by Max Shulman
There’s only one thing Nate and I didn’t agree about—girls. I love girls—always have—but all Nate cared about was baseball and football and basketball and like that, which is all very well, but you got to agree it will never replace girls. Still, I didn’t worry about Nate. I figured he’d be catching up with me any day. But his thirteenth birthday rolled around and he still wasn’t interested in girls and then—would you believe it?—he turned fourteen and he still wasn’t interested!
It was a crying shame because by this time Nate had a terrific build and he was the best athlete in John Marshall Junior High School and he could of had any girl he wanted to, but he didn’t want to. Many is the time I sat and tried to straighten him out, but Nate, frankly, is not too bright and logic doesn’t make much impression on him. Still and all, we stayed good friends, but not really what you would call intimate, because how can you be intimate with a guy who goes through life dribbling a basketball and ignoring the sex drive?
Well, you can see how far back I go with Nate. But Alma Gristede I didn’t even meet till last fall when school started. It was lunch time on the first day of school, and I was carrying my tray around the cafeteria looking for a place to sit, when all of a sudden I saw her sitting alone at one of the little tables for two. About eight other guys spotted her at the same time, and they all started leaping over tables and chairs, trying to get to her, but I had a head start and I skidded in and plunked down my tray and threw myself into the chair.
“Can I sit here, hey?” I said.
“If you like,” she said.
“I like,” I said and leaned forward and peered into her face. Close up it looked even better than far away, which is very important in a face. I looked at her face a good long time and came to a decision: this girl had, by a very wide margin, the best face in John Marshall Junior High School.… Mind you, I didn’t say she was the best-looking girl in John Marshall; all I said was she had the best-looking face. The best-looking girl in John Marshall is our drum majorette, Maybelle Elihu. Maybelle’s face, I’ll grant you, is no match for Alma Gristede’s, but she more than makes up for it with the most gorgeous pair of kneecaps it has ever been my privilege to see. Of course, sitting in the cafeteria, I wasn’t able to look at Alma Gristede’s kneecaps, but all the same, I felt sure they were not in a class with Maybelle Elihu’s. Kneecaps like Maybelle’s do not appear more than once in a generation.
I had long ago made my pitch to Maybelle Elihu, but I had come up empty. She always had ten or twelve guys hanging around her, and she told me I was welcome to join the group, but I declined with thanks. Convoy duty was not my idea of romance. What I wanted was a girl of my very own, which is why I was so pleased to come upon Alma Gristede.
I finished examining her face and sat back and smiled and said, “My name is Dobie Gillis.”
“I am Alma Gristede,” she said. “I am beautiful.”
Well, sir, this took me aback, you may be sure! “Hey,” I said, “that’s my line.”
“I know,” she said. “I am trying to save time.”
“What’s your hurry?” I asked.
“I need to find a steady boy friend,” she said, “and I need to find him quickly.”
“Alma doll,” I said, reaching for her, “your search is over!”
“Don’t interrupt when I am talking,” she said, frowning.
“All right,” I said, also frowning. She had a great face all right, but I was beginning to wonder about the head.
“My father builds bridges,” Alma continued. “He is going to build one here. That’s why we moved to town. We will stay here two years, maybe three, and then we will move to another town where my father will build another bridge. That is the story of my life—moving from town to town, from bridge to bridge, never staying long enough to sink roots. That is why I do not have any emotional security.”
“Poor baby!” I said, taking her hands.
“Yes,” she said, taking them back. “But I am beautiful.”
“You are that,” I agreed, taking her hands again.
“Let go of my hands,” she said. “I sometimes have to make gestures to emphasize a point.”
“Sorry,” I said, returning her hands.
“Where was I?”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Yes, I am beautiful. Wherever I go, dozens of boys come swarming around. But I do not want dozens of boys. That only breeds confusion. What I want is one boy to go steady with so I can sink roots and develop emotional security, even if it is only for a little while.”
“Like I said, your search is over!” I cried, lunging for the hands again.
She snatched them away. “Wait!” she said. “Remember, I am beautiful. I don’t have to go with just anybody. I can have my pick of the top boys in the school.… And I need a top boy, Dobie. For my emotional security, I need it.”
“Well, I’m top,” I said.
“Oh?” she said doubtfully. “Are you a Champion Athlete?”
“No, but—”
“Are you a marvy Jazz Musician?”
“No, but—”
“Are you Editor of the school paper? President of the Student Council?”
“No, but—”
“Well, who are you then that you should rate a girl a beautiful as me?”
I chuckled. Now I had her. “It just so happens,” I said casually, “that I am the smartest guy in the whole ninth grade.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, that’s something,” she allowed. “But how do I know it’s true?”
I chuckled some more. “Since the first grade I have got nothing but straight A’s. My mother saved all my report cards. I will bring them to you in the morning.”
“No,” she said, “that won’t prove you’re the smartest guy in the ninth grade. That will only prove you were the smartest guy in the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth grades. Who knows what will happen this year? Maybe you’ll go into a slump. Maybe somebody smarter will come along.”
“But—”
“No, Dobie, I can’t risk it. I must have a boy who is top right now, and all you’ve got is a potential.”
“Listen,” I said, starting to sweat, “wait till the marks come out. You’ll see how top I am.”
“This is September, Dobie. The marks won’t be out till January. I can’t wait that long for emotional security.”
“Alma—”
“Goodbye, Dobie,” she said and stood up and walked away and I got a look at her kneecaps which, while they were not on a par with Maybelle Elihu’s, were still in the upper ten per cent of kneecaps. Even more important, those beautiful kneecaps were attached to a pair of short legs, and for somebody in my height bracket that was a boon more precious than platinum. Suddenly my heart was heavy and my throat was so tight that I could not eat my lunch because I knew that unless I could have Alma Gristede for my own there was no joy in the world.
The next morning I brought my old report cards to school, but Alma wouldn’t even look at them. All day long I chased her, and all day long she brushed me off. But worse than that, guys kept flocking around her and I saw her interviewing them, one after another, and I knew she would soon make her choice and I would be cooked for good and all.
I guess I must of looked pretty miserable when I got home that night because Ma clutched me to her bosom and started screaming, “Dobie, what’s wrong?” but naturally I didn’t tell her anything because this is not the kind of thing you tell your mother. Besides, when you get involved in a conversation with Ma, the end is never in sight. I just pried myself loose and slunk up to my room and pressed my fevered brow against the cool windowpane.
Leaning there against the window, slack with misery, I noticed Nate Gahagan in his back yard next door shooting baskets, which he does every night of the year (he wears a miner’s cap for light) and suddenly I was hit with the greatest idea of my entire life. I opened my window, slid off the eaves, ran next door and grabbed Nate. “Nate, buddy,
” I yelled, “I want you to do me a big favor. I want you to start going steady with Alma Gristede.”
“You got to be kidding,” said Nate.
“I know you don’t like girls and all,” I said, “but please do this for me. I want you to go steady with Alma so none of the other guys can grab her. It’s only till next January, because in January the marks come out and I will be top in the class like always, and then I will take Alma off your hands.”
“I don’t dig,” said Nate.
“Never mind,” I said. “Just do it, okay?”
“But I hate girls,” said Nate. “What I like is hockey and Greco-Roman wrestling and like that.”
“Nate, I am shocked,” I said, which I was. “Nate,” I said, “who is your best friend? Who showed you how to dial the telephone? Who was your catcher the day you pitched a no-hitter in Little League? Who taught you fire by friction? And who lets you copy their homework every night?”
“You,” said Nate.
“And now after all these years when I finally ask you a little favor, you tell me no. For shame, Nate!”
“Oh, all right, I’ll do it,” said Nate and we shook hands and the next morning he asked Alma to go steady, which of course she was thrilled to do as what girl wouldn’t be with the best athlete in the whole John Marshall even if his brainpower wasn’t everything a person could hope for?
And me, I just grinned and studied very hard so I would be sure to get the best marks in the class in January, and the time went by, not fast, not slow, and Christmas came and New Years and the first two weeks in January, and then it was exam week.
If I live to be a hundred—which is doubtful because I don’t think I’m going to make fifteen—I will never forget that first day of exam week. I came to school a happy, rosy-cheeked youth. I was ready for the tests; I was going to get Alma back; the world was my oyster. Whistling like a bird, I walked down the corridor to my homeroom. There, outside the door, stood Alma and Nate.
“Good morning,” I said cheerfully.
They didn’t answer. They didn’t look at me.
“What’s up?” I said, feeling a first tiny chill.
“Alma,” said Nate, “you go inside. I’ll tell him.”
“All right, Nate,” said Alma and went into the homeroom.
“Tell me what?” I said, licking my lips.
“Dobie,” said Nate, turning red and looking at the floor, “this is a pretty crummy thing to do, but I can’t help it.… Dobie, I’m not going to give Alma back to you, no matter how good your marks are.… Dobie, I’m going to keep her.”
“Huh?” I croaked.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, getting redder. “All of a sudden I dig girls. Anyhow, I dig Alma, and I can’t give her up.”
I stood there with my jaw hanging open.
“You can hit me with all your might in the stomach if you want to,” said Nate.
But I couldn’t hit him. I couldn’t talk, couldn’t think. All I could do was shamble into the room and flop at my desk, and when they put the exam in front of me, it might as well have been Egyptian hieroglyphics for all I understood it. And the same with all my other exams, and now you know how come I got all Fs on my midterm report card.
And so began the winter of my discontent. I wish I didn’t have such a good memory so I could blot out the whole horrid mess, but it stays with me, every loathsome detail. Ma was on my back all the time—screaming, clutching me to her bosom, frisking me for switchblades. But that wasn’t the worst; the worst was seeing Alma and Nate at school every day. When I watched them exchanging notes in class, holding hands in the corridor, blinking at each other in the cafeteria, such a sadness would come over me that I would often have to run into a broom closet and—I’ll admit it—weep.
And to rub more salt into my wounds, Nate Gahagan, who was already the best athlete in John Marshall, suddenly became the best athlete in the whole city! It was love which inspired him. He would come out on the basketball court and see Alma in the stands blowing kisses at him and his eyes would get all shiny and he would start shooting baskets from every angle of the floor—hook shots, push shots, set shots, jump shots, lay-ups—close, far, medium—and no matter how many guys they sent to guard him, he just couldn’t be stopped.
Well, naturally he got to be a bigger and bigger hero, and I got to be more and more miserable, and I was seriously thinking of chucking everything and taking holy orders, when all of a sudden, out of the blue, Fate stepped in and took a hand.
It was the night of the game between John Marshall and Daniel Webster. We beat them 74 to 21, and Nate alone scored—are you ready?—62 points! Can you believe it? Nate Gahagan in one game all by himself scored 62 points!
Well, sir, it was pandemonium! The stands were screaming and yelling like maniacs all through the game—everyone but me—and when the game was over, they gathered outside the locker room to wait for Nate and cheer him some more.
Nate took his shower and dressed and came outside grinning like an ape. A mighty roar went up and Nate doffed his cap and started walking over to Alma. But he never got to her. Maybelle Elihu, our drum majorette with the gorgeous kneecaps, suddenly came running out of the crowd and flung herself on Nate and said, “Nate, you are divine! I will give up all my other boys if you will go steady with me!”
Well, sir, that gave Nate pause, you may be sure! He stood there scratching his head for a while. Then he looked at Alma’s face and then he looked at Maybelle’s face. Then he looked at Alma’s kneecaps and then he looked at Maybelle’s kneecaps. Then he made the only possible decision a guy could make. “Okay, hey,” he said to Maybelle and gave her his arm and they walked off together into the night.
I’m kind of ashamed to say it, but for a minute I was glad. In fact, real glad. “Ha, ha! Serves you right!” I yelled and gave Alma a whack on the back.
Then I looked at Alma’s face—droopy and miserable—and I wasn’t glad any more. I was full of pity and tenderness, and I laid my hand gently on her shoulder and said, “Alma baby, I’m sorry. Let me help you pick up the shattered pieces of your life and together we will make a bright new tomorrow!”
“Oh, go away, you wretched, runty, nondescript boy!” snarled Alma, pounding my chest.
“Alma!” I cried.
“Go, go, go!” she hollered and spun on her heel and stormed away.
Well, if I was miserable before, now I was six times as miserable. Or maybe sixty times. Maybe even six hundred. All I know is nobody else has ever been this unhappy and lived to tell it.
I slunk around the streets, gnashing and moaning, till all hours of the night, and then I made the mistake of going home. Ma was in shock. She was positive I’d been out holding up gas stations, and she screamed and clutched and carried on like a wild thing, and if Pa hadn’t of come in and restrained her with a hammerlock, I never would of got to sleep.
The next day was Saturday and at ten A.M. the following people came into my bedroom: Mr. Lambretta, principal of John Marshall; Mr. Weitz, boys’ gym teacher of John Marshall; Officer Mulcahy, cop on the beat at John Marshall; Nate Gahagan; Ma; Pa. There was also my kid brother with both eyes and ears wide open, but he got pushed out of the bedroom and the door was closed in his eager face.
I sat up in bed. I rubbed my eyes. “Huh?” I said.
“Oh, Dobie!” screamed Ma, clutching me to her bosom. “Why did you do it?”
“Please, Mrs. Gillis,” said Officer Mulcahy. “I will do the investigation.”
Ma stepped back. Officer Mulcahy stepped forward. “Dobie, where were you last night?” he said.
“No place in particular,” I said. “Just walking around by myself.”
“You didn’t stop anywhere?” asked Officer Mulcahy. “Nobody saw you?”
“No,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Dobie,” said Mr. Weitz, the gym teacher, “last night, after the basketball game, somebody got into the locker room and opened Nate Gahagan’s locker and took out all his athletic equipment
and hacked it to pieces.”
“Oh, Dobie, why did you do it?” screamed Ma.
“Now, Mrs. Gillis,” said Mr. Lambretta, the principal, “we are not accusing Dobie. He is not the only suspect.”
No, thought I, I am not the only suspect. There is another one and her name is Alma Gristede and she did it as sure as death and taxes. Nate took away her emotional security and she flipped her wig and snuck into the locker room and hacked up his athletic equipment. It was clear as crystal. It was beyond a doubt.
“Mr. Lambretta,” I said, “have you talked to the other suspect yet?”
“Not yet,” he said.
I nodded. I knew now what I had to do. I would confess to the crime. I would shield the woman I loved. And Alma would know I was lying to protect her, and her heart would be chock-full of love and gratitude and shame, and she would know that I was a top guy, and she would be mine, mine, mine!
“Officer Mulcahy,” I said, “you don’t have to look any further. I did the deed.”
Ma slammed a headlock on me. “Why, baby, why?” she screamed.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess because I’m full of ferment and torment.”
Ma dropped me and clutched Pa to her bosom. “Oh, Herbert,” she screamed, “we must do something! We must take steps!”
Officer Mulcahy turned to Nate. “Do you want to press charges?”
“Heck, no,” said Nate. “I was mean and rotten to Dobie and I’m glad he got even.”
“Well, it’s no longer a police matter,” said Officer Mulcahy.
“But it’s still a school matter,” said Mr. Lambretta. “Dobie, be in my office at eight-thirty Monday.”
Then they all left except Ma and Pa. Ma paced like a tiger and screamed like an eagle, but I didn’t pay too much attention because I was thinking about Alma. I knew the news would get to her soon, and then I knew she would call me, and sure enough she did. Promptly at noon the phone rang.
“Dobie,” she said in a strange, small voice, “when can I see you?”