War and Watermelon

Table of Contents

 

 

VIKING
Published by Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

First published in 2011 by Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

Copyright © Rich Wallace, 2011
All rights reserved

 

“Get Together”
Words and Music by Chet Powers
Copyright © 1963 IRVING MUSIC, INC.
Copyright Renewed.
All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

 

Summary: As the summer of 1969 turns to fall in their New Jersey town,
twelve-year-old Brody plays football in his first year at junior high while his
older brother's protest of the war in Vietnam causes tension with their father.

eISBN : 978-1-101-52440-4

[1. Brothers—Fiction. 2. Fathers and sons—Fiction. 3. Vietnam War, 1961–1975
—Protest movements—Fiction. 4. United States—History—1969—Fiction.
5. Football—Fiction. 6. Junior high schools—Fiction. 7. Schools—Fiction.
8. Family life—NewJersey—Fiction. 9. New Jersey—History—20th century—Fiction.]

I. Title.
PZ7.W15877War 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010041043

 

 

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

I
look across the pool and see Patty Moriarity and Janet DeMaria hanging out by the refreshment stand. They're in two-piece bathing suits, but not bikinis. They're the type of girls that are over our heads. Not at the top of the list of coolest girls, but close to it. We're pretty much near the bottom of the guys; low-middle at best.

“Junior frickin' high school,” Tony says.

We'll be starting seventh grade three weeks from tomorrow—the day after Labor Day. Switching rooms for different classes, though not as much as my brother, Ryan, did when he went there. The third floor of Franklin School was condemned last year because of the roof, but we'll still be using the rest of it. And taking shop.

We lie in the sun for about half an hour. I never tan much; I get freckles. My family is mostly Scottish, if that explains anything.

We walk past the refreshment stand, but those girls aren't around. Gary Magrini is leaning against the bricks like he's holding up the wall. He's sneering, as always, but he gives us a slight nod of acknowledgment.

Gary's on our town's junior football team with us. He's very tan, and there are some black hairs growing around his nipples. Tony's got that dark curly hair, too, but pretty much only on his head.

I say
our
football team, but it's not mine yet. The coaches will make the final cuts tomorrow afternoon. Me and Tony are right on the cut line.

They announce an adult swim for noon—nobody under eighteen is allowed in the water for fifteen minutes.

“Let's go!” Tony says. The only time he ever wants to swim is when we're not allowed to.

We sit on the edge of the diving area with our feet dangling in the pool. It's not crowded today, so there are only about twenty adults in there. I keep my eyes on the stuck-up lifeguard with the white cream on his nose; Tony watches the chunky girl guard with the long black hair. When neither of them is looking our way, Tony whispers, “Now.”

We slide off the edge and into the water, staying under as we swim toward the diving boards. We work our way behind two old guys who are hanging out near the corner. One of them has both arms over the edge of the pool and is slowly kicking his feet. The other one is bobbing up and down, keeping a hand on the wall.

We face away from the guards, out toward Route 17, and Tony starts laughing.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. We did it.”

We've been in the water for eight seconds, so we haven't accomplished much. But anytime we get away with anything, Tony thinks it's a triumph.

We hear a whistle and I turn, but it's just the girl guard scolding a little kid for running near the pool. We sink underwater again, and I stay down for at least half a minute.

Tony was under for less time and must have burst out of the water like a drowning duck, because the other guard is already pointing at him and telling him to get out. I dive under again and swim to the other side.

I come up near the ladder and can see Tony parked on a bench behind the diving boards. The lifeguard is twirling his whistle around on its lanyard and facing Tony. He'll be benched there until the adult swim is over.

I figure I've taken enough of a risk, so I climb the ladder and shake off. I point over at Tony and give him a “ha-ha” expression, but then I feel a tap on my shoulder and the other guard is frowning at me.

“You can go join your friend on that bench,” she says.

“Why?” I say, all innocent-like. I'm dripping wet, of course.

“Get moving.”

“This is sweat,” I say. “I was playing volleyball.”

She rolls her eyes. I walk over to Tony and we crack up laughing.

Patty and Janet stroll past. We get an amused glance from Janet, whose streak of sunburn across her forehead isn't quite as red as her hair. Patty is looking good
,
with her sun-blonde hair reaching her shoulders.

“Hey, Patty,” Tony says.

She stops and looks over. She has no expression, but the way she's standing is sort of challenging. She's got a bit of muscle and some other new developments up top.

She kind of scares me. Not like she could beat me up or anything, but just that she could cut me down with a look or a few words. She could make it really clear where I stand in the eyes of girls our age. At least the popular ones. Where I stand is not very good, and we all know it.

Tony, on the other hand, does not seem to know his rank in the pecking order. He raises his hands, curving his fingers like he's holding two tennis balls. “Eee, eee,” he says, squeezing the air.

Patty scowls and walks away. Janet laughs a little, then follows Patty. I punch Tony on the arm. “Idiot,” I say.

He's smiling and nodding.

“Junior frickin' high school,” he says again. “Can't wait for that.”

 

There's a breeze tonight, so I throw my bedroom window open as wide as it goes. I can hear the hum of a plane landing down the hill at Teterboro Airport, and I see the red and white lights of the Empire State Building just a few miles farther to the east.

The Mets lost again. Shut out by the Astros. I can't stomach listening to the post-game, so I switch the radio over to WMCA and catch the end of “Baby, I Love You.” Then they start playing some awful Bobby Sherman song, and I'm too tired to reach over and switch to another station. So it's playing when my brother sticks his head in my room and points to the radio.

“You're still listening to that Top Forty crap?” Ryan asks.

“Still?” I got the radio three weeks ago for my twelfth birthday. How long is that? “What are
you
listening to?”

Ryan smiles. “Dylan. Hendrix. Stuff you don't hear on AM.” He rubs his chin, where a scruffy blond beard is trying to establish itself. The fuzz on his face is a lot lighter than the very long strands on his head, which reach his shoulders.

My radio doesn't get FM. I fiddle with the dial and try to find another music station. The only one that comes in clear is playing the same stupid song. “Little Woman.”

“Turn it up, Brody!” Ryan says. He fakes like he's really into it—miming the lyrics, swiveling his hips, and narrowing his eyes. He's lean like I am and wiry.

I switch back to the post-game. Somebody's interviewing Ron Swoboda about the Mets' slump. “Everybody's quick to blame the manager,” he says. “That's too easy. We're the ones losing. The players.”

Ryan laughs. “Worst team in the history of sports.” He takes a seat on the edge of my bed. “Great concert coming up this weekend. Big-time scene.”

“You going?”

He glances toward the door and lowers his voice. “If they let me use the car.” He's been driving for almost a year, but not often. You don't need to drive much in this town; it's not more than a mile from one end to the other. And the buses take you into the city or to Hackensack.

“Where at?”

“Upstate New York. Some farm. They say everybody's gonna be there. Jimi, Santana, Jefferson Airplane.”