by Rich Wallace
He shakes his head. “Man, you don’t understand anything. . . . You just don’t get it at all.”
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 27:
Mister Salty
The Mets are on television tonight. Mom’s out at a library board meeting, so me and Dad and Ryan camp out in the family room to watch.
We’ve got a low table in front of the couch, and Dad sets a box of saltines and a jar of green olives there. We munch our way through them by the end of the first inning. Koosman gives up a solo homer in the bottom of the inning, so the Padres take a rare lead.
Dad comes back with Ritz crackers and a slab of cheddar cheese for the second inning, slicing it with a big knife with a black handle. I eat a few crackers, but I don’t like cheese, so I get the jar of peanut butter after the Mets go down, and spread that on ’em.
Koosman gets the Mets’ first hit in the top of the third (the Mets have the best-hitting pitchers in the league), then Agee walks. Cleon Jones doubles them both home, and the Mets take the lead.
“Looking good,” Dad says. “Been a lot of years since there was a New York baseball team to get excited about.”
Ryan goes to the cellar for drinks. “Brody!” he yells from downstairs. “What kind you want?”
I try to envision what’s in there. I know there’s lemon (that’s all Mom drinks) and I’m pretty sure there’s some root beer. “Any grape?”
I hear Ryan moving cans around. “No!”
“Then orange.”
“Okay.”
He comes back with a Rheingold and two Shop-Rite sodas.
“What kind of pretzels we got out there?” Dad calls as Ryan enters the kitchen.
I hear a cabinet swing open. “Mister Salty.”
“Bring ’em on.”
The drinks and the pretzels cover us for a few innings. It occurs to me that the Padres haven’t had a base runner since the first.
“Koosman is having an incredible stretch of games,” Dad says. “Seaver, too. And pitching wins championships.”
Art Shamsky doubles in a run for the Mets in the sixth, then scores on Ken Boswell’s single.
“Of course, it doesn’t hurt to have hitters,” Dad says. He gets up and heads to the bathroom.
Mom comes home from her meeting and sits next to Ryan on the love seat. “Exciting game?” she asks. She never pays any attention to professional sports. She did show up for all of my Little League games and Ryan’s basketball games, though.
“Hi, honey,” Dad says. He’s in the kitchen, standing in front of the open freezer. He comes back with a dish of coffee ice cream.
Mom yawns. “Guess I’ll read in bed,” she says.
Koosman hits the leadoff batter with a pitch in the bottom of the sixth, but the Mets immediately turn a double play.
“No contest,” Dad says. “Man, I wish my father could see this team. He was a huge Yankees fan back in the day. DiMaggio, Yogi, Johnny Mize.” He shakes his head. His father dropped dead shoveling snow.
Ryan picks up the olive jar. “Better put this back,” he says. He goes to the kitchen.
“There might be a beer in there,” Dad says.
Ryan shifts some bottles around in the refrigerator. “Nope. I’ll get you one.”
This time he comes up with two of them and pops one open.
Dad eats another pretzel. “What else we got out there?” he asks Ryan.
Ryan shrugs. “I didn’t notice.”
“What good are you?”
I smile. “Mom bought another watermelon.”
They both laugh.
“Now that sounds good,” Dad says.
“Yeah!” Ryan adds. “Let’s scarf it down.”
So Dad gets three massive slices and a big handful of napkins. “No juice on the upholstery,” he warns.
“I better get us some plates,” I say. So I do.
Koosman hits another single, but they leave him stranded. By the time it’s over he’s pitched the last eight and a third without yielding a hit. The Mets are looking dominant, but again, this is the Padres we’re talking about.
The game ends and we sit there grinning. Dad gets up and switches to channel 11. The intro to The Honeymooners is just coming on, Jackie Gleason’s face in the moon.
“Awesome,” Ryan says.
“Funniest thing on television,” Dad says. “These shows are fifteen years old, and nobody’s come close.”
They both take a swig of their beers. I go to the cellar for another can of soda, and we laugh our heads off for another half hour.
Nothing like summer. Too bad it’s almost over.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 28:
Nothing to Lose
The swim club closes at seven o’clock so they can set things up for the dance. We decided that instead of trying to get by the authorities at the gate, we would slip into the locker room just before closing and hide in a shower stall.
Tony pulls the dark plastic curtain closed. We’re in a space about four feet by four.
“Not a word,” he whispers.
I nod. “This is going to be a long hour.”
“It’ll be worth it.” He leans against the cinder-block wall with his arms folded. There’s no room to sit down. Even if we could, the floor is slimy. So we just stand there waiting.
After about fifteen minutes a lifeguard walks through the locker room and calls, “Everybody out?”
There’s no response, so he leaves. Tony raises one fist and gives me a smug smile. Looks like we’re safe.
Eventually we can hear the band tuning up—a few twangs on an electric guitar and some drumbeats. Somebody comes in to use a urinal, so we hold our breath and stand like statues.
The plan is to wait until we hear some actual songs, so we’re certain the dance has started. Then we’ll just walk out real casually and get lost in the crowd. Tony claims that he ran into Janet and Patty this afternoon and said we’d meet them behind the diving boards, but I don’t know when he could have done that. We hung out together from late in the morning until two thirty, then went home, changed, and went to football practice. And we walked home together, too, with no sign of them anywhere.
So, unless they’re hiding out in the girls’ shower stalls, I don’t have a ton of confidence that they’ll be here.
There are probably a hundred kids standing around the basketball court when we finally dare to come out. Some of them are our age. The band is playing “Midnight Confessions,” but nobody’s dancing. There’s a steady stream of people coming through the gate.
We see free soda and cookies on a table by the shuffleboard court, so we head over there and get cups of Coke. Then we walk the inner perimeter of the grounds a few times, like we do every day when we come here. A few people are swimming.
Patty and Janet walk in with a bunch of older girls. They’re both wearing sleeveless dresses and choker beads.
“Let’s go,” Tony says. He sets his empty cup on a bench and starts walking straight toward them.
“Hey,” he says as we reach them.
Janet smiles and flicks up her eyebrows. Patty just stares at us. She’s got her hair up some.
“So you got in,” Tony says, lowering his voice. “Any hassle?”
Janet shakes her head. “We just breezed past.”
“Nobody even looked at us,” Patty says, glancing around at the band and the pool and the people. She’s rotating her shoulders with the music. “They just took the money.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Us, too.”
Patty finally meets my eyes, then quickly looks away. We start walking toward the band, and we stay there for a while and listen. Maybe ten people have started dancing, most of them girls.
Tony keeps trying to stand next to Patty, but she keeps moving away from him and winds up next to me instead.
“We should dance,” Janet says eventually.
I take a half step back, but Tony follows them onto the blacktop. Janet and Patty start dancing, and Tony watches them. After a minute or so he dances, too, cutting betwee
n them.
Tony’s all arms, not moving his feet any, but he’s bouncing his torso around pretty good. Patty keeps shifting away from him, and finally he gives up and faces Janet. After the song ends, Patty walks off and stands next to me again. I think she still looks shy.
“You don’t dance?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just wasn’t ready.”
She shrugs.
We watch Janet and Tony dance to two more songs. I figure I have nothing to lose, so when the next one starts I say, “You wanna?” and point toward Tony and Janet.
She smiles slightly for the first time tonight, and we walk over. They’re playing “All You Need Is Love,” which is kind of slow, so I don’t have to do much. The next one is fast, so me and Tony walk off while the girls keep dancing. They seem to be having a lot more fun without us.
“This is setting up just right,” Tony says.
“What is?”
He nudges me with his elbow. “For later.”
I don’t know how he figures that. Patty hasn’t even acknowledged him.
“Change in plans,” he says. “As soon as it’s dark”—that would be in less than half an hour—“we bring ’em over by the swings. Then I take her for a walk back in the picnic area, and you get lost.”
“You take who for a walk?”
“Janet. Who do you think?”
“You said Patty before.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, I changed my mind.”
He had it changed for him. But that works in my favor anyway, so I’m not arguing.
Not that I’m expecting anything to happen.
The girls dance for about twenty minutes. Me and Tony get more soda and lean against the chain-link fence. The band gets louder.
They finally walk over to us. Janet grabs Tony’s soda and drinks the last half of it. She wipes her forehead with her hand. “We’re sweating,” she says. She tilts her head toward the locker rooms, and she and Patty walk off together.
“It’s time to take advantage of this situation,” Tony says. The girls’ locker room is on the way to the swings, so we follow about thirty feet behind them and wait till they come out.
“Take a break?” Tony asks when they reappear.
“Sure,” Janet says.
“Hit the swings?”
“Okay.”
It’s dark and much quieter over on this side of the grounds. We sit on the swings.
“Can’t dance too much,” Tony says. “We got our opening game in two days. Coach would be pissed if we tired ourselves out dancing.”
Janet says, “I see.” Patty yawns.
“We’ll be out there for the opening kickoff,” Tony continues. “First play. Starting lineup.”
“Kickoff team only,” I say. “We’re not exactly starters.”
“Who’s on the field when the game starts?” he says. “The starters. You can’t argue against that.”
Janet starts pumping her legs a little to get moving on the swing.
“Let me give you a push,” Tony says. He stands behind her and gives her back a shove. After two more pushes he steps out of the way and she starts going pretty high. Patty gets going on her own. They’re giggling.
Janet stops first. Tony seizes the opportunity and pulls on her arm. “I wanna show you something,” he says.
“What?”
“Over there.” He points toward Route 17. The back corner of the grounds is just as dark as it is around the swings. There’s a huge old maple tree in the corner.
They walk off. Patty slows quickly and hops off the swing. “Where are you guys going?”
“We’ll be right back,” Tony calls.
I figure I’ll play along and try to get Tony some privacy. “You must be dying of thirst after all that dancing,” I say.
Patty stares after Tony and Janet with a frown, but then she says, “Yeah. I am.” So we get more cups of soda.
We start wandering with the cups, passing the locker rooms and the swings. She hasn’t said anything about Janet, but I’m sure she’s eager to see what’s going on, so she heads that way. When we reach the kiddie pool I say, “Hold on.” I sit on a bench and yank off my sneaker, stalling for time.
“Got a rock or something in here,” I say, shaking the shoe. I put it back on. She’s sitting now, too.
“I wonder what’s so interesting over there,” she says, smirking a little and jutting her head toward the dark corner where Tony and Janet went.
“Tony’s into trees,” I say. “He wants to study them in college.”
“Uh-huh. What else does he want to study?” She laughs.
“Right.” I inch closer to her. “Nice night, huh?”
She looks at the sky. “Yeah. Fun.” She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. Mostly what you smell over here is chlorine.
I slide my hand along the bench and hesitate. It’s not as if she’s never made out with anybody, so I lift my hand and set it on her back. She wiggles slightly, then turns and looks at me hard. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I pull my hand away in a hurry.
She stands up. “I gotta find Janet.”
I stand up, too. Janet is walking toward us. She’s smiling.
“Where’ve you been?” Patty asks.
“Back there.” Janet looks directly at me. “You might want to go help your friend,” she says. “I think I knocked him out.”
Patty laughs and they walk off together. I hear her say “Jerks!” I head for the corner.
Tony is just a few yards away, on the other side of the kiddie pool. He’s rubbing his jaw.
“She punch you?” I ask.
He puts a finger to his tongue, then pulls it away and looks at it. It’s pretty dark over here, but I can tell that there isn’t any blood.
“Just once,” he says. He laughs. “I didn’t know where to stop.”
“I guess she let you know.”
“Yeah, she did.”
We sit on the same bench I’d been on with Patty.
“So what happened?” I ask.
“She let me kiss her a couple of times. It was good. Then I got my hands up too high. I said it was a mistake. The second time I did it she belted me.”
I crack up. He does, too.
“So how’d you do?” he asks.
“I didn’t get punched.”
“That’s good. Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough for one night.”
“Let’s go.”
We pass through the gate and head up the hill. We stop near the Little League fields and look back at the basketball court. It’s fairly full now; most people are dancing. We can see Patty and Janet out there, too.
If it wasn’t for Tony, I never would have come here. No way. It didn’t work out so good, but I guess I’m glad I came.
Tony has no idea what he’s doing, but I gotta give him credit. He was definitely in there trying.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 29:
Thirty-two Hours Away
I watch game shows and old comedies all morning. I Love Lucy, Gilligan’s Island, Concentration. I eat two bowls of cereal, a grape ice pop, and a peanut butter sandwich.
“So you had fun last night?” Mom asks.
“I guess. Sort of.”
“Did you dance with anybody special?”
Does she really think I’d answer that even if I had? “Tony’s pretty special.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t know how to dance.”
She puts her hand on top of my head and strokes my hair. “You’ll learn. This is a big year for you, Brody. Junior high school can be intimidating, but you’ll do fine. Just be yourself.”
“Who else would I be?”
“Oh,” she says with a laugh, “kids your age try to be all kinds of people. You’ll see.”
I sink lower into the couch.
“I have some good news,” she says. “I found out who your teacher is.”
&n
bsp; “You did?” We’re not supposed to know until the first day of school.
“Mmm-hmm. It’s Mrs. Wilkey. Same teacher Ryan had.”
“Oh.” I figure Mom found that out at the library meeting the other night. There are teachers on the board with her.
“You’ll love her,” Mom says. “She’s very nice.”
She’s also very old, and according to Ryan she wasn’t nice at all. We’ll see. I’ve had some teachers before who’d had Ryan first. Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it isn’t, depending on how much of a pain he was at the time.
Football’s got me worried. It’s been a while since I carried the ball, but those fumbles are haunting me. What’ll it be like out there under the lights, with everybody watching, in an actual game with everything on the line? I’m scared to death I’ll screw up, miss a tackle on a kickoff, and be responsible for a big runback.
Game time is thirty-two hours away, and there’s no way I can stand this kind of pressure until then. So I grab a basketball and head out to the driveway to shoot.
I’m thinking about trying out for the Franklin basketball team, but that’ll be mostly eighth graders and I’ll be at a size disadvantage. But I’m always at a disadvantage, so that’s nothing new.
Anyway, I’ve got an entire football season to get through first.
I can shoot. At least here in the driveway. Ryan says our basket is probably three or four inches too low, but we’ve never measured it.
I take a long shot and it swishes through the net. I sprint in and follow it with a layup, then dribble out to the foul line and hit another.
I’m wondering what it must have felt like for Tony when he kissed Janet last night. However good it must have felt, it was probably overcome by that punch to the face he got afterward. I imagine his lip is puffy today.
Guess that could have been me, since Tony’s original plan had him winding up with Patty. Then again, maybe that’s what Patty wanted. Maybe she would have kissed him, too. And instead of just a nasty reply from Patty, I would have been the one getting belted by Janet.
But either way, I definitely had the whole thing wrong in my head. That summer-long crush I hoped Patty had on me turned out to be anything but. I felt about seven years old when she called us jerks.
I don’t feel any different than I did a year ago, when I was heading into sixth grade. I have no idea what goes on inside girls’ heads. I don’t have any idea what goes on inside guys’ heads, either, at least not the cool ones.