” Tommy replied.

            “I don’t even know this pussy.”

            “Bobby, Matthew,” Victor introduced. “Matthew, Bobby. Now kick him.”

            I pulled my arms into my sides to protect myself, ready to cover my head if it became his target. But the boy named Bobby shook his head.

            The second boy, who was smaller than me, said:  “Can I kick him?”

            “Kick away,” Victor said.

            The second boy took a step back. I curled up, covered my head with my arms.

            “Kick him,” Tommy said, “and I’ll kick your ass from here to Hayvenhurst.”

            “But Victor said—”

            “I heard Victor, and I’m saying if you kick him, I’ll kick your ass, so if you want your ass kicked, go ahead, let him have it.”

            I took down my arms, looked up at the boy. He glanced down at me, then back at Tommy, over to Victor.

            Victor kicked me hard in the butt with the toe of his boot; I felt the pain in my teeth. I tried not to scream out, but the pain won.

            Tommy climbed over me, pushed Victor back. “You said you were going to whack him one to teach him a lesson. You already hit him.”

            “So what?”

            “So leave him alone.”

            “Don’t be such a pussy, man.”

            “Who you calling a pussy?”

            Victor hesitated. Tommy was bigger and older. He had a reputation for toughness. Victor backed down. But before he left, he said:           

            “Pleasure kickin’ your ass, punk. Come back soon.”

            The other two boys left with him on their bikes. When they’d gone, Tommy offered his hand. I took it, and he pulled me to my feet. I couldn’t stand upright. My tail bone was sore and straightening my back made the pain burn. How was I going to get home? I knew sitting on a bike seat would be difficult.

            “Sorry about that,” Tommy said.

            “About what?”

            “Victor.”

            I shrugged. I was mad, but I didn’t want him to know it. He’d saved me from a worse beating, but he’d allowed it to happen in the first place.

            I picked up my bike. Wheel was out of alignment, so I put it between my legs and twisted the handlebars until it straightened out. Tommy watched. He was uncomfortable, I could tell, but I was glad.

            “Saw you talking to Debbie Burnside yesterday in the hall,” he said like nothing had happened.

            I nodded, getting on my bike.

            He huffed air and looked around the empty field, like he’d find the right words buried out there somewhere and ask me to help him dig them up.

            My grandmother caught me stealing once. When we got to the car a few minutes later, she didn’t look at me. We sat in the front seat together and she acted like she hadn’t seen me stick the Clark bar in my jacket pocket. Then she said just three words. I’ll never forget how the words made me feel, how they made me think. So I said them to Tommy.

            “Shame on you.”

            His chin dropped to his chest, his hands twiddled together.

            I rode off across the field, feeling every rotation of the pedals. It was weird. The pain was welcome. A sick pride rushed through me. I’d taken a beating, didn’t cry, didn’t beg. I hadn’t said one word. And when I did say something, I said the right thing to the right person.

            As I reached the other side of the field, Tommy streaked to my side on his bike in a cloud of dust. He smiled at me.

            “You’re right,” he said.

            “Thanks.”