Right then, I was aware that all eyes were on me. It was as if my peripheral vision had widened to take in all the amazed faces. And I don’t think it was my imagination that some of those faces wore a sheepish expression. Not one of Biff’s avid listeners believed a word he said. Which was not to say they weren’t happy to listen and repeat every word to anyone who’d missed show time. The other thing that hit me, I had instinctively chosen the one accusation guaranteed to get under Biff’s skin.
But all that took a heartbeat. And that was all I had.
I don’t think he knocked me out, but I don’t remember hitting the floor. I just remember opening my eyes and going on talking. “No guy worth shit talks—”
He was right on me and knocked the breath out of me, but I kept on talking whenever I could put words together.
“… about a girl … like that … Probably she … wouldn’t …”
I was crying, but I didn’t realize it at the time. I hardly even noticed Biff pounding on me. All I saw was his stupid face in front of me like a red moon and this sound, something roaring all around us. Then somebody grabbed him off me.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Later, somebody told me it took several guys to grab Biff off me, Mr. B among them. Biff and I spent most of the day in the dean’s office while everybody gave their version of what happened.
Mr. B was in the dean’s office a lot of that time so I know that two lines, often repeated, sealed Biff’s fate. One, that he was saying some pretty coarse stuff about one of the girls, and two, that although I’d called him on it, I’d never lifted a hand to fight.
While I wouldn’t have counted that last thing as a point in my favor, it seemed to work for me here. Biff got three days in-school suspension and a warning that any further disruption would make him ineligible for sports.
He hadn’t succeeded in killing me—that point worked in his favor. And Mr. B still had his star player.
I had a fat lip the nurse treated with ice, and an assortment of lumps and bruises on my head and shoulders that were vaguely purple. But except to say that I could expect some swelling, medical science didn’t have much to offer.
Neither did the dean. He said a few things like he knew I really applied myself to my academic subjects, and it seemed to him that I was going to be an outstanding student. It didn’t hurt that the dean was the track coach. Mr. B must have put in a good word for me, because the dean knew I was going out for the team in the spring. He said he always finds his best men in the long-and-lean types, like me, and he clapped me on the back.
I was okay in his book, that was it, just one of the guys, and with high principles besides. He said I would also have to apply myself to keeping out of trouble, but he said it with this embarrassed expression that meant he believed I’d done something vaguely admirable in any case and he didn’t want to come down too hard on me.
I was right to want Mr. B to like me. He’d had a lot to do with the attitude the dean was taking, I was sure. But I left the office with an odd nagging feeling that I’d sold out. I’d let the dean think I was one of them.
A jock.
Practically all the principals and the superintendents are. My mom pointed this out once, before she married one. When you get them talking, they tell you how in their early teaching careers, right up until they reached higher administration, they were the proud coaches of this team or that. They talk about it with a glistening eye that turns cloudy when you ask how they feel about accelerated education.
I didn’t want to take the bus home. I decided to run.
It was rough, more so because I was pushing it, wanting the run to be over. I kept going till I nearly vomited, slowed to a walk for several blocks, then ran again, slower.
Patsy was hanging around her front yard as I jogged down the street, making me glad I’d set it up so I looked good on the home stretch. I was conscious of the ugly puffiness under one eye, and of a swollen lower lip that sported my own tooth marks. I hoped it was merely coincidental that she was outside. I didn’t want to talk about Italian anything. But she walked over to meet me.
“Hey, wait up,” she called as I passed her by. I kept going, but she ran alongside as I came up the driveway. “You look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“I don’t mean it like that.” Breathe, breathe. “Did he hurt you much?”
I slowed to a walk. “Not much.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“It’s just … he was my boyfriend and all.”
I clenched my teeth over the question I wanted to ask: Is that what you’re calling him now?
“You didn’t know?”
“Nope,” I said as I reached the house.
I shut the back door behind me. Did I know he was boyfriend material? No, I didn’t. Vincenzo knew, of course, but not me. I was the dumbbell who’d asked her out for Wednesday night. I wasn’t even sure we were still on.
She knocked.
Disbelieving, I opened up. “What is it?” Now, my tone implied.
“What did you fight about?”
“It was his fight. Why don’t you ask him?”
“I just wondered why he hit you.”
“You’re talking to the wrong guy,” I said as I shut the door on her again. It hit me halfway up the stairs. I’d hung up.
To top it all off, Dad called. I wouldn’t have minded so much if I was doing victory laps, but … I wasn’t.
“Mom tells me you got into a fight.”
“I didn’t know you talked to her,” I said, but a lot of things I didn’t know instantly came clear. Mr. B had called Mom at her office, and of course that’s when she called Dad, probably before I got through third period.
Dad was saying, “When did we ever stop talking to each other? Besides, we still have you.”
“It wasn’t much of a fight. He hit me. I fell down.”
“Why’d he hit you?”
“Mistaken identity.”
“Mistaken for who?”
“Somebody who’d fight back.”
“Yeah, your mom said he’ll be doing time.”
“It’s not a life sentence, I’m sorry to report.”
We talked for a while, Dad going through his latest funny taxi driver stories, before we said good-bye.
I still had to put on a good face for my mother when she got home. Easier said than done, considering the swelling under my eye.
“Dom, is that permanent?” This was her “hide your horror” voice, but fear was still there, in her eyes. It was kind of gratifying, if you want to know the truth.
“Of course not.”
Mom rounded on Mr. B. “You said it was nothing. He looks like Marlon Brando as a waterfront rat.”
I don’t think Mr. B got the movie reference. Or maybe he was caught between building me up to feel like I’d stormed the battlements and the more subdued story he’d told her.
Me, I was surprised she wasn’t cooler about the whole thing. It suddenly occurred to me that while Mom had appeared to take a “no skin off my nose” attitude to my pinched finger, she probably felt responsible she hadn’t avoided the accident somehow. She’d probably downplayed her own anxieties when she was with me.
Because now Mom was talking like they ought to pack me off to the emergency room. “Or we can drive into Queens and see Dr. Saltzman. He’ll squeeze us in before he goes home for the night.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” I said, imitating the way Mr. B had once spoken over a gasping body lying on the gym floor. He’d gotten down on one knee, popped a dislocated shoulder back into place, and sent everybody else back to a volleyball game with a reminder of each team’s scores. “I don’t even have a loose tooth.”
“I didn’t even think of his teeth. Have you looked, Dom?”
“I looked. Nothing chipped. I don’t think he needs a doctor,” he told Mom.
If her first reaction could be described as barely controlled hysteria, as the evening
went on, her later reaction was made up of two parts “what might have happened” and one part “this wouldn’t have happened if we’d stayed in the city, where we belong.”
I was quick to remind her that I’d had my share of difficulty in the city, and asked if she remembered tripping over my self-defense books for weeks after the mugging. It seemed she’d forgotten how strongly that episode had figured in the move to Long Island.
Mr. B called the swelling “a mouse,” and after we ate the manicotti dinners he’d brought home with him, he said I ought to go up to my room and grab a nap.
I slept through most of the evening, waking up at ten-thirty to start homework. Right then, I turned the dial on the alarm clock and bought myself an extra hour of sleep in the morning.
Running. Who needed it?
THIRTY-EIGHT
I almost skipped the call. To be frank, I didn’t like Patsy quite so much tonight. And we’d had enough face-to-face conversations at this point that I had begun to worry she’d know my voice.
Only I had to call that night. To cover myself.
And then I’d see.
“Orlando!”
“Good name.”
“And?”
“That’s all. Just not bad as names go.”
“I thought I had you today.”
“Had me where?”
“Don’t be like that. I thought you fought for my honor.”
“I heard about it. That’s about as close as I got to your honor.”
“It was a guy who lives next door to me. When I asked him why he got into a fight, I said it was my boyfriend that hit him.”
“You called Biff your boyfriend?” I made my voice incredulous, not hard to do. “Don’t you think you’re being awfully forgiving here?”
“That’s not his name, but you see what I mean? This guy next door didn’t bat an eyelash at the word ‘boyfriend.’ That’s when I figured out he wasn’t you.”
I still didn’t know why she got into his car this morning, but I was pretty sure he must have been singing a different song than in the locker room. I decided to let it go.
“Disappointed?” I asked her.
“In what way?”
“That the other guy wasn’t me? Maybe I was part of the audience Biff was sounding off for,” I said. “I may have been standing there with the other half a dozen guys—”
“Don’t be disgusting.”
I had gotten a little carried away. Actually, I’d discovered it wasn’t so much that I didn’t like her. I was angry with her. It had to do with the things Biff said, sure, but I didn’t blame her for that.
I blamed her for getting into his car again.
I blamed her for giving the guy a second chance. Even though our calls were happening only because she gave me one.
I waited for her to hang up.
What I liked, she ignored the whole outburst. She went on as if I’d swallowed something the wrong way and she’d been interrupted to pat me on the back. You had to admire her style.
“So it’s true. He was talking about me.” Annoyed now. “And you do see me in school. You’re close to me every day, I think I knew that. Sometimes you’re mad at me before you call. Sometimes,” she said, “you sound like you don’t like me very much.”
“I like you,” I said, knowing I sounded like a drowning man who chooses between the call for help or a lungful of air before he sinks again. “I do.” Nothing from her. “Sometimes I say things, I don’t always know why. It doesn’t mean anything.”
I caught myself there, groveling.
“We could be friends,” she said. “You could meet me at the dance.”
“We could be better friends if you’d decide these calls are enough for you.”
“I don’t know that we could,” she said, and hung up.
The truth was, I hadn’t handled the whole conversation very well. I got angry, and then I gave myself away. A little detective work and she could narrow down her list of suspects to maybe a dozen guys. Including me.
I thought about calling back to apologize. After all, what was she asking for? To get to know me in person. That’s what this was all about at the beginning. Right? Okay, it would be a little awkward at first. Vinnie Gold, acting like he’s so cool.
She might even be angry with me for the deception. I didn’t believe that would last. I’d admitted to being someone she would recognize. Vinnie Gold, fool for love.
It was my impression that she stood behind what she said. She could accept the worst. Vinnie Gold, remember that clown?
I didn’t feel up to dialing.
If you want to know the truth, I was beginning to feel a kind of battle fatigue. Even when I was winning, it felt like losing.
I couldn’t get up the next morning. I kept pushing the snooze button on my alarm clock. It tried to get me up every nine minutes. I didn’t get up until ten minutes before the bus was due.
“Vinnie. I thought you’d gone.”
“I’m going. Bye, Mom.”
“Vin—”
Maybe I ran on nervous energy, I don’t know, but I moved at a dead sprint. The only good thing was, it was really nippy this morning. Every time I felt dizzy, I sucked in a strong, deep breath of frozen air, and when I reached the bus stop, I had the idea I didn’t look half bad. I got there just as kids were boarding, my chest heaving, ears threatening to explode with the pressure in my head.
I headed for a seat in the back, acting as if I’d never seen Patsy. And Biff? He got on the bus at the next stop. The seat next to Patsy was already taken, and he had to sit two rows behind her. Which meant nothing, really. Yesterday morning she got into his car.
What I would have liked to see, him taking the seat next to her and Patsy finding someplace else to sit.
I went into the school through the door the teams used after morning warm-ups. I’d never used it before, and I wanted to feel more familiar with this part of the building. It led down a short strip of hallway with double doors to the locker rooms and ended at the gym. I stopped in the boys’ locker room to wait for the bell, which rang moments later.
The teams came in like a herd of thundering buffalo, capable of mowing down anything standing in their way. Me, for instance. But it was a cheerful herd, and as the guys passed the showers, they broke almost immediately into a not-quite-orderly division into the locker rows, sparing my life.
I sat down on the bench in front of my locker. I was light-headed, probably from lack of food. My injuries weren’t particularly impressive—even the black eye looked like a practical joke. Thanks to the puffiness that appeared around my jawline overnight, I looked petulant rather than battered.
A few guys looked at me as if they’d never seen me before, more of them grinned to let me know they’d decided I was okay.
Biff came in from the other set of double doors, signaling he’d come through the front of the school. This was clearly a demotion. Why he’d come here was anybody’s guess, probably it just felt strange that his first whiff of school was of straight floor wax without the buffer of sweaty socks.
Anyone on a team was there in the locker room, of course. Guys said hello to Biff, but no one encouraged him to brag more. They acted like all they had on their minds was a speedy shower, dragging on their clothing, and combing wet hair.
I gathered Mr. B had given them quite the lecture about disrespecting girls, and then a hefty after-school cleaning assignment to underline his disappointment in them. So it was understandable Biff wasn’t being met with a friendly razzing.
Biff strode right to his locker without speaking to anyone. He didn’t look in my direction, and he didn’t look like he anticipated a good day. That worked for me. I left before the start-of-day bell rang.
THIRTY-NINE
In the hallways, it seemed to me several girls offered me shy glances and sweet smiles. Chivalry was not dead.
There was a sharper sort of appraisal in the teachers’ eyes, even though it seemed unlikely that a locker room frac
as could merit a prime-time airing in the teachers’ lounge.
Brown Bunny came up to me between classes late in the afternoon. “You’re something of a hero,” she said. She used a tone I couldn’t read.
She’d already struck me as one of those playground bullies, the one that threw sand in your eyes when nobody’s mother was looking. I never could figure out how that kid timed things so perfectly, again and again. I said nothing.
“You’ve got potential,” she said to me.
“As what?”
“I’m not dating anyone currently.”
“Really? I thought you were.” He was kind of a hoody type, but he was able to cross the line between the hoody kids and the popular kids without any problem that I could see. I didn’t know if Brown Bunny was his hall pass or if he was, in some weird alternative universe, hers.
She let this exchange just hang there between us. Was she telling me she’d be more interested in dating me?
She was terrifying.
“I’m not dating anyone either,” I said, grateful to hear the bell ring. I turned to go into my next classroom, hearing the musical theme from Jaws retreat as I put some distance between us.
I headed out to the track after school. I hadn’t made any announcement that I had an interest in the team or anything, but I was out there with them. I warmed up and started around the track.
Biff was out there too. He couldn’t work out with the football team until he was off suspension, but Mr. B made sure he could use the track. I could see why Mr. B had been so adamant. It wasn’t just punishment. Biff didn’t run, he lumbered. Oh, not that he was hopeless, but I was caught up in the poetry of it.
He tried not to notice me as I came up behind him. He tried to stay even. He was blowing like an old horse as I passed him. Not that I was going to win an award. We weren’t alone on the track, and there were runners passing both of us. There were runners passing those runners.
Not Exactly a Love Story Page 12