Yearbook (18 page)

A lineman to his left muttered something about it being a little late for that.

“Hey, shit-face! Godammit, I’m talking to you! We are going to win this game, and anybody doesn’t believe me had better damn well get the fuck off this field right now. Got it?”

Corky’s eyes darted face to face around the circle, making ten momentary contacts. Once again, they were all with him.

“Okay. Reverse split. On two. Let’s move!”

And they did. With seven minutes left, the squad ignited. Surrounded by blockers, Corky carried the ball into enemy territory. Nothing could stop him. Padded players dropped like toy soldiers.

Touchdown. The Eagles kicked the extra point and moved ahead, 7-6.

Ro-Anne cheered and did her split. Guy clicked his camera. Carl stopped holding his breath. And Petrillo finally caught his.

All was forgiven.

With three minutes to play, Corky flew in from nowhere, Captain Marvel intercepting a Hempstead pass, before dashing forty graceful yards for another touchdown.

The gun went off. The crowd went berserk. The Eagles had their trophy.

TWENTY-FOUR
 

THE LOCKER ROOM was filled with hugs and whoops.

Corky wanted none of it. While winners partied, he sulked.

Petrillo and he avoided eye contact, each more embarrassed than the other.

Corky washed, dressed and pushed his way past happy hordes invading the area. Alone outside, he sucked in a deep breath of cold air. His knees felt weak, as though about to buckle. He clenched his fists as he hurried to his car. It was the only way to keep them from trembling.

When he got home Carl and Dora were in the living room, waiting.

His mother put her slender arms around his waist, holding him tight. Corky kissed her forehead.

“Close one, huh?” Carl came over to place a solid open hand on Corky’s shoulder. “For awhile I didn’t think you’d make it.”

“Me neither,” Corky said.

“Guess we all make mistakes.” Carl smiled.

An hour later Ro-Anne and Corky were driving around the back roads in his Chevy. She sat pressed next to him.

“God, you’re tense!” She swatted the Styrofoam dice dangling from the windshield.

He floored the gas pedal.

“I love driving fast with you. Reminds me of the Indy five hundred.”

The tires screeched as Corky went around a sharp turn, assaulting the brakes.

Ro-Anne suggested going for pizzas. Corky said he wasn’t hungry. Besides, he didn’t feel like seeing anyone. Just wanted to drive around awhile. Not talking. Not thinking. Unwinding.

They sped through the darkening night. Half an hour later, Corky pulled off the road and killed the engine.

Turning, he put his hand behind Ro-Anne’s head, drew her to him, and kissed her with such force it startled her.

Pleased, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, hard.

His hands under her sweater now, he wrestled with the ribs of her bra until he found the soft downy flesh of her breasts. When he pinched one of her extended nipples, she moaned with such pleasure he sprang to life against his pants. He lifted the tight sweater up, above her breasts and brought an open mouth to the smoothness of her skin.

While his tongue washed over her breasts, she purred and scratched his back.

He took her hand and placed it on top of his crotch. She obligingly stroked it once and, ever the lady, removed it. He took hold of her hand as custom dictated, and brought it back down, this time making sure her fingers engulfed the outline of his erection. She stroked it gently.

While his tongue rolled over her gums, she placed both hands inside his open shirt, feeling his muscular chest.

As he unzipped his fly with one hand, he used the other to coax her fingers inside his pants, between the metal zipper teeth.

She massaged his Jockey shorts while he chewed on her ear. Breathing heavily, he opened his trousers wider. A fast shift around and he had separated her legs. Carefully, he brought a knee to the crotch area of her wrinkled woolen skirt.

She wiggled her way onto his kneecap.

He took her hand and showed how he wanted her to masturbate him. Hesitant at first, she tried pulling away. But he was calm and affirmative as always. His eyes looked down at her, telling of his need and she melted and placed her hand around the fat head of his stiff cock.

Breathing excitedly, he fought to get out of his team jacket and then his shirt. She struggled out of her sweater and bra, then shifted so he could lower the zipper on the side of her skirt.

The warm-up was over. Time to climb into the back seat.

He kissed her hard, and when their lips parted she sighed happily, looked into his dark-green eyes, and asked, “How come you tossed the ball to the wrong guy this afternoon?”

Zap! Corky’s erection wilted and took a nose dive. He sat up. Ro-Anne brought an innocent finger to his lips. “I said the wrong thing.”

“No. ‘Course not,” he groaned.

Sitting up quickly, she threw her hands around his neck, kissing him, coaxing his tongue back into her mouth. He pulled back and removed her hands. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. “ Corky positioned himself behind the wheel. “What are you doing?” “Nothing. I’m all right. “ “I didn’t mean anything. …”

“Not your fault.” He zippered his fly and put his shirt back on. “You’re mad at me!” “I’m not.” “You are!”

“I’m not.” He started the engine. “Where we going?”

“To get a pizza. I’m hungry.” He drove off. “I don’t want any pizza. You hate me!” “I do not. “

“Me and my big mouth.” “Forget it.”

“You’re mad at me. Go on. Admit it.”

“Will you stop saying that? Get it straight.
I am not mad at you/”
“No?”

“No/” Corky stared into the night, burned rubber and screeched around abend in the road. “I’m mad at
me!”

TWENTY-FIVE
 

THE TELEPHONE RANG and Ro-Anne continued filing her nails. It rang again.

Let him wait.

Three rings and she yawned.

After the fourth ring she picked it up and offered a casual “Hello?”

“Hi, sweets!” said Corky.

Long pause. “Who is this?”

“It’s
me!
Who’d you think?”

“I wasn’t sure. I get so many calls.”

Oops! One of
those
moods. “Sorry I was so creepy last night. Wasn’t like I planned it that way.”

Hard at work on a stubborn cuticle, Ro-Anne dismissed the apology. “Perfectly all right.”

“I’ll make it up tonight. Honest.” “Tonight?”

“Yeah. We’ll do whatever you want. Wherever you want to go.”

“Sounds wonderful. Shame I’m busy.”

“Busy?”

“Didn’t I mention it last night?”

“Mention what?”

“That I d made other plans.”

“Other plans?!” He raised his voice. “What kind of other plans?” “Just
other
plans.” “What’s his name?”

“None of your beeswax!” Ro-Anne filed, and smiled. “Besides, it’s almost six. A little late to be first asking me out, don’t you think?” “What are you talking about?” “I’d love to see you, Corky. If only I were free.” “Did I dial the wrong number? Since when do I have to ask you out in advance?”

That was the one she was waiting for. “Since you started treating me like a doormat!”

Oh, God.
“What doormat?”

“I wouldn’t mind so much if it was another woman. That I could compete with. Easy. But obviously I’m no competition for a football. So take your sleeping sickness, your lousy tantrums and your teasing games and when you decide it’s time to treat me with respect again, maybe we’ll talk about it.”

There! She’d said it. Now he’d apologize. She’d accept. Everything would be fine.

Except Corky caught on. “Well then, I guess there’s nothing left to say.”

“I guess not.” Ro-Anne blew the dust from her nail.

“Have a good time.” Corky tried sounding cheery.

“I will!” she sang.

They both hung up.

Ro-Anne continued filing until the tears rolling down her cheeks made her reach for a tissue.

Corky called Chuck Troendle. “What’s on for tonight?” he asked straight out. “Any plans?”

“Nothing special. Me and Jenkins were gonna get together.”

“Fine. Why don’t we all take a drive or something. Go somewhere. Get loaded. Still got those fake ID’s?”

“Sure!” Troendle was eager.

“Good. Tell Jenkins I’m glad he’s coming. Well need a monster like him, case we get in trouble.”

“Right. Maybe I should ask Calvin too. He’s always good in a brawl.”

“Sounds great. I’m just in the mood. Let’s meet here in an hour.”

As Corky replaced the phone it rang. A regretful Ro-Anne? He hoped so. “Hell-low?” he uttered seductively.

“Hi, Corky. It’s me. Guy the photographer.”

“Oh.” Deep breath. “What is it, kid?”

Guy made sure his voice carried throaty resonance. “Just wanted to say thanks for referring that reporter from
Newsday.
They’re going to run two photos of you.”

That cheered Corky up. “Hey! Good work. “

“I’m on my way to pick them up now. If you want, I could stop off and show you. “

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Mind? No. I’d be glad to.”

“Okay. But hurry. The guys are coming over, so we won’t have much time for—” Corky stopped when he realized the kid might feel slighted when he wasn’t asked to join the boys.

“Hey, Corky. Thanks to you, I’m rich. They’re giving me ten bucks.”

Corky spoke without thinking. “Well, then, maybe you should come along tonight. Buy us a couple of rounds.”

Silence on the other end of the wire.
Me
go with
them?
Stay cool, thought Guy. Don’t blow it by getting hysterical. “That’d be swell!” he told Corky.

“Okay, kid. Make it snappy.”

“Right.” Guy hung up wondering what in the world could have prompted Corky to invite him.

Corky hung up, wondering the exact same thing.

Two hours later there were five of them packed into Corky’s Chevy, fast heading out of town, straight for trouble. Four bruisers and a shrimp.

Corky was behind the wheel, Chuck Troendle next to him. In the back, Calvin to his left, Jenkins to his right, Guy sat crammed in between.

Jenkins opened a large brown bag and passed around five bottles of Miller’s High Life.

“Where to?” Troendle asked Corky.

“I don’t know. What do you guys think?”

“Wantagh?” suggested Calvin, taking a slug from his bottle.

“Wantagh sucks!” Jenkins grunted, and that ended discussion on that.

“Roslyn!” Troendle offered,

“Roslyn sucks!”

So much for Roslyn.

“How ‘bout Rushport?” asked Corky, a glint in his eye.

“Perfect!” Jenkins responded with a manly belch. “They’ve got some clowns there I’ve been dying to get in a dark alley.”

Guy gulped.

Corky pumped the gas pedal.

“I feel like bustin’ a few heads!” said Calvin.

“Me too,” Jenkins agreed.

Guy cracked his knuckles.

Corky saw the kid s fearsome reaction in the rear-view mirror. “What about you, Guy? You itchin’ for a fight?”

Guy shrugged. “You know me. Someone starts up. I deck em.”

Everyone grinned.

“Let’s find us acouple’afaggots to rip apart,” said Calvin.

“Yeah!” Guy agreed. “Let’s cream a few fruits.”

“I’d rather find me some girls,” said Chuck Troendle.

“Yeah!” The idea appealed to Calvin. “Let’s all get laid.”

They all agreed that was a terrific idea.

Still peering through the mirror, Corky asked, “Hey, kid? You ever been laid?”

“Sure!” Guy took a roguish sip of beer. “Lotsa times.”

“Well then, we don’t have to worry about you. It’s just these three virgins we gotta take care of.”

“I ain’t no virgin!” Calvin protested.

“Come off it, Cal.” Corky egged him on. “Beating your meat with both hands doesn’t count. Except for callused palms. “

“Funny, Henderson!” Calvin sneered.

“There’s just two secrets to women,” Corky expounded. “First and foremost, whenever they say no, they mean
yes.
That’s the lady-killer’s golden rule. Second, once you’re under the sheets—if you got to—say you love em. Sometimes it’s the only way they’ll let you into their pants. “

“What if you don’t mean it?” asked Guy.

“That’s their problem, kid. Serves em right for asking once you’re too hot to stop. “

Calvin belched. Jenkins farted. All roared.

Flooring the Chevy, Corky sped onto the Southern State Parkway.

By the time they rolled into rival Rushport, forty-five minutes and three beers later, they were indeed a spirited group.

Broadway was crowded with people and aglow with festive decorations of the season. Rows of blue, red and green lights hung suspended from one side of the street to the other; one artificially wreathed lamppost to the next. Rushport was a lot dingier than Waterfield.

Eager eyes roamed everywhere.

When Corky stopped for a red light, a souped-up Ford Fairlane pulled up beside. The car had a couple in front, another in the rear.

Corky looked over at the girl at the window seat, not three feet away. She chewed gum at a reckless pace and her hair was set in rollers and bobby pins. A red scarf circled all this radar.

When she returned Corky’s stare, he lowered his window fast and blew her a big kiss.

She giggled and the husky fellow behind the wheel gave Corky a nasty look. The light changed and the Ford took off.

Corky floored the Chevy, trying to catch up. He followed the speeding Ford a mile down the road, until it pulled into the parking lot of a big, thirty-six lane nighttime favorite called Bowl-A-Rama.

“Quick, Jenkins,” Corky instructed, turning into the parking lot. “One more fast beer all around. We’re stopping. There’s good times waiting for us in there. I can smell it.”

As the bottles were passed around, Guy hiccupped and said, “I have a confession.”

“Go on.” Corky gulped his beer.

“Not only have I never been laid,” admitted a remorseful, drunken Guy, “I’ve never even been in a fight.”