South of Broad (38 page)

Hanahan was the game that provided my team with the limitless momentum that would carry us to the state semifinal in Columbia. As we lined up that night, I could feel the first cool tinctures of autumn in the Low Country air. When we kicked off, I had a footrace with Ike down the field, and we both avoided two of their blockers. We both hit the ball carrier at the same time and drove him out of bounds on his own 25 and into the midst of his team. Ike and I rose screaming before being overrun by our jubilant teammates. Whatever incubus or disease had invaded our locker room had received its banishment on that first play and would not return that season. A fierce tenacity remained our trademark.

Wormy Ledbetter ran the ball more than thirty times, many times coming right up the middle, where I had my best night of blocking that year. The offensive line moved like a pride of lions as we fired off that line with aggression and certitude. I pancake-blocked four of their linemen, putting them flat on their backs as I watched Wormy crashing into defensive backs with his head lowered and his legs churning like an eggbeater. When Niles faked to Wormy going off-tackle, it opened the field for Chad and Ike, who both scored long touchdowns after Niles laid it in their hands as though he were tossing loaves of bread high into the night air.

That night, Wormy set a school record by scoring five rushing touchdowns and gaining more than two hundred yards on the ground. Niles completed ten of twelve passes. Our defense played as though there were a forest fire in the end zone behind us. Hanahan didn’t score until the final minutes of the game, when our second string gave up a harmless field goal. When the final whistle blew, we had defeated the fifth-ranked team in the state by an amazing score of 56-3. Our fans flooded the field after the game, but this time there was no pulling down the goalposts. A most miraculous thing had occurred—our long-suffering football fans were becoming accustomed to winning.

Drifting through that boisterous crowd was an entrance into wonderland for me. I had longed for a normal life for so long that it seemed like an unobtainable ideal. But here is what it was at last—my taking leave of a football field, shaking hands with my Hanahan opponents, receiving the congratulations of fans and teammates, being hugged by girls whose names I didn’t even know, by cheerleaders whose uniforms were as sweaty as mine—yes, this was now my new normality, not being handcuffed to a bed at a mental hospital, paralyzed by drugs. I liked being part of a team with a game plan and a way of deliverance for a boy who knew how much he needed it. I drifted toward the locker room, believing I was savoring the ecstasy of the moment, until I realized I was postponing the inevitable. The real reason for my hesitation to join in the jubilation of my teammates was my fear of taking Molly Huger to the sock hop after the game.

W
hen I entered the dimly lit gymnasium, the awful reminder hit me like a well-aimed meteorite that I had never been to a high school dance before and had no idea how to conduct myself. Nor was I sure how to set my face—a confident smile, an easy nonchalance, a cocky watchfulness. I found myself simply defenseless as I felt my face congeal into a dewy lostness.

I saw Molly approach from across the gym. She had changed out of her cheerleading uniform and was dressed in a simple skirt and blouse and the white socks that the basketball coach required for even the most soft-footed dancer. She rushed forward to meet me, and surprised me by hugging me and kissing me playfully on the cheek. “What a great game, Leo. This team has a chance to go the distance.”

“It already has, for me,” I told her.

A song ended. The disc jockey for the evening and the rest of the year was the unflappable Trevor Poe. I heard him say, “One of our all-stars, Leo King, has just entered the room. I’d like to call on him and his beautiful date, Molly Huger, to lead off the next dance. I’d also like to call on his cocaptain, Ike Jefferson, and his pretty date, Betty Roberts, to join them in the first slow dance of the evening. Slow dance! Doesn’t it just make your toes curl to think about? Now, let’s hear some well-deserved applause for our cocaptains. Ah, that’s it. Last year, Peninsula High was ranked last in the league and here we stand undefeated beneath the eyes of man and God. I call this the Cocaptain Dance. The floor is theirs until I give the signal with my tambourine. Now, let the deejay work his showmanship.”

Trevor set the needle down and Bert Kaempfert’s “Wonderland by Night” flooded the gym with notes so sensuous and romantic that each one seemed honey-flecked. Taking Molly into my arms was one of the defining moments of my life. Her cheek touched mine and her hand pulled me close. Her breath was minty and fresh when she whispered, “I love this song.” I wished I could force her to spend all eternity whispering in my ear. As we danced, the hushed crowd watched us in breathless silence. I caught Ike’s eye and he winked at me. Feeling one-tenth sexy for the first time, I winked back with the palmy confidence of a world-famous womanizer or a Left Bank boulevardier on the prowl in Paris, instead of a loser on his first date. Molly smelled like the climbing jasmine that overwhelmed the trellises in my mother’s summer garden. I could breathe in sunshine and balsam in her hair, and her breasts felt soft and yielding, yet untouchable.

Trevor tapped his tambourine, and the rest of the school joined us. “Wonderland by Night” would be my favorite song for the rest of my life because of Molly Huger’s bright eyes, shapely lips, pretty face, lovely body—because I felt my soul leave my own fortressed country of hurt and surrender in the time it took for a ninety-second song to begin and end. I was dizzy with my love of Molly when I spotted Niles and Fraser motioning to us from the front door. Taking Molly’s hand, I led her through the frenzied dancers who were dancing to the Beatles’ “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”

Though it shouldn’t have surprised me, Fraser and Molly threw their arms around each other and began silently weeping. They excused themselves and rushed to the ladies’ room on the other side of the gym, leaving me and Niles alone.

“We just visited Starla in the hospital,” Niles said. “She’s still groggy as hell, but we told her all about the game. She laughed when she heard that Chad was dating Bettina and that Molly sought revenge by asking you to the dance.”

“Why’d she laugh?”

“Starla’s always had a thing about mischief,” Niles said. “She loves to see things stirred up, everything simmering, right to the boiling point.”

“Why aren’t Chad and Bettina at the dance?” I asked.

“Fraser’s positive that Chad has taken her to the beach house on Sullivan’s Island, trying to get laid.”

“Ike handled the crisis well tonight,” I said.

“The cat’s a leader,” Niles said. “It comes natural to him.”

“Why did Fraser and Molly start crying when they saw each other?”

“They’ve been best friends for a long time,” Niles said. “Fraser started crying as soon as she saw you dancing with Molly. She can’t remember a time when Chad and Molly weren’t sweethearts.”

“I think Molly really likes me,” I said. “I really do.”

Niles studied me for a moment, and I could study him in return as he tried to form the correct words in his mind, truthful words but not ones that would injure an already wounded spirit.

“Toad,” he said, “we’re not in these girls’ league. We’re playthings to them. We’re not the boys they’re going to turn to when they get serious about life. Chad’s convinced Fraser that she’s the homeliest girl in the world. She needs me now because I think she’s the nicest girl I’ve ever met, and she’s a doll too. I’ve always had to pick out girls who thought they were ugly as homemade sin, and they’re always grateful for my attention. Then Starla gets a wild hair up her ass and tells me we’re running away from another orphanage.”

“Why do you always go with her?” I asked.

“She couldn’t survive without me.”

“Why don’t you talk her out of it?”

“You checked out my sister’s listening skills?”

“No, I guess I haven’t.”

“That’s because she ain’t got any,” Niles said.

“Why do you put up with it?”

“She’s all I’ve got,” Niles answered. “Maybe all I’ll ever have.”

“Nah,” I said, “you’re the star quarterback. Star quarterbacks get anything they want.”

“This year’s going too good,” he said. “It’s scaring the shit out of me.”

“Then enjoy it.”

“Can’t. Here’s the one given of my and my sister’s life: we’re not allowed to have a good time.” Niles brightened. “Look there, Toad: two pretty girls looking for us. It doesn’t get much better than that, does it?”

“It’s at the top of my list.”

Molly took my hand and led me back out onto the dance floor where we danced every dance, slow or fast or in between, for the rest of that magical evening. Dancing with Molly Huger became the standard by which I measured all the rare incursions of magic into my life. She was a high-spirited dancer with a natural gracefulness that came wrapped in sexy undertones. That night as I listened to Trevor announce every song with a brief, witty, and sometimes bawdy introduction, I learned that I loved to dance, and could feel myself grow better at it as the night wore on. Looseness was the bright essence of the dance, the prominent ingredient necessary to let the bloodstream join the rhythm of the music and the girl whose hand you held: two bloodstreams, two bodies conjoined until looseness took command and swirled you into a zone of comfort where you’d never been before.

There was a commotion at the front door. Sheba Poe made one of the cinematic entrances that would become her trademark, and her brother announced the noteworthiness of the moment. In his beret and sunglasses, Trevor beat time on the palm of his hand with his tambourine as Sheba danced into the middle of the floor. Of course, she could not just date the president of the National Honor Society or the captain of the basketball team. No, Sheba Poe had brought the regimental commander of The Citadel as her inaugural date of the year.

“At center court, ladies and gentlemen, is the undiscovered starlet of stage and silver screen—that sultry siren of the forbidden night, that unforgettable vixen known to all of you as the delectable Sheba Poe. Her date is the redoubtable regimental commander of The Citadel, Cadet Colonel Franklin Lymington, from Ninety Six, South Carolina. You know Ninety Six? It’s right next to Ninety Seven and just down the road from One Hundred, South Carolina.”

The audience booed Trevor with good-natured relish and marveled that he had been a South Carolina resident for such a short period yet had already milked the comedy from one of the state’s most oddly named towns. Trevor then put on Bill Haley and the Comets’ “Rock Around the Clock.” He pulled Sheba up on the stage with him, and the twins performed the sexiest, most orgasmic dance I had ever seen. It drove the black kids at the dance wild, and the twins’ gyrations freed them from the inhibitions they had carried to a formerly all-white high school. The poor regimental commander from Ninety Six stood watching his date perform a sinuous, leopardlike dance that looked part Zulu and part nervous breakdown.

As Trevor put on the next record, he said, “There are people who are not dancing in this gym. Bashfulness is banned. Get bold. Everyone here is going to dance to the next song. So get ready. Sheba and I will show you how it’s supposed to be done. Then you follow our lead.”

“The Stroll” blasted through the speakers, and Trevor leaped in a graceful, featherlike jump from the stage. I remembered my brother, Steve, trying to teach me that dance when we were both small boys, and how we would strut and show off in front of my parents as they applauded every exaggerated move. Molly took my hand, and we began our own version of the stroll down the center of the gymnasium. We added jerks and shakes and spontaneous throes that were brand-new to both of our bodies, and people began to clap in appreciation of our unpracticed duet. In front of us, I watched as Sheba and Trevor separated and went trolling along the front line of the crowd to pull out the shiest, most unnoticed students and make them join the dance.

Being a failed teenager is not a crime, but a predicament and a secret crucible. It is a fun-house mirror where distortion and mystification lead to the bitter reflections that sometimes ripen into self-knowledge. Time is the only ally of the humiliated teenager, who eventually discovers that the golden boy of the senior class is the bald, bloated drunk at the twentieth reunion, and that the homecoming queen married a wife beater and philanderer and died in a drug rehabilitation center before she was thirty. The prince of acne rallies in college and is now head of neurology, and the homeliest girl blossoms in her twenties, marries the chief financial officer of a national bank, and attends her reunion as the president of the Junior League. But since a teenager is denied a crystal ball that will predict the future, there is a forced-march quality to this unspeakable rite of passage. When a girl feels the first drops of menstrual blood, how is she to know that this is the sacred stream of life, the stir of her blooming fertility, the world’s thunderous answer to decay and death? And what is a boy to think when he studies the great surprise of semen in his hand, except that his body has become a firestorm and undiscovered volcano where lava is made in the furnace of his loins? It is an unforgivable crime for teenagers not to be able to absolve themselves for being ridiculous creatures at the most hazardous time of their lives.

As the dance broke up, Molly stood on her tiptoes and whispered to me, “I’m starved. Let’s go get a barbecue sandwich at the Piggy Park.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

“Don’t you think the Piggy Park has the best barbecue in town?” she asked.

“Never tasted better,” I lied. Since I’d never been out on a date before, I had never ventured near that legendary national park of Charleston teenage bliss. It could also be a dangerous, hormonal gathering place that competing high schools wanted to claim as home territory. The undisputed kingpin of the Piggy Park was Wormy Ledbetter, with his greasy sycophants with their big muscles and borderline IQs. But I would have taken Molly Huger to the Berlin Wall if she had asked me in her sweet voice.