"I wouldn't call myself smug. I don't even know what smugness entails. I'm just happy."
"No, you're smug." I forced down my bite of cinnamon-quince bagel. The food there sucks, but the place has sentimental value, considering we'd eaten there the morning after our first night together twelve years earlier, in 1992. The food sucked even then. "It's like she's a prized possession you're showing off to the world�.It's like you've hit the racial jackpot or something."
"You have a problem with her race?"
"Not with her race, but with your reaction to it. Like you're high-status or something."
"For your information, I didn't hook up with her to improve my racial status. That didn't even occur to me."
"But her race didn't hurt, right?"
"Right. Whatever you say. I'm sure you've never dated any white guys."
"You know I haven't."
"Come on, Fran. An adventuresome chick like you?"
"'Chick'? Good one, Old MacDonald."
"Human being with two X chromosomes. You had to have dated at least one white guy."
"I haven't."
Well, not counting Gerry Blanchard, I thought, the first time I'd thought about him in years.
I kept thinking about him the rest of the day. He was in my geography class my last semester of high school, back in 1979�Center High School, in Center Township, in the Western Pennsylvania town of Monaca. The other kids called him Gerry the Fairy. He was pale and chunky, squinted a lot, talked in a low-pitched whine and wore earth-toned sweater vests a size too small. And he developed a crush on me. He sat one row across from me and would stare at me like a lovesick puppy when he'd think I wasn't looking. Soon as class would end, before we've even stood up, he'd try engaging me in conversation. "Do you find the mountains of Ecuador as compelling as Mrs. Murnahan does?" "Wasn't that test illegal under the Geneva Convention?" I'd smile, respond "Yeah" or "No," then get up and walk away from him without another word. He never tried asking me out and I didn't care why.
I never saw him outside of class till graduation night, Monday, June 4, '79, when I ran into him around 10:30 in Darla Coletti's living room, at her graduation party. She was buxom and peach-colored, had been class president since ninth grade, had been voted Friendliest Girl by our class (Senior Hall of Fame elections--I hadn't voted), and planned to attend Slippery Rock State College to study communications. She had just two settings: peppy and oh-my-Gawd! peppy. Everyone loved her, even the people she treated with peppy disdain.
Well, I don't know if Gerry loved her. He must have sneaked into her party somehow; only the most popular kids, including me, had received invitations�actual printed invitations in the mail, not photocopied, with RSVP at the bottom.
"Frances!" he greeted me boisterously, in a burnt-sienna sweater vest.
"Gerald," I replied.
"You ready to boogie?"
"No, I left my boogie shoes at home."
"Ha ha! I don't own any boogie shoes! Only trendy airheads like dancing."
"I hate dancing too."
"Had the feeling you did."
The theme song to the previous year's hit movie, Grease, started playing on the stereo. That "Grease is the word" song by Frankie Valli.
"Hey, you seen Grease?" Gerry asked.
"Yeah."
"What did you think?"
"It was all right. Just a way to kill two hours."
"I hated that movie. The music was slick processed junk, and those so-called teenagers looked as old as my grandpa."
"Yeah, you have a point."
"And the movie's supposed to take place in the Fifties, but the hair and fashions looked totally disco."
"To match the theme song, I guess."
"That's right!"
"Yeah."
"What a lovely couple," a voice boomed from behind us. We turned to look. It was Greg Daniels. He was vaguely muscular, had a tan the color of Gerry's vest, had graduated top of our class, had been voted Most Likely to Succeed by our class, and had received a full scholarship from Duke University to study law. "You two plan on doing it tonight?"
"Why, Greg?" Gerry asked. "You some sort of voyeur?"
"No, but you're messing with private property." He slapped his hand on my butt. "You're my woman, right, Frances?"
"Sure," I said. He started massaging my butt.
"And you're gonna give me my graduation present later tonight in bed, right, Frances?"
"Leave her alone," Gerry said.
"'Leave her alone.' Ooh, I'm not bothering you, am I, Frances?" I didn't say anything. Greg started massaging my butt with increased vigor. "See? I'm not bothering her. But you're bothering me. So why don't you go fly away, Tinkerbell, before I grind you into fairy dust."
"Tough guy, huh? In case you haven't noticed, tough guy, we're not in high school anymore. This is the real world. Touch me and you'll go to jail. I mean it."
Greg chuckled. "You mean it, huh?"
"Did you drive here in your van?" I asked Greg.
"Huh?"
"Did you drive here in your van?"
"Yeah."
"Where did you park?"
"A block up, by the Albertsons' house. Why?"
"Oh...well...I like you, okay? I've liked you for quite a while."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I didn't tell you in school cuz I felt inferior." I laughed. "I didn't think you'd find me good enough for you."
"Why would you think that? You have some good qualities." Greg squeezed my butt hard.
"Thanks." He resumed his massage. "You know, I would like to get to know you better, but I have a few other people I have to meet here. So why don't we meet again later at your van at, say, midnight? So I can give you your graduation present."
Greg looked surprised. "You mean it?"
"Of course."
He chuckled again. "Sounds good." He removed his hand from my butt. "I'll meet you then. Remember not to wear any panties."
"Sure."
"Bye."
"Bye." He walked off.
"God, Frances," Gerry said. "You meant all that?"
"I meant to get rid of him, let's put it that way."
"But still, why didn't you slap him or fart on his hand or something?"
"I guess I felt sorry for him. Grabbing my butt's probably the closest he's ever come to having sex."
"But still�"
"It's okay. He's not the first jerk who's ever bothered me and he won't be the last."
"Well�has he ever acted that way with you before?"
"That's the first time he's ever spoken to me, and vice-versa."
We looked at each other.
"You wanna go somewhere more private?" I asked.
We went behind the tool shed in Darla's backyard.
"It's funny," Gerry said. "We share a class for six months but we hardly know a thing about each other."
"We both hate dancing."
"Yeah, that's a start. But I'd like to know more. Like, oh�are you going to college?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"Penn State. I'm majoring in business administration."
"I'm going to my parents' alma mater, Henning University. I haven't decided my major."
"Henning University?"
"It's this small private school in the town of Henning, in Central Pee Ay, in the middle of nowhere. It's not a very good school from what I've heard, but my parents gave me no choice. They wouldn't even let me apply anywhere else. They want to start a family tradition. A family tradition. I don't care, though. I'll do anything to get as far away from them as possible. Let them pay for my escape for the next four years."
"Your parents aren't that bad, are they?"
"Well, as long as they ignore me, which they do most of the time. Otherwise, they like pointing out my faults to me in excruciating detail. I'm weak. I'm fat. I'm lazy. It goes on and on till I'm a nervous wreck."
"My parents are the exact opposite. They think I'm the greatest kid in the world, which means they expect a lot from me. Oh, they say they don't mind how I do in school as long as I try my best, but I can see them trying to hide their disappointment each time I bring home a B-minus�.Here I am, still talking about high school in the present tense."
"Emphasis on 'tense.' Well, never mind your grades. I think you're smart."
"Thanks."
His lovesick-puppy look returned. "May I ask you a personal question?"
"Sure."
"What's your racial background? Your nationality I mean. Just curious."
"Korean-American?"
"Mm-hmm. My parents wouldn't hate you very much, I guess. The Orientals they really hate are the Japanese. My parents think the Japs cause all the unemployment in this country. And let's not forget World War II."
"I don't think I'll be meeting your parents for tea anytime soon."
"Good idea. It's a good idea you never meet them. That's why I've never asked you out."
"Wait a minute�you haven't asked me out because you're worried about what mommy and daddy would think?"
"Yeah, I know it's sad, considering how much I like you. You're pretty and�"
"Never mind that. You're an adult now. You can do whatever you want."
"It's not that easy. My parents are right. I am weak. I can't stop them from messing with my head. They have this dark power over me. Why did I think I could escape them by going to college? I'll never escape them, even if I moved to Antarctica. They'll control me forever, even after they die. Even after I die."
"You're so weak you don't deserve me, in other words."
"That's right. And anyway, would you even go out with me if I asked?"
"No. But at least you would have had the guts to ask."
"Yeah�.Or maybe I don't need to ask. Maybe this counts as an impromptu date."
"Call it what you want." I walked away from him without saying another word. He didn't follow me.
I walked through the back door. A few minutes later, I sneaked out through the front door. Let him tear the house apart looking for me, if he chooses.
I walked to the Stop-N-Go two blocks up, bought a large strawberry Slush, went outside and drank it the way I usually drank a Slush, by sucking out the flavored syrup through a straw, then chewing on the crushed ice till my teeth ached. I didn't miss the party in the least. I vowed I wouldn't miss anything about Center once I started college. Well, maybe I'd miss Slushes.
I looked at my watch: 11:45 PM.
Might as well.
I met Greg at midnight, right on the dot. He was standing near his van and looked surprised for a moment when he saw me. Every aspiring make-out artist and/or serial killer owned a van back then. Greg's van was white with the same painting airbrushed on each side: a bullnecked seagull flying across the setting sun, over an ocean of flattened black M's for waves. I didn't know or care if Gerry was watching us. I tossed my empty Slush cup into the Albertsons' bushes.
Greg and I got into the front of the van. "Couldn't resist my charms," he said. I shrugged.
We drove for a mile or two in silence, except for the sound of something rolling around in back. More than one thing rolling around in back. Neither of us turned on the radio, nor did I ask him to, nor did I check to see what was rolling around. I just stared off into space, feeling like I was going to church.
We parked near a wooded area off Brodhead Road. We crawled over our seats into the back of the van. A small bare mattress lay on a large ratty blue rug. Empty cans of Pringles littered the floor. So those had been rolling around.
"The Playboy Mansion on wheels," I said. He chuckled.
I flopped down onto the mattress, on my back. He carefully lay on top of me. We carefully wrapped our arms around each other. We kissed. His breath tasted like breath mints, I couldn't tell which flavor. We kissed for a while, his lips sliding all over mine. He started pawing my butt. I started getting aroused. I started pawing his butt but couldn't tell if he liked that. He wouldn't say anything. "Wait," I said. I pushed him off, sat up, unsnapped my jeans, unzipped them, and pulled them down around my knees. No panties. (I'd removed them in Darla's bathroom right before leaving and stuffed them into my back pocket.) He pulled down his jeans to reveal tiger-striped briefs. Oh brother, I thought. Do guys actually wear those things? He pulled them down, and his boner sprang free. I assumed it was of average size, whatever that was. I hadn't seen too many. He positioned himself above me, then suddenly shoved all of his dick at once into my pussy. Not a big fan of foreplay, apparently. Or maybe he couldn't last very long at that age. I felt a brief stab of pain, then felt so perturbed I didn't even bother faking an orgasm. He thrust for a few moments, ejaculated without even a moan, withdrew and noticed the blood from my torn hymen on his dick and on the mattress.
"Ew. Got some Kleenex or something?" he asked.
I gave him my panties. "Here. Keep 'em. Part of your graduation present."
We didn't talk driving back. He turned on the radio after a minute--generic Southern rock. He dropped me off at my car near Darla's house, then raced off before I could say goodbye.
Greg was available, in other words. He was available and didn't look hideous.
At least I finally got laid. At least I didn't get pregnant or get a disease. And at least high school wasn't a total waste.
Or was it? I'd never cared what people other than potential sex partners have thought about me, but now in 2004 I craved�I mean really craved�Gerry's approval. Maybe I should've been nicer to him. I still wouldn't've slept with him or been his girlfriend or anything but at least I would have made his teen years a bit more pleasant. I hadn't spoken to him since the party and now I wondered what had become of him. Did he still like me? Or did he start hating me there behind the tool shed? Did I cause him to snap, buy a white van and start driving around the country carving up Girl Scouts?
The next morning at work, I blew off revising the fiscal year 2001 employee absentee data for my company's latest client (TCG Northeast, a Cleveland firm specializing in "neo-postmodern tech-design integration for tomorrow and beyond") so I could track down my old high school classmate over the Internet. First I looked for his phone number and/or e-mail address�two listings for Gerry Blanchard, 39 for Gerald Blanchard, 84 for G. Blanchard. Not one e-mail address. I don't have that much free time to call 125 numbers. Plus how do I know the Gerry Blanchard I want doesn't have an unlisted number?
Next I looked for the Henning University alumni association's number and/or e-mail address. No luck. No listing for Henning University, either--just one match, a webpage containing the following item and nothing else:
UNIVERSITY IN PENNA. CLOSES AFTER 95 YEARS
American Scholastic Press Service, 12/21/79
HENNING, PENNA.�Without any formal warning or comment, the small Pennsylvania school Henning University closed for good today after 95 years of existence. The closure affects 150 employees and 858 students.
A senior university official, who wished to remain anonymous, said the university had closed due to declining enrollment and to "skyrocketing operating costs."
Henning University was perhaps best known as the alma mater of 1940s radio personality Wilbur Douthart, a.k.a. Professor Balderdash.
Nothing about the American Scholastic Press Service, either. Or about Professor Balderdash.
Finally, my last resort, my very last resort: I looked for the Center High School alumni association's number and/or e-mail address. No luck. I tried Center High School. A number, no e-mail. I thought talking to an actual human would bring back too many embarrassing memories, so I went to Center High's website, thinking I could find an e-mail address there. "This site is temporarily unavailable," the screen read.
Might as well.
"Good morning, Center High School," said the woman who answered. Her voice sounded familiar.
"Hello, do you have the number or e-mail address for the Center High School alumni association, class of '79?�Hello?"
"May I ask your name please, ma'am?"
"Frances Chao?"
"Oh my God, I knew it! Frances Chao! Saint Frances! This is Darla�.Darla Coletti? You were at my party graduation night?"
"Of course I was. How could I forget?"
"God, I haven't heard from you since. What have you been doing all these years?"
"Climbing the corporate ladder. I'm senior research supervisor at Vanderblock in Pittsburgh."
"Pittsburgh. That's great."
"Yeah."
"Are you married?"
"No."
"Any kids?"
"No."
"Well, I'm married with children, don't mean to brag. I'm Darla DiRocco now. People just call me Rocky. Good thing I like the Rocky movies, heh heh."
"Yeah."
"I got married in '85. I have four kids with a fifth on the way. I love the ones I have now but sometimes they now cause so much trouble I really feel like I need a fifth�a fifth of whiskey! No no, just kidding."
"Ha ha." I actually said the words "Ha ha."
"I've been receptionist here the past ten years. I never thought I'd return to high school, but here I am. The whole place has changed since we went here during the Jurassic Era. Didja know we have a website now?"
"Yeah. Do you have to get back to work?"
"Not right now. It's been a slow morning."
Oh goody. "Well, uh, do you have the number or e-mail address for the alumni association, class of '79?"
"It's my number, my home number and e-mail. I'm president of the alumni branch. What a coincidence, huh?"
"Yeah, a stunning coincidence."
"Maybe I could help you now."
"Maybe. Do you know what happened to Gerry Blanchard?...Gerry the Fairy?"
"Oh yeah, Gerry the Fairy�.No, sorry, we haven't heard from him since the party either. Though I wouldn't be surprised if he's died from AIDS by now. I know, that was mean, sorry."
"Oh well. Thanks anyway."
"No problem. Hey are you coming to our 25-year reunion this year? It'll be at the Fez, with a deejay and everything."
"The smash hits of our youth, right?"
"Uh, I guess."
"Slow-dancing to 'Anarchy in the U.K.'"
"I guess. We'll also be showing this special DVD tribute to Greg Daniels."
Oh goody.
Two hours after dropping me off, and long after I'd gone home and gone to bed, Greg was doing eighty along some rural road in Moon Township when he apparently lost control of his van and smashed head-on into a utility pole--or should I say head-off, considering he was decapitated like Jayne Mansfield. My parents woke me up at seven that morning to tell me the news. They were both crying. They cried pretty easily; you should have seen them each time Brian's Song played on TV. My mother actually told me about the decapitation but didn't mention Jayne Mansfield. I asked if I could have some time alone. My parents said sure and left. I lay in my bed, on my stomach, eyes shut. At least I made sure he didn't die a virgin, I flattered myself into thinking.
That afternoon his death made the front page (above the fold) of the local newspaper, the Beaver County Times, along with his yearbook photo: all teeth and blow-dried hair before the exact same grainy woodland backdrop I had in my yearbook photo. According to the article, the police didn't find any drugs or alcohol in his system.
The funeral was at his church, Saint Frances Cabrini, source of my nickname since childhood, Saint Frances�an ironic nickname, since I was neither saintly nor Catholic. Every Sunday morning our parents would drag ourselves to services at First United Methodist Church to fit in with our whitebread neighbors, which I suppose helped; the neighbor kids' cracks about chop suey and Pearl Harbor and how can I see out of my slanted eyes did taper off over the years to almost nothing.
Anyway, I didn't attend the funeral. "I don't want to remember him as a corpse," I told my parents the morning of the funeral, quoting some lame Afterschool Special about teen suicide I'd once seen. "I want to remember him as he was�alive." I couldn't tell if my parents believed me. They just said "Whatever you want, dear," hugged me and dropped the subject. The greatest kid in the world can get away with anything.
Actually, I felt too guilty to go. I felt guilty I didn't feel guilty about not feeling anything at all, good or bad, about him or his death.
My parents ended up attending the funeral themselves. They hadn't known Greg and didn't know his parents. The church was standing-room-only; almost everyone in Center had gone to pay his or her last respects. The funeral made the front page (below the fold) of the Beaver County Times. Not everything about the funeral made the paper, though. My parents told me that as they left the service, they saw two teenage girls have a catfight in the church parking lot: scratching, hair-pulling, the works. Something about which of the two girls Greg had really loved. Mrs. Murnahan stepped in to stop the fight and got knocked down on her butt.
Maybe I should have attended the funeral.
� 2002-2005 David V. Matthews
Author's note, 7/9/05:
Center High is an actual school in Monaca, Pennsylvania. I graduated from that school in 1984 as the fifth-ranking member of the Senior Six--the top six seniors academically. That sextet had the privilege of addressing the crowd at commencement each year. The assistant principal, Mr. DeBacco, wanted my group to speak about the grand theme of service. We Sixers had to write our own two-minute speeches, which he reviewed, presumably for subversive material, as if twelve years of heavy-duty indoctrination hadn't drained any rebellious tendencies out of us confortable suburban zombies. So at the commencement ceremony on Friday, June 1, 1984, I walked up to the podium and gave my speech, which began with "My dictionary defines the word 'service' as 'contribution to the welfare of others,'" and ended with polite applause from the audience. In retrospect, I should have talked about the low-paying service jobs that a lot of the graduates would end up taking sooner or later, not that I have anything against the service sector--if anything, waiters, maids &c. deserve twice the salary of useless life-forms such as Dick Cheney.
Anyway, I'd always thought my character Frances Chao was the only Asian student at that predominantly white school. Concomitantly, I'd thought my story was a little science-fictional; did any Asians even live in Center Township back then? Then I discovered yesterday through thorough research--i.e., leafing through Center High's 1979 yearbook for the first time--that the class of '79 really did have exactly one Asian student, a guy. So Center had an Asian community back then--a small community, but one nonetheless! You do appreciate the effort I make in writing verisimilous stories, right?...Fiction and Home, away!
� 2005 David V. Matthews