“Congratulations.”
“Yes, well, I was wondering if you would do me the honor of accompanying me. As my date.”
There was no way, Mary thought, she would accompany Vernon. Anywhere. Ever.
Keeping her tone exceedingly polite, Mary replied, “Vernon, that is such a kind invitation. I appreciate it very much. However, I respectfully decline.”
Vernon looked confused. He glanced away, obviously thinking hard. Then he looked back at her. “Why not?” he asked, the forced civility having been dropped.
Mary gave him a level gaze. “Because I don’t want to.”
Vernon stared at her for several seconds. She could see his mood darken. “What is it with you?” he finally asked, annoyance in his voice. “Any girl at this school would jump at the chance to go to this party with me. It’s the regional championship, for god’s sake. Why wouldn’t you want to be there? With me?”
Unable to resist, Mary asked, “Do you really have that high an opinion of yourself?”
“Don’t you?” he fired back immediately.
“The answer is no, Vernon. Thank you. But, no.”
His expression soured. “You stuck up bitch.”
Jon was halfway out of his seat. Mary gave him a direct look and shook her head. Keeping her voice light, she said, “Sticks and stones, Vernon. Sticks and stones.”
Vernon stared at her, breathing hard. Jon, thank God, sat back, but he looked alert.
“Well, goodness, Vernon,” she said, as if they were at a garden party, “it was nice talking to you. But, really, you should get inside before you catch a cold.”
He continued looking at her for a long moment. Then he put both hands on the table and violently pushed himself back, knocking over the bench on which he’d been seated. Without a word, he turned and stalked to the cafeteria door, where he grabbed the handle and yanked it open. Sam, who had obviously been leaning against the door, came stumbling out past him.
“Well, ok,” Sam said, flustered. “Thank you.”
Vernon passed through and slammed the door behind him. Sam looked at Mary with a questioning look.
Mary shook her head and gave a slight wave of one hand. “Everything’s fine,” she said, as much to Jon as to Sam.
#
Monday had been an odd day at school. On Saturday evening, the basketball team had, to the shock of everyone, lost in the regional championship game, a heart-breaking defeat for the second year in a row. The basketball players were uncharacteristically subdued. Mary had heard that Mr. Spitzman had not even shown up at school.
Gwenda was distraught. Apparently, Billy had taken the loss particularly hard and was refusing to have anything to do with anyone. And that, at least for the moment, included Gwenda. She had come to Mary and Sam in tears after school. They were in Sam’s bedroom in the apartment that she and her mother shared above the beauty shop her mother owned and operated.
“I’ve never seen Billy like this,” Gwenda said.
Sam handed her another tissue. “You know he’ll get over it.”
Gwenda blew softly into the tissue, and then, folding it, she used it to dab her eyes. “I guess,” she said. “It’s just that he hurts so bad, and I hurt for him.”
Mary leaned forward, put a hand on Gwenda’s knee and squeezed lightly. “That just means you’re meant to be with him.”
Gwenda thought about that for a moment. Then she nodded and said, “I guess I am meant to be with him. And he’s meant to be with me. Really, we’re so perfect for each other.” She smiled weakly. “When we’re not together, I just don’t feel as happy as I do when we are.”
“There you go,” Mary said. “You just need to give Billy a little time to get over the disappointment. He will. Soon enough, everything will be back to normal.”
“You think?” Gwenda asked, hopefully.
“Absolutely.”
Gwenda dabbed her eyes again. Taking a deep breath, she looked around the bedroom. “You know, it’s been such a long time since we’ve been together like this. It’s nice.” She looked at Mary and Sam. “I’ve been so wrapped up with Billy, I don’t even know what’s been going on with you two.”
Mary and Sam looked at each other and shrugged.
Sam said, “You haven’t missed much. I’ve been busy with the school play.” She looked at Mary. “And, of course, Mary’s turned into the happiest person on the planet.”
Gwenda turned to Mary. “Really? What’s happened?”
Mary shook her head. “Nothing.”
Gwenda looked at Sam.
“Yep,” Sam said, “that’s pretty much all I’ve gotten out of her myself. I’ve concluded she must have had a lobotomy.”
Returning her attention to Mary, Gwenda peered into her eyes. After a long moment, she said, slowly, “No, that’s not it. It’s a boy.”
“See, that’s what I thought, too,” Sam said. “But it would have to be the most top secret thing in the history of romance, because I’ve never seen her with any boys.”
Gwenda had not taken her eyes off Mary. “It is, isn’t it?”
Mary felt her cheeks flush.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” She was boring in now.
Mary looked away.
“Ah, hah,” Gwenda declared triumphantly. “I am right.”
“She is?” Sam asked.
Mary didn’t reply.
“You little devil,” Sam exclaimed. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
Now both Gwenda and Sam were looking at her. Mary thought about what she might say to cover things up. Then she realized they’d see through anything that wasn’t true. After a long pause, she gave a slight nod of her head.
“Oh my goodness,” Sam said, excitedly. “Out with it. Now.”
Mary looked down at her hands, then back at her two friends. “You have to swear to keep this a secret,” she said.
Both girls nodded.
Mary took a deep breath. “I’ve been seeing Jon Meyer for the past two months.”
“The Jewish boy?” blurted Gwenda.
Sam was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded. “That makes sense.”
“But he’s Jewish,” Gwenda insisted.
Sam turned to Gwenda. “What difference does that make?”
Gwenda looked confused. “I… I don’t know. I guess,” she hesitated, looking back and forth at Mary and Sam. “Well, maybe…” Brow knitted, she looked away, chewing on her lip. Finally, she turned back. “I guess it really doesn’t matter?”
“That’s right,” Sam said, turning back to Mary, reaching out and taking Mary’s hands in hers. “What’s important is that Mary is happy.” She looked intently at Mary. “And you are happy aren’t you?”
Mary nodded. “Very much.”
“Then I’m happy for you,” Sam said.
Tentatively, Gwenda reached out. Mary removed one hand from Sam’s, grasped one of Gwenda’s, and pulled it toward her so that they were all holding hands. Gwenda put her other hand on top, and they all three laughed.
#
When the boys gathered for gym class on Tuesday, there was uncertainty as to whether Mr. Spitzman would show. He’d not been at school on Monday, and nobody seemed to know where he was.
They milled about in the gym just outside the locker room. After a few minutes, a door slammed, and the boys all stopped and turned at the same time. Mr. Spitzman had emerged from his office and was walking toward them, an equipment bag in his hands.
He reached them, dropped the bag on the floor and planted his feet.
To Jon, the man looked horrible. His eyes were bloodshot. His face was haggard, and it looked as if it had a green tinge to it.
“Listen up,” Mr. Spitzman announced, his voice sounding hoarse and gravely. “Today, you boys are going to learn about boxing.”
Jon perked up.
“I’m going to need a volunteer,” he continued. He pointed at Jon. “Meyer, you just volunteered.”
Surprised, Jon stepped forward. It wa
s the first time in months the teacher had even acknowledged him.
The man reached into the bag, rummaged around a bit, then pulled out a pair of old boxing gloves. He threw them at Jon. “Put these on.” He pointed to Doug Larson. “Larson, you help him tie the laces.”
Jon slipped the gloves on. They felt the same as the gloves he’d been using at Ben’s. Doug stepped over, and Jon turned his hands palms up. Doug pulled the laces tight and started to tie a knot. “No,” Jon said, quietly, “like you were tying your shoes.”
Doug looked at him, surprised, but he did as Jon instructed. When he was done, Jon tested the gloves, punching his fists together. They felt good. He looked at Mr. Spitzman, who was in the process of having a pair of gloves tied by Cyrus Clayton.
“All right,” the teacher said, smacking his gloves together, “pay attention.” He pointed a glove at Jon. “Meyer, stand like this,” and he adopted a boxing stance. Jon did as he was told.
“Now,” he continued, “there are four basic punches. The first is the jab, which, if you’re right handed, you make with your left hand,” and he waved his left hand. “Let me show you.”
He crouched in a boxer’s stance. Without warning, he snapped his left hand and caught Jon square on the nose with a hard punch. Jon staggered backwards and almost fell. He was just barely able to keep his feet under him and retain his balance. He straightened and shook his head to clear it. When he rubbed his forearm under his nose, it came away smeared with blood.
Jon could hear murmuring among the other boys.
“You have something to say, Larson?” Spitzman asked.
“No sir,” Doug said, immediately.
“How about you, Morris. It looked like you might have something to say.”
“No. No, sir.”
“Good.” The man returned his attention to Jon. “Assume your position.”
Jon took a boxer’s stance, again. This time, however, he was fully alert, his eyes on the teacher’s chest.
“The next punch,” Spitzman announced, “is the left hook,” and, with the word “hook,” he threw a vicious left aimed at the side of Jon’s head that, had it connected, would certainly have sent Jon to the floor and might have knocked him out. However, Jon was ready for it. Without dropping his guard, he leaned his head back. Spitzman’s fist sailed harmlessly by and he staggered after it.
There were audible snorts from the other boys. The man regained his balance and looked hard at the group for several seconds. Apparently unable to single anyone out, he rolled his shoulders and turned back to Jon. There was undisguised anger on his face now.
“The next punch,” he began, but he was already throwing a straight right directly at Jon’s chin. Jon moved his head slightly to the left and easily slipped it. Again, Spitzman staggered.
Now there were open guffaws from the boys. Straightening, Spitzman moved his head as though stretching his neck muscles. He ignored the other boys and looked at Jon with a baleful expression.
“All right. You want to go? Let’s go.”
He crouched in an alert stance, his head moving side to side. The other boys had fallen quiet.
Spitzman stepped forward with a jab that Jon easily deflected. The man danced to his right. Jon shifted his feet, but held his ground. Spitzman tried a quick left-right combination, but Jon parried it and, shuffling quickly, re-established his position. He had yet to throw a punch, biding his time as Ben had taught him.
Spitzman looked frustrated. He feigned a move to his right, then bounced back, looking for an opening. Jon wouldn’t give him one.
They circled each another, the look of frustration on the man’s face deepening by the moment. Just to establish the range, Jon threw a couple of jabs. Spitzman blocked them both, but, in the course of doing so, he left his guard down. If he had wanted to, Jon could have attacked, but he held back.
Finally, Spitzman stepped in with a ferocious volley. Nothing connected squarely, but it was clear he wasn’t pulling any punches. Jon pivoted away, moving lightly on the balls of his feet. He knew now this was for real. He watched for an opening.
Spitzman gave him one right away. The teacher snapped a couple of jabs, but Jon could see he’d cocked his right arm and was ready to throw a hard right. Jon waited patiently for it. Spitzman drew his right hand back slightly, then lunged forward. Instead of slipping the punch by moving to the left, Jon pivoted on his left foot and brought his right foot around a hundred and eighty degrees. Spitzman went sailing by like a bull passing a matador, and, as he did, Jon clipped him on the jaw with a left hook.
The punch staggered the man, and it was a testament to his athleticism that he didn’t go down. Spitzman turned, enraged, and threw a another hard right. This one Jon blocked with his right glove and, while Spitzman’s elbow was down, Jon came over the top with another left hook to the chin. Then, for good measure, Jon pivoted his body and, throwing his entire weight behind it, gave the man a hard shot to the stomach.
Instinct told Jon to jump back, and he did so just in time to avoid being splattered with the vomit that came spewing out of Spitzman’s mouth, soaking the man’s legs and feet. As he watched, the teacher’s shoulders heaved a second time, and he deposited another bilious load down his front.
Jon slowly lifted one of his gloves, grabbed the end of the lace between his teeth, and released the knot. He slid the glove off, undid the other lace, and removed the second glove. He tossed both gloves in the general direction of the equipment bag lying a few feet away. Then he turned and began walking toward the locker room.
Between Jon and the door stood Caleb Pratt and Billy Hamilton. Jon walked straight up to the two boys, stopped and arched his eyebrows. Silently, they each took a step to the side, clearing a path. Calmly, Jon stepped between them and continued to the door leading to the locker room. With his hand on the knob, he turned and looked back. Spitzman was still bent over, hands on his knees, his head drooping and a long, viscous line of drool hanging from his mouth. The other boys were all looking at Jon. Without a word, Jon opened the door and passed through.
10
The school parking lot took longer than usual to empty out on the Friday before spring break. There was a general sense of festivity in the air, the prospect of time off lightening the mood. Students lingered, sharing plans or making arrangements to get together during the upcoming week.
Vernon King sat in the cab of his father’s pickup truck. Billy Hamilton was next to him in the passenger seat. They were waiting for Jeff Fletcher, who had been sent to the principal’s office for talking during study hall.
“You doing anything special this week?” Billy asked.
“Not really,” Vernon said, with a shrug. “I might give Darlene a shot. She’s been hanging around a lot.” He turned and gave Billy a salacious wink. “I think she’s ready for me.”
“Really? Darlene?”
“Why not? A man’s got to do what he’s got to do.”
Billy chuckled.
“How about you?” Vernon asked. “You and Gwenda, right?” He waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive way.
“What?” Billy said, then he immediately shook his head. “No, Gwenda’s not like that.”
“Not at all?”
Billy’s cheeks reddened slightly.
“That’s what I thought,” Vernon said, with a coarse laugh. He returned his attention to the front of the school building. The door opened, but, instead of Jeff, Mary Dahlgren emerged and began walking down the steps. She was carrying a couple of books that she held against her chest. She smiled and waved to someone in the parking lot.
“Now there’s a skirt I wouldn’t mind getting under,” Vernon said, tipping his head in Mary’s direction. “Problem is, I think she’s one of those girls who’s not interested in guys at all, if you know what I mean.”
Billy looked at Mary and shook his head, chuckling slightly. “Nope.”
Vernon looked sharply at Billy. “What?”
Billy winced. “Forget it.”
Vernon snorted. “Forget it?” He squinted his eyes and gave Billy a hard look. “What do you know?”
Billy looked away. Vernon waited.
After a long moment, Billy turned back. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I promised Gwenda I wouldn’t. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Let’s not and pretend that we did. Come on, Billy. Out with it.”
Billy took a deep breath and puffed his cheeks as he blew it out. “Gwenda swore me to secrecy. If I tell you, you have to swear to me you won’t tell a soul.”
“You know you can count on me to keep a secret.”
Billy hesitated. Then he said, “All right. But not a word to anyone else.”
Vernon held up a hand, as if he were swearing an oath.
Billy nodded toward Mary, who was getting into a blue Packard. “Mary’s been going out with Jon Meyer.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No,” Billy said, shaking his head. “They’ve been seeing each other for months.”
Vernon sat back in the seat. He watched the Packard as it pulled away. It circled around the parking lot and turned onto the highway.
He’d been trying to get Mary to go out with him since, when? Since the summer. So many opportunities he’d given her. She’d rejected him every time. He’d never been able to understand why. He knew it couldn’t be that she had no interest in him, and he’d finally consoled himself with the thought that Mary had no interest in guys at all. That, now, was apparently not the case. He felt the first stirrings of anger.
But that wasn’t even the half of it. She hadn’t just rejected him. No. She’d turned him down for that nobody, and, in the process, made a fool of him. The anger started to burn.
Then, he had a thought. As he rolled it around in his head, it began to take shape. He massaged it, filling in the details. Finally, he turned to Billy.
“Did I tell you about the party on Monday night?”
Billy’s eyes brightened. “No. What party?”
“Out at the Lodge.”
Defiant Heart Page 18