The Nuclear Age (13 page)

Once the rules had been explained, and once we’d lined up in our parallel formations, the band struck up a jazzy version of
Moon River
and someone blew a whistle and we started out across the floor. It was a ticklish experience. Exciting, I suppose, but scary. The lights had been turned off to prevent people from taking aim, and there was the strange, somewhat dizzy sensation of moving blindfolded toward a steep drop-off. Finally I closed my eyes and let the momentum take over.

I almost knocked her down.

When the lights came on, she was bent forward at the waist, drawing shallow little breaths. It took a few seconds before she recognized me.

“Oh, shit,” she said. “You.”

It was not instant love. We danced a few numbers, watched the limbo contest, then sat at one of the tables near the bandstand. She seemed a little sullen. But gorgeous—the body of a gymnast, like hardwood, and black eyes and black eyebrows and black-brown hair. And the skin. Miracle skin, I thought. Even there, in winter, it had a rich walnut gloss, smooth and flawless against a white blouse and a crisp white skirt.

For some time nothing much was said. She kept fidgeting, very ill at ease, so finally I began chattering away about various cheerleading matters, megaphones and culottes, whatever I could dream up.

“Culottes?” she said absently. “What about them?”

I glanced over at Custer. “Nothing, really. Mysterious. Tantalizing, I guess.”

“Tacky,” Sarah mumbled.

“Exactly right.”

“You, I mean.”

I smiled. “Maybe so,” I said, “but I always thought you looked fabulous in culottes. Super kneecaps. Culottes and kneecaps, they
go
together.”

“No shit?” she said. Her eyes shifted out toward the dance floor.

It was not going well, I knew that, but I couldn’t seem to settle down. I told her how I used to sit up in the bleachers during high school football games, how much I admired her cartwheels and backflips. Stunning, I said. A real athlete. I even confessed that I’d always been somewhat in awe of her—in awe of cheerleaders in general.

Sarah nodded and looked at her wristwatch.

“Well,” she said, “I can understand that. We’re special people.”

She paused and massaged her temples. When she spoke again, her voice had a plaintive quality, mournful and bleak.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “Fluffhead. All beauty, no brains. People think we’re just glitz and glitter, nobody realizes how much crap we have to put up with. Christ, if—” She stopped and stared at me. Complex things were happening in her eyes. “I mean, just
think
about it. You ever see a cheerleader with fat thighs? All that cruddy cottage cheese—God, I
hate
cottage cheese, it’s like eating chalk—but do you hear me complaining? No way, because I care. Because I’ll go that extra mile.”

“A martyr,” I said.

She gave her head a quick, violent shake.

“Don’t mock me, man. Straight A’s, you can check it out. I’m
smart
. Body and brains, the whole package.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Smart,” she said.

There was a silence.

“What I despise,” she said quietly, “is condescension. I’m a human being.”

“For sure,” I said. “A smart one.”

“Yes?”

“It’s very clear.”

Sarah frowned at me. For the first time there was some warmth in the eyes, tiny flecks of orange and silver floating in the deep blackness.

The band was playing
My Girl
.

“Well,” she said, still frowning, her voice cool and wary, “maybe you’re not such a creep after all.”

“Maybe not.”

“But still—”

Again, there was that softening. She looked at her hands.

“Anyway, this is strictly a one-night shot. We’re stuck with each other—
c’est la vie
, et cetera—but to be perfectly honest I’d rather be down in Brazil munching on maggots. No offense. Just so we have an understanding.”

I nodded, then Sarah stood up and hooked a thumb toward the dance floor.

“All right, let’s jiggle it,” she said. “Hands off, though. I know every gimmick in the book.”

She looked like a starlet. Sleek and lean and smart. She danced with her eyes closed, ignoring the crowd and the music, ignoring me. Luck, I kept thinking. Between dances we talked about the old days at Fort Derry High, the time I’d passed out in geometry class, the way she’d cradled my head and fanned me with her notebook. “Bizarre,” Sarah said, and I smiled at her and admitted that I’d gone through a rough period back then. I described the headaches and constipation, that out-of-synch sensation, my sessions with Chuck Adamson.

Sarah listened carefully.

“In other words—” She waited a moment. “Bats? Breakdown?”

“Not quite. Ancient history, back to normal.”

“Right,” she grunted. All around us people were dancing hard to drums. “And this thing at the cafeteria? The bomb scare—that’s normal?”

“No,” I said. “Necessary.”

“Which means?”

“Nothing. Just necessary.”

Sarah made a vague motion with her shoulders.

“Maybe so, but it seems a little—what’s the word?—pretentious. Mr. Prophet.”

“War,” I said. “Vietnam. In case you haven’t—”

She stepped back. “I
told
you, I’m not stupid, so you can cut out the condescending crap. The prophet with his poster, it’s all very cute, I suppose, but very half-assed.”

“Just a symbol,” I said.

“Oh, lovely.” Sarah snorted and shook her head. “Take a look around. You think these idiots care about symbols? Fireworks, that’s all they understand. Bang for the buck. It’s a bad new age—symbols don’t make it.”

“And you could do better?”

“No worse. At least you’d see some pyrotechnics. Not that I’d ever get involved.”

Her eyes moved sideways. She started to add something, then thought better of it.

The music had gone mellow.

“Symbols,” she muttered, then reached out and slipped her arms around me and came in close. There was a new openness in her posture: legs separated, a subtle tilt to the pelvis.

For the next hour things were fine. No talking, just motion. It all seemed appropriate. The scalps and arrows and twinkling lights, and the way she moved, athletic but graceful, and the mood, and the romantic expression in Custer’s wide blue eyes. I recognized the compatibilities. When we danced slow, I could feel her breasts against me, the give and take. There were skin smells, too, and a perfume of roses sprinkled with spice—clove or cinnamon.

The perfume was what did it to me.

First a prickly stirring below my belt, then the inevitable laws of hydraulics. I shut my eyes and tried to force it down, but Sarah suddenly jerked away.

“What the hell’s
that?
” she said.

“Nothing, it’s a—”

“I know what it
is!
Just keep it
away
from me!”

I was already wilting.

“An accident,” I said.

“Accident!”

“Look, I’m sorry, it’s like chemistry or something, those things happen. You shouldn’t take it quite so personal.”

Sarah winced.

“Never fails. Same old garbage—put on a letter sweater, guys automatically assume you’re Little Miss Easy Squeezie. Little Miss Huff and Puff.”

“Not me. I don’t think that way.”

“I’ve got
feelings!
”

For a second it seemed she might spin away. Her eyes moistened. It was real anger, and a kind of sadness, but then she gave me a resigned half-smile, almost tender, and locked her hands around the small of my back. She kept dancing even after the music stopped.

Here, I realized, was a very troubled young lady.

After a time Sarah sighed and put her cheek against mine. “All right, you couldn’t help it,” she said. “Chemistry. You’re not such a bad guy, really. Under other circumstances—who knows? It’s just too bad about your rotten personality.”

“My mistake.”

“A queer duck, aren’t you?”

“Unique,” I said. “One of a kind.”

She smiled. A volatile person, I thought, but it was a genuine smile, crooked and friendly.

We danced flat-footed, barely moving.

“You know what I remember?” she said. “I remember back in high school—even junior high—you had this tremendous crush on me. Remember that? Not that I blame you. Thing is, you never made a move. Didn’t even try, for God’s sake.”

“A little bashful,” I said.

“Maybe. But it was like I wasn’t quite good enough for you. I mean, did you ever smile at me? One lousy little smile?”

I thought about it.

“I guess not,” I said. “I didn’t know you were all that interested.”

Sarah laughed. “Of
course
I wasn’t interested. I would’ve shut you off like a light. All I’m saying is you never gave yourself a chance. Gutless, et cetera.”

But again she smiled.

It was tempting. Partly a dare and partly something else. Sarah looked straight at me.

“The problem,” she said softly, “is I’m bad news. Too hot to handle. You’d get burned.”

“I suppose.”

“Seriously. Don’t mess with it.”

There was still that intriguing half-smile, like an invitation, it seemed. At the corner of her mouth was a small red blister, which inspired me, and there was that hard acrobat’s body, and that perfumed skin.

I was working my way toward an act of great courage when Ned Rafferty tapped me on the shoulder and stepped in and glided away with her.

It was too quick to process. No words, just a wave, then she was gone.

“Sure,” I said, “go right ahead.”

I felt the fuses blowing. Scalped, I thought. First my father, now me.

Hard to find meaning in it.

When the music ended, I began weaving my way across the floor, but things were jammed, and by the time I got there it was too late, they were dancing again.

That fast—every time. It just happens.

I moved off to a corner and stood watching. Painful, but I had to admire Rafferty’s style, all the dips and fancy footwork. He was handsome, too—curly brown hair and gray eyes—but his greatest strength, I decided, was strength. He had that Crazy Horse power: feathers and war paint and big killer shoulders. It was pure hate. And what I hated most was the way Sarah smiled at him, that same inviting half-smile, except now it was aimed elsewhere.

Which is how it always happens.

That fast.

You get all revved up for somebody, ready to take the plunge, and the next thing you know you’re diving onto concrete.

There was a moral in it. Never underestimate the power of power. Never take chances. Because you end up getting smashed. Every time—crushed.

Safety first, that was the moral.

A half hour later Sarah found me sitting at a table near the buffet line.

“Back in the fold,” she said cheerfully, but I ignored her. I was busy twisting a scalp around my fists.

There was a hesitation before she sat down.

“You’re excited,” she said, “it’s obvious.”

At her forehead was a smudge of Rafferty’s orange war paint. I turned sideways and crossed my legs and began braiding the scalp into two neat pigtails.

For a few minutes Sarah sat watching.

“All right, listen, I’m sorry,” she finally said. She studied the scalp for a moment, then smiled. “Shouldn’t have gone off like that. The call of the wild, I guess. Fickle me. But it’s not like we’re engaged or anything. We’re barely friends.”

“Right,” I said, “barely friends. Take a walk.”

Sarah’s lips compressed.

“That old green devil. Jealousy, it gives me goose bumps.” As if by accident her hand dropped against my wrist. “Apologies, then? I didn’t mean to mess up your super ego. I was just—you know—just letting loose. Just
dancing
with the guy. No big deal.”

“He’s a turd,” I said.

“If you say so.”

“Fuzzball.”

Sarah laughed.

“Absolutely,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. Fuzzballs get boring. They tend to stick to your sweater.”

She liked me. She almost said so.

It was like riding ice, things seemed to skid by. I remember a saxophone. I remember Sarah leaning up against me. Not love, exactly, just intense liking. And it cut both ways. I liked her, she liked me. Late in the evening there was a Hula Hoop contest, which Sarah won, and afterward we ate sandwiches and potato salad, then danced, then sat in the bleachers and watched the party and talked about little things, our lives, which led into bigger things. Now and then she’d touch my arm. She’d look at me in a fond sort of way. At one point, I remember, she said she admired what I was doing at the cafeteria. It took guts, she said; it was honorable. I shrugged and said, “Half-assed?” and she was silent for a while, then said, “Well, listen, I’ve got this big mouth.” I told her it was a beautiful mouth. Then later we talked politics. It was soft, serious talk, not romantic, but it implied something. She said she hated the war as much as anyone. She had principles. She knew a thing or two about death—her father was a mortician—the stiffs stayed stiff—they didn’t wake up—she couldn’t see any reason for the killing. She put her hand on my arm. Her only quibble, she told me, was tactical. It was a real war, wasn’t it? Real bombs? Which required a real response. Posters were fine, but too passive, not enough drama.