The Party (4 page)

“All right,” she said cheerfully. “But I know it was all your idea, Bubba. Michael wouldn’t fool with people’s grades.”

“Nor would I,” Bubba said curtly.

Alice laughed again, oblivious to the tension in the room. Giving Michael a quick kiss on the cheek, she reminded him to be sure to get to the stadium by halftime. The instant she was gone, Bubba turned off the screen and shook his head.

“Mike, you’re not improving your chances of being valedictorian by trying to get us both expelled.”

“Alice won’t talk. She’s my friend.”

“Alice is a fifteen yearold girl who is not my friend. I don’t trust her.”

“Don’t worry about it. She was only kidding.”

Bubba thought for a moment. “All right, Mike. Whatever you say.”

Michael and Bubba went to the mall for lunch shortly after that. It was crowded. Michael remembered when the mall had been nothing but a piddling collection of failing stores. Put a roof over something and people swarmed in.

Michael ordered a turkey sandwich from Ed’s Sandwich Selection. His mother was usually too tired after working all day as a secretary in a downtown highrise to cook; he had grown up eating most of his food wedged between two slices of bread.

He was practically finished with his sandwich before Bubba had even decided what to order. Bubba finally opted for Indian food, which took time to prepare (to his specifications). By then many of Tabb’s students had already come and gone so they could be back for the special assembly of candidate speeches. Michael also had a mild interest in hearing the talks. Plus he hoped to run into Jessica Hart again. He had begun to take Bubba’s threat seriously. At Michael’s prodding, Bubba got his dishes to go.

The assembly was well under way when they entered the gym. The bleachers were jammed. They stood near the ticket booth beside the entrance, Bubba holding his aromatic spiced Dahl and rice in a white cardboard container, surveying the audience for a seat. In a high, cracking voice, a girl at the microphone was talking about school spirit and how farout she was.

“Do you see her?” Bubba asked.

“I’m not looking for her.”

“I believe you. I see her.”

“Where? Don’t point.”

“Sixth row on the far right, two rows behind Fosmeyer’s body.”

Michael saw her. It was amazing how her beauty had magnified since morning. The shine of her long brown hair seemed to jump right out from the crowd. “All right, let’s leave,” Michael said.

“But you dragged me back here. No, we’re going to sit behind her.”

Michael didn’t like that idea. “There’s no room.”

Bubba ignored him. “Come on.”

They didn’t actually get the seats directly behind Jessica, but a couple of rows back. Bubba obtained the space by gesturing to a couple of sophomores to move to the rear. Bubba did not have a reputation for being violent; nevertheless, the kids jumped when he pointed. Climbing the steps, Michael had kept his head turned away from Jessica. He didn’t know if she’d noticed him.

Sitting in the row between Michael and Jessica were a couple of Tabb’s football players. They cheered loudly as the next speaker was announced: Bill Skater. Bubba began to lay out his Indian delicacies, opening a bottle of Perrier and spreading a cloth napkin across his lap. Michael saw Jessica lean forward as Bill strode toward the microphone. She had a pudgy girl with dark hair on her left and an orangehaired girl on her right. These two girls turned and spoke to Jessica when Bill appeared. Michael leaned forward, trying to block out Bill’s opening statements, straining to hear what the girls were saying.

“He walks like a stiff board,” the one on the left said.

“I hear he’s the worst quarterback in Tabb’s long history of terrible quarterbacks,” the one on the right said.

“Shut up, both of you,” Jessica said.

“Oh, but I think he’s cute,” the one on the left said.

“He should take his shirt off and give his speech,” the one on the right agreed.

“Shh. I want to hear what he has to say,” Jessica said.

“What for, we’ve heard it all before,” the one on the left said.

“Yeah, I wish I could get down there and tell them what this school really needs,” the one with orange hair said.

This last comment caused Jessica and her pal on the left to break into laughter. Michael didn’t know what was so funny. He wondered if Jessica was interested in Bill Skater.

Michael listened to Bill’s speech with an open and unprejudiced mind, but never did figure out what he was running for, much less why anyone should vote for him. Bubba continued to savor his meal. When Clair Harley’s name was announced next, however, Bubba looked up.

“Isn’t she something?” he muttered as Clair swaggered to the microphone in her cute blueandgold cheerleader uniform.

“She’s an empty phony devoid of an iota of intelligence.”

Bubba nodded. “True. But if you look past those superficial qualities, you’ll see her true value.”

“Which is?”

“It’s hard to express in words. Just imagine her naked.”

Clair’s speech had a content similar to Bill’s, which is to say it had no content at all. But she giggled a lot, whereas Bill had been as stiff as the board Jessica’s friend had compared him to, and she did have an alluring way of propping her hands on her hips at the top of her undeniably gorgeous legs. Clair made it clear she wanted to be school president

The name Sara Cantrell was called next.

“What the hell?” the girl on Jessica’s right said.

“Go ahead, tell them what this school really needs,” Jessica said.

“No way. I’d have to start by telling them it doesn’t need me.”

“Coward,” the girl to Jessica’s left said.

“Don’t call me a coward, you spineless fish.”

“Sara Cantrell, please?” the announcer repeated.

“It took you three years to alienate everyone at Mesa,” Jessica said. “Just think of the power you’ll have behind that microphone. You can do it all in one afternoon here.”

The logic appealed to the strange girl named Sara. Michael watched as she stood and made her way down the bleacher steps and onto the gymnasium floor.

“Hi, I’m Sara,” she began, completely at ease. “I’m not really running for anything. My friends Jessica Hart and Polly McCoy signed me up because they thought it would be funny to get me down here.” Sara pointed toward her friends. “They’re sitting right over there. Let’s give them a big laugh to show them that at least we think
they’re
funny.”

The audience cheered loudly. Jessica and Polly turned beet red and buried their faces in their knees. Michael burst out laughing.

“But since I am here,” Sara continued, “I do have a few things I’d like to say. First, I don’t think you should vote for anybody who’s spoken this afternoon. They all struck me as a bunch of insecure idiots, looking to get their egos stroked. Second, I don’t believe we need student officers at all. What do they do? I’ll tell you. Nothing! And finally, I don’t know who out there stole the chewing gum from my locker, but I hope you choke on it. Thank you.”

Sara received a standing ovation and thunderous applause. She walked back to her place as though she were just another spectator taking her seat. But she grinned when she reached her friends.

“How did I do?” she asked.

“You’ll probably be expelled,” Polly said.

“Or elected,” Jessica said.

“I think your girlfriend’s right,” Bubba whispered in Michael’s ear.

Nick Grutler did not go to the mall for lunch nor did he attend the afternoon assembly. He didn’t own a car to drive anywhere, and no one had told him about the election. Indeed, although Nick had been in school every day since Monday, no one at Tabb had even spoken to him outside of class, and that included his teachers. Nick Grutler was six feet four, wiry as a hungry animal, and as black as midnight. No one had spoken to him for the simple reason that they were afraid of him.

Tabb High had several black students—four to be exact, two girls and two boys—but none of them was a recent transfer from East L.A. where youth gangs ruled. None of them had the pentup emotion that came from having to master the use of a switchblade by age twelve just to survive. Nick had not killed anybody—no one he had been forced to stab, at least, had died in his presence—but he had seen more violence than most war vets. And he had always hated it, and worse—in his own mind, for someone of his size and strength—had been afraid of it. None of teachers that had yet to speak to him had noticed that the new boy from the other side of the city who sat so still during class actually had tremors beneath his skin. Nick had a lot he wished he could forget.

But it was his intention to forget, or if that was not possible, at least to put the past behind him. He considered the new job his divorced father had landed in a nearby aerospace firm as a gift from above. Another summer in East L.A. like the past one, Nick knew, probably would have seen him killed. On the other hand, Tabb High was no paradise either, so far.

He was enrolled as a senior, but he had to admit to himself that he hardly qualified as a freshman in this part of town. He was going to have to read the textbooks they had given him.
He was going to have to learn
to read.

He had absolutely no one to talk to. The white kids at school were all caught up in things that he had always imagined were just for TV characters. They went to the beach and parties and worried about what they were going to wear to the next dance. In a way they were like children to him. They had never stared down the barrel of a sawedoff shotgun and been ordered to kiss cold metal. They had lived incredibly sheltered lives. And yet, they were lightyears beyond him. They knew all kinds of stuff. They could get up in front of a whole class and speak what was on their minds. They had nice clothes, nice cars, and lots of money. They could laugh at the drop of a hat. He had spent Monday through Thursday feeling superior to them. But now that it was Friday, he realized he was jealous—and all alone.

His counselor had put him in sixth period P.E., where all the athletes were. The only connection Nick had had with any sport was basketball. He used to play in a lot of pickup games in the inner city. Of course, basketball season was months away. The coach who oversaw the EE. class hadn’t known what to do with him. Finally he’d asked if Nick would like to lift weights. Sure, Nick had said.

Nick was working up a sweat with over two hundred pounds on the bench press that Friday afternoon when the big, fatlegged dude with the thinlipped mouth began to hassle him.

“A little heavy for you?” the dude asked, taking up a position near Nick’s knees. Lying on his back, Nick could see that the weight room was fairly crowded, about twenty guys pumping iron. He suspected they were all on the football team, and that not a single one of them would rally to his side if this guy started to get rough. He knew instantly the guy was looking for a fight. He had an instinct for such things.

“It’s not bad,” he muttered, letting go of the bars and sitting up. Perhaps if he went on to another machine, he thought, there was a chance the guy would leave him alone. Unfortunately, the guy was blocking his way.

“What did you say, boy?” the big white kid asked.

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, you did. I heard you say something. What was it?”

Nick scooted back to where he was able to swing his leg around the bench press table without touching the guy. “I said, it was not bad. The weight wasn’t.”

The guy smiled. A couple of his buddies behind him stopped lifting to watch. “You must be pretty strong, boy. How many pounds were you lifting there?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? How come you don’t know?”

Nick stood up. tI wasn’t keeping track.”

The guy followed him to the next machine, which exercised the hamstrings. To use it, Nick would have to lie face down, which was not something he wanted to do at the moment. He stood undecided as all around him more guys stopped working out to stare.

“What are you waiting for?” the dude asked, moving closer. Nick estimated the guy had forty pounds on him, but knew that his gut was soft, a swift fist in the diaphragm and the white kid would go down. Nick also estimated that about twenty guys would jump him the moment the guy hit the floor.

“Nothing,” Nick had never mastered the art of talking his way out of a fight.

“Aren’t our machines good enough for you?”

Nick lowered his head. “They’re all right.”

“Just all right? You sure spend enough time on them, time that someone else on the team could be using. Are you getting my meaning, boy?”

Nick got it very well. But suddenly he didn’t feel that he should. This is how it had always been with him. He would try to avoid a confrontation up to a point—and then he just wouldn’t bend anymore. He would explode. He hated being called boy.

“No.”

The guy lost his smile. “No what?”

Nick looked him straight in the eye. He hadn’t really looked anyone in the eye all week. “I have as much right to use this equipment as you do. If you think I don’t, that’s your problem.”

“Really? Well, I think it just became your problem.” And with that, the guy shoved him hard in the chest.

Nick had been expecting the move, and it was still his intention to floor the guy without seriously injuring him. But what followed proved unexpected. Absorbing the blow without losing his balance, Nick moved slightly to the right and forward. He planned to grab the guy by the left arm, spin him around, and put him in a choke hold. He figured that would be the best way to keep his teammates at bay. He couldn’t believe it when the overweight tub anticipated
his
move and caught his right hand, whipping him into the nearby wall with incredible force. On the wall hung a mirror the guys used to admire themselves. It splintered on impact beneath Nick’s skull, cutting into his scalp. Then he was on the floor, trying to stand. Blood trickled down the side of his face. The guy’s feet were approaching.

“You goddamn piece of—M the dude swore as he let fly a kick toward Nick’s forehead. Nick was through treating him carefully. He ducked the fat foot and crouched, coiling the power of his legs. The momentum of the misplaced kick left the white dude twisted at an awkward angle. Nick launched himself upward, grabbing the guy’s hair with both hands and snapping his right knee into his groin. The bastard couldn’t even scream out. Doubling up, making a strangled gasping sound, he fell to the floor, turning a sick pasty color.

“Who’s next?” Nick barked, glaring at the remainder of the room. He doubted that he’d scare off the whole gang, and he was right. You couldn’t bluff people out of a twentytoone advantage. A few of the stockier fellows began to close in. Instinctively, Nick knelt and grabbed ahold of a large jagged slice of mirror. The players paused warily, glancing at one another. It was then that the head of the football team, Coach Campbell, barged in.

Nick had seen the man before. Approximately forty years old, he had tan leathery skin and a wide blunt face Nick thought particularly ugly. Although below average in height, he was built like a tree trunk and had one of those thick raspy voices that was usually the result of years of shouting.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded. He saw his player rolled up on the floor and then saw Nick bleeding, with the glass knife in his hand. A look of pure disgust filled his already disgusting face. “Put that down!”

Nick set the piece of mirror on the floor. He had been gripping it so hard, it had cut into his fingers, and they were bleeding as well. Coach Campbell moved so close to Nick that Nick could feel his hot breath on his bare chest. “What did you do to Gordon?” he asked.

“He attacked m-me,” Nick stuttered.

“He attacked
you
? Why would he attack someone carrying a knife?” The coach backed off a step, scowled down at Gordon. “Skater, Fields, help The Rock to the infirmary.”

The Rock
, Nick thought.

The players did as told and soon the guy had been cleared away. From the outside, Nick knew he was standing perfectly still, but inside he was shaking. He half expected the coach to belt him in the face. Worse, he had no doubt at all that he was to be expelled, and that his father would kick him out of the house when he heard.

“What’s your name, son?” Coach Campbell asked.

“Nick Grutler.”

“Where you from? What are you doing here?”

“This is where I go to school.”

“Who gave you permission to use the facilities in this room?”

“The other coach.”

“Who?”

“I don’t remember his name.”

Coach Campbell folded his arms across his chest, nodding to himself. “I know who you are. You’re that transfer from Pontiac High downtown. I was warned about you. I see I should have listened.”

Nick swallowed. “He started it.”

Coach Campbell looked around the room. “Is this true?” He waited for an answer. No one spoke up. The coach sighed, shook his head. “Grutler, either you’re a liar or else no one here gives a damn about your hide. I don’t know which is worse. But I can tell you one thing, you’re on your way out, out of this room and off this campus.” He began to walk away. “See someone at the infirmary about your cuts. Then come to my office.”

A heavy weight descended on Nick, and for the first time an outsider might have noticed a crack in his reserve. He was stooped over slightly; he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He really had wanted to fit in.

Then the unexpected happened for the second time in a few minutes. One of the guys in the corner began to laugh. The sound caused Coach Campbell to stop in the doorway and glance over his shoulder. The guy in the corner kept right on laughing, louder and louder. The coach turned toward him, glaring.

“What are you giggling about, Desmond?” Coach Campbell demanded.

The guy got up slowly, shaking his head. “It’s just that you remind me. Coach, of a sheriff in a movie I saw last night on TV. The sheriff tried to put a black fella behind bars just ’cause he didn’t like his looks. Sitting here, I was thinking you talked just like him. You see that movie, Coach? You would have liked it. The sheriff ended up going to jail.”

“What’s your point?”

The guy yawned. “Seems to me if The Rock wants to pick on people that can kick his ass, I don’t see why it’s anybody’s business except his and the guy he’s hassling.”

“Are you saying The Rock started this? Why didn’t you speak up earlier?”

“Couldn’t be bothered, I guess.”

Coach Campbell glanced at Nick, then back at the guy. Nick could see Desmond was no slouch, either. About six feet with a head of thick brown hair, he had a powerfully developed physique. More important to Nick, though, when he had begun to laugh, the other guys in the room had backed off slightly, as though even his humor intimidated them. Coach Campbell seemed to take him seriously enough.

“What are you doing in here, anyway, Desmond?” the coach asked. “Don’t you have a crosscountry race to run this afternoon?”

“I do, yeah. So what?”

“You shouldn’t be tiring yourself out beforehand lifting weights.” Then his tone took on a bitter edge. “You shouldn’t be running at all. Why don’t you suit up for tonight’s game? We need some help at fullback.”

“I’ll tell you why, Coach. ’Cause I don’t feel like it.”

“You’re wasting God given talents. You could go to college on a scholarship. You have the potential to go to Notre Dame!”

Desmond looked bored, sat down. “No way, I ain’t even Catholic.”

Coach Campbell let out an exasperated breath, turned to Nick. “All right, Grutler, we’ll let it pass this time. But in the future, try to stay out of trouble.”

Nick had not expected an apology. “Yeah, sure.”

When the coach had left, everyone went back to pumping iron, except for Desmond, who pulled on a torn crosscountry jersey and strolled outside. Nick caught up with him on the hot asphalt between the weight room and the gym.

“Hey, I just wanted to thank you,” Nick said.

The guy didn’t even slow down. “No problem. I got a real kick out of seeing you knee The Rock between the legs. I bet that pig can’t stand up straight for a week.”

“Well, I won’t forget it. I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me nothing. But if you want to buy me a case of beer someday, I’ll drink it.”

And with that, Desmond walked away.