FINISH HIGH SCHOOL AT HOME

by Charlie Clark

Chapter Eleven

If the hippies couldn't abolish the prom, at least they could nod to the times and launch a boycott. Monday morning the Projectionist stood conspicuously in the hall and announced plans to spend prom night at a folk concert.

``When you're dancing in your taffeta,'' he admonished passersby, ``just think of those starving Biafrans!''

Support poured in from the community. PTA members--parents of weeds, mostly--phoned Principal Harmony to complain about social pressure for dates.

Run-of-the-mill students saw the dance as a couples' celebration that made the unattached feel like wallpaper. Many felt they could finish their high school sentence without an evening of boasting about who could prove school spirit by blowing the most money.

Such was the general worry that Mrs. Conried suggested in gym class that girls who don't yet have dates wear a red carnation as a signal. That was enough for Lee Hitch to instruct the women's lib crowd to stay home and read a history of feminism.

In health class, we watched our obligatory film of drunk drivers' wrecks. As we emerged in the hallway chuckling, I spotted terri Cline decorating a bulletin board. I ogled the way she stood on dainty tiptoe, her tan calf muscles flexing a hint of passion as the June sun poured in the blue doors. I'd assumed she'd be mounting a pep slogan for the baseball team, or her all-purpose ``Don't tear down without building up.''

Instead she stapled up a quotation from President Harry S. Truman: ``Fame is a vapor; popularity an accident.''

terri flicked her swirls of hair and locked me in a gaze. ``Marty, who's your prom date?''

``Uh, isn't that a personal question...?'' I'd been too busy analyzing the prom to even consider whether I'd go. ``Unclear.''

``Now it's clear,'' said she. ``It's me.''

That's how it happened. With zero effort--no evenings circling names in the student directory--I had been tapped to go down in school history as the goddess's first date who was not McGrock. True, all the pluses might be outweighed by the need to explain it my large friend Brent. Not to mention the new flavor it would add to my relations with Zoysiadale hippies.

``I've decided the prom is more important than a concert,'' I said that afternoon at the wall. Rachel and Norman sensed my discomfort.

``I sense an untold tale here,'' Rachel said.

``I thought we'd risen above the prom mentality,'' said the Projectionist.

``Yeah, but I feel like one last blowout with my classmates.'' They seemed convinced, so I continued. ``And besides, terri asked me to escort her.''

The Projectionist's mouth dropped first. ``McGrock's gonna nail your tail!''

``His leg's in a cast and they haven't dated in two months,'' I said quickly.

Rachel walked off. I caught up and saw the reddening in her eyes. ``You're a disgrace to the counterculture,'' she said with a sigh. ``But if you get bored that night, give me a call.''

``I'll be over,'' I said impulsively. ``Right after I've taken terri home.''

* * *

Prom week at Zoysiadale is billed as the ``best week of high school''--like it or lump it. Homework, of course, is a thing of the past, and slumping seniors have scads of time to wear senior buttons and cut in line at water fountains.

As we filed in the auditorium for Monday's assembly, the Projectionist and I took bets about who would win the superlatives. Few would admit it, but the awards culminated a year of covert campaigning by seniors hoping to stand out to the clique who bothered to vote. It seemed obvious that Brent would get most popular, terri most beautiful, Lee most likely to succeed, Rachel most unique, and Norman, just maybe, most likely to conquer the world.

The Projectionist scanned the student body and took his final visual poll. Hippie Army jackets had declined by a third, a reflection both of college decision time and the diversion of many to Young Life. Beefboys and socialettes came to a still-hefty 28 per cent, 'chievers, 22, hippies, 18, hoods 10, brothers, a reliable 12 per cent. The remaining 10 were reserved for weeds.

Principal Harmony tested the microphone, jumping back several times at the feedback. ``I'd like to announce a special honor,'' he began. ``The Zoysiadale High citizenship award, given for three years of perfect attendance, goes to Oscar Reed. Oscar? Come on up!.....Oscar? Oh, Oooosssscer! Well, we'll get him later. Bring on the stage band.''

Ordinarily at assemblies, a zillionth performance by the stage band was a yawn and a half. The drab clump of weeds decked out in ultra-square blue blazers had for years made audiences squirm at their Lawrence Welkified versions of parental favorites such as ``Chattanooga Choo-Choo.'' Students would lounge in the stands and unfurl copies of The Washington Post.

For Prom Week, however, the stage band changed its tune. With their instructor out sick, members appeared in open-collar black jazzmen's shirts and paisley bellbottoms. We were amazed to see a vocalist stride to the microphone. The brass section kicked into Blood, Sweat and Tears' ``You Made Me so Very Happy.'' For the whole first verse, the student body sat stunned. By the second, they were swaying in the bleachers. The pudgy, tin-hoofed weeds in the band got in the groove and wiggled their hips, their expressions descending into trances. After their encore of ``Spinning Wheel,'' the heroes swiveled back to their chairs, their faces stretched in involuntary grins. It was a triumph that united the student body.

Harmony announced the superlatives, to foot-stomping punctuated by groans.

Most popular: Bill Ingram and Jean Thurmond

Most beautiful: Jane Sequoia and Francis O'Connor

Most likely to succeed: Clay Finley and Sue Castefano

Most Unique: Karen Muchinger

Most likely to conquer the world: Tom Melk.

I grabbed the Projectionist by the shoulders. We had scarcely heard of any of them!

Wednesday's senior taffy-pull was uneventful, except that 275-pound Sloth out-tugged a trio of red-faced beefboys.

At the car rally on Thursday, the one-step photographer just missed placing first, being one of the few who stayed within the speed limit. It was at the final checkpoint on Recreation Street that Pret Satchell challenged him to a drag race. Actually, sort of forced him.

Satchell had been waiting in ambush under the underpass. The photographer's Chevy Nova was no match for Pret's GTO, which cut him off and funneled him to the curb with the ease of a sheep dog. The judges gazed helplessly at the sabotage. Pret sat behind the wheel and smirked as the second-place driver cut the tape and collected his prize of five albums by the Doors.

Word shot round the school. It was time for a talk with Pret.

* * *

Friday-night-prom-night, the kingdom was wrapped in fragrant spring. Gentle breezes teased tulips in the coiffed residential greenery. Sidewalks emitted vibes promising enchantment..., well, what do you know! I was excited. God knows, I'd never admit it to the beefboys and 'chievers. They'd been speaking reverently of the prom all year with a sickening kind of prefab nostalgia.

I slapped on extra English Leather, pacing while contemplating my role as the date for the cheerleader-in-chief. My trip to the tux rental had been a bust (I couldn't handle baby blue ruffles), so my dad helped buy a nice beige suit he said I'd use in later life. If I became a game-show host.

My folks had tickets to a play, a reminder that the rest of the world didn't shut down for Zoysiadale's prom. At least they weren't around to grade my appearance. The night's note:

Enjoy the car, son. This terri girl sounds like a find. Whether it's a good night or a bad one, it's a night to remember.

--Mom and Dad

terri's parents were at the window when I pulled up to their house on the hill. I guess it's understandable they'd be eager to size up the kid who would accompany their daughter as she topped off her best years. As I edged to the door clutching my corsage like a loaf of bread, I imagined the Cline family sneering at my Dad's sensible Dodge Dart--feeling lonesome for McGrock's ice blue Firebird.

Mr. Cline was civilized, if distant. ``Were you one of those kids who picketed the Country Club?''

``That was eons ago.''

I braced for terri's Cinderella descent. Instead, I beheld our high school's prize catch as she tramped down the stairs and entered talking. She avoided my gaze as she wagged a finger at her mother in the kitchen. ``Mom, your taste has never been much.... Can you believe her, Marty?''

Her lips parted in an open-and-shut smile, and she spun around with flair. Her streaked hair was pinned up in way that made her look like a grownup. My eyes played over the yellow chiffon gown with its shoulderless, plunging front. It made no secret that the only thing holding it on were the tanned tops of her, uh, Tastee Cakes.

I fumbled for a respectable place to pin the corsage. ``Maybe that's a job for me,'' smiled her mother. Soon we were out in the fresh air.

In the front seat, terri unpinned her hair and handed me a boutonniere. ``Mama's such a snoot about clothes.''

I struggled to agree. ``Yeah, I can't imagine she could teach you about beauty.''

``Oh, she's super good-looking, Marty, you're missing my point. She worries that I dress cheap. But compared with the hippies....''

Mutual pause. ``What kind of perfume are you wearing?''

``A little number called Jungle Gardenia. Like it?'' Silence descended as terri and I drove off to celebrate high school.

The Tikki-Tikki was the county's Polynesian eaterie. I had passed its gape-mouthed Easter Island statues all my life without ever sampling the food. ``Does choosing a good restaurant indicate a zest for life?'' I wondered out loud. ``Or is it merely snob appeal?''

``Try not to think all the time,'' terri said.

The maitre d' wore a sly grin as he gave an exaggerated bow to this evening's upteenth high school couple. As he steered terri to her chair, I felt the envy of onlookers.

The scene we'd entered was like a costume party. All the adolescents in their stagy formal wear were assigned the alcohol-free section. terri was preoccupied, eyeing the other tables as the couples--wall-to-wall beefboys and socialettes--reminisced about our hell of a year. ``You know,'' said one, ``if you get a girl's shoes off in the car and a cop sees you, he can bust you for statuary rape.''

``There's three types of girls,'' said the beefboy behind me. ``Those you boink, those you ignore, and those you marry....''

Instead of feeling proud to be with Queen terri, I missed Rachel and the Projectionist. I felt embarrassed at neglecting my values. Kikki stopped by to hiss at her ex-friend terri. ``I hear you're going to the prom with Marty Winley,'' she said as if I were a Polynesian carving.

I really lost my appetite was when I spotted Lee arrive with Cedrick. No, it wasn't the shock of an interracial couple. It wasn't even weird to see Cedrick with my public relations girlfriend. It was the realization that whatever pride I thought I'd feel at being seen on this night with terri turned to shame in front of my true peers. I might as well have come with a sophomore.

``No one condescends to me,'' Lee was arguing as Cedrick rolled his eyeballs at me. ``I'll pay my way.''

``You let me buy the corsage, the car, the dance and the champagne,'' Cedrick said. ``But now you want to buy dinner to make a feminist statement?''

Halfway through our blue-cheese salads, Skip ambled in wearing a shining burgundy tux with black piping. We were astonished to see that he was glistening wet with soapsuds.

``Skip, are you hurt?'' terri said leaping to her feat. With nursely radiance, she began dabbing his face with her napkin.

``Watch it on the street tonight,'' Skip growled. ``Pret Satchell's out with his fire extinguisher.'' The other beefboys huddled to listen. ``I was walking to the mall to pick up Kikki,'' Skip said. ``I'm carrying these flowers, you know, when all of a sudden, Pret's Goat pulls up beside me. SPLAT! I'm completely coated.''

``That's cruel,'' terri said.

``I hope it doesn't spoil your evening,'' I said.

``It's just that....If Brent's leg weren't broken, man, he'd whip Satchell's ass.'' He wandered back to his table, where Kikki stared glumly.

I was secretly amused to see the beefboys rendered powerless. But I also had a bizarre feeling. I mean, I was probably the only Zoysiadale student who could reason with Pret. And if we were not going to cancel the prom and send the funds to Biafra, we sure weren't going to let Pret turn the event into a rumble.

Hurrying terri through her fruit compote, I assured her that we could catch up with Pret and still get her to the dance to see her friends. Decisive, raw masculinity, no?

The waiter frowned at my 9 per cent tip, and I told him I'd make it up later in life. We dashed to the car. I pulled onto Sphagnum Street, flying by several decked-out prom couples, more than one of them coated with suds. At the bottom of the hill, I could see the underpass. The ``Linwood Gufton is a narc'' spraypaint had been coated over in solid black. In electric orange paint, the familiar ``Pret Satchell'' was restored to top billing.

Through the underpass I spotted the unmistakable orange convertible. From two blocks away, we could make out the arc of liquid splattering a parked Carmen Ghia. The GTO screeched a violent U-turn and roared toward the school.

I caught up to Pret in the gym lot, bravely sliding my Dodge in his path as he awaited his next victim. Car doors swung open. Pret's gang leapt out. ``Marty, have you lost your mind?'' terri squealed. ``You're gonna get killed before we get to the prom!''

I swung out and we squared off.

``Winley, my man.'' His smirk was duplicated by his cohorts, a pair of hoods who didn't even go to our school. ``You know, nobody's ever run me off the road.''

``Pret, can we talk alone?'' My firmness startled us all. terri clutched the dashboard as she watched us drift to the tennis courts. Over my shoulder I kept an eye on the hoods, who leaned in the window to stare at terri's cleavage.

Without little forethought, I executed a scheme I might never have expected of myself. I told Pret that this was my only chance to date terri. I pleaded with him to let me be her hero. ``All you have to do is ditch the fire extinguisher,'' I said, ``and I'll get credit at the prom. Come on, help an old buddy from the block.'' In retrospect, it seemed unlikely, but in the abstract, mildly clever.

Pret stared beyond me. Coldly, he told me he was ``P.O.'ed at the whole dog-lickin' world.'' He explained how he and Debra had broken up after she'd gotten an abortion (Lee Hitch had steered her to a downtown clinic), how she'd gone to work as a topless dancer, how he was flunking two courses and might be forced to repeat senior year! ``They gave Ken Tenneson a special graduation, and look what I get. Sheeit.''

I said I'd get the Projectionist to work on it. ``There are ways to get you a diploma, man.'' And then and there I just had to ask him. ``Pret, you knew all along that Ken and I weren't so clean on that proposal for a new school. Were you ever tempted to rat on us to Harmony?''

``Naahhhhh. It would only feed raw meat to my mother,'' Pret said quietly. ``Besides, recruiting you to pull his load was one of the sharper moves Ken pulled.''

``Thanks, buddy.''

So that's how it happened. Against the palette of the setting sun, our silhouettes joined across the tennis net, I had removed that thorn from Pret Satchell's paw.

We returned to terri cowering in the front seat. She had locked the doors of the Dodge.

``C'mon, guys,'' Pret commanded. ``Let's head downtown for some nigger polo.'' He winked at terri and climbed into the GTO. They laid a wheel and sped off.

``He's a messed-up human being,'' terri said as she slipped her dainty hand through my arm. ``But you sure handled him!''

B-I-N-G-O!

We arrived at the dance late enough for our entrance to be well-observed. The packed and pumping gym was passably gussied. A gigantic banner stretched across the wall proclaiming the theme, ``Let's Tryst Again Like We Did Last Summer.'' Lining the folded bleachers were life-size cut-outs of couples jitterbugging or smooching behind trees. There were enough strobe lights and crepe paper to transport us somewhere in the imagination.

There had been rumors that we would boogie to the sounds of the nationally known Lemon Pipers. But we were treated one final time to Brown Rice, the latest incarnation of the Vocal Chords, formerly Cosmic Peat Moss, Dead Pan Alley, Yin, Yang and Eddie, Eine Kleine Rock Music, Midriff Bulge etc. Principal Harmony had lifted his ban on the band in a sentimental gesture.

Brown Rice's members were enjoying their final gig, acknowledging the arrival of terri and me by striking up Ken's anthem,``I think it's so groovy now that people are finally getting together.'' I gazed in awe of my friends on stage. The guys had no college or work plans. They were going to defy the pressure and to try and make it as a band!

In the dark I picked out a few hippies who were barefoot and in jeans, dancing in platonic gangs. One wore a monkey suit backed with a sandwich sign reading ``Penguin Fur Tux Rentals.'' We watched as an Old Death member hit the gym floor wearing ice skates. A chaperone escorted him off. Blankenship, in his conventional black tuxedo, shook his head in disgust as he draped his arm around his date--Holy cow!--Diane Muldoney. Here was a new Zoysiadale couple that would probably last until Tuesday.

terri and I sipped lemon-pulped punch, and she gazed longingly at Kikki and her retinue. ``They kicked me out of their cottage for beach week,'' she said mournfully. The annual binge by the ocean had not even been discussed among my hippie friends, but I knew what a must it is in the beefboy-socialette axis. I felt for terri. A prom is not an antiwar march, and it was obvious that seeing her old crowd was causing her to backslide.

When we slowdanced to Brown Rice's version of ``Hey Jude,'' I felt terri's breasts pressing firmly on my rib cage. Yep, she had an allure that could bridge the student factions. So, how did I handle the sweet privilege of closing the gap with her in front of the entire senior class? By stupidly mentioning her boyfriend.

``You know, even if you and Brent were still together, he couldn't dance on crutches.''

She broke my embrace and scowled. ``What does Brent have to do with anything?''

``Forget it,'' I said in my panic. ``I didn't really mention Brent, even though it sounded like it.''

Brown Rice announced that a group of students had requested a square dance. ``Square dancing is the most democratic of dances,'' Jerry Sagstetter said cheerily in the mike. The crowd booed.

It was after the band's break, when the drummer had begun a solo that impressed the 2 percent of guests who aspired to be drummers, that I noticed a crowd at the gym entrance. Blue metallic helmets of two county policemen were visible in the lobby. I grabbed terri's wrist and hustled over.

A murmur swept the throng. One of the cops, notebook in hand, was interviewing a distraught Principal Harmony.

``What's comin' down, man?'' voices demanded. ``Who screwed up?''

None of us could hear over the drums. So I used my influence. I trotted back in the gym to the riser where the sweating drummer was in his trance. I executed the melodramatic slash through the throat. Sagsetter spotted me. He looked across the gym and saw the crowd swarmed the doorway. He walked over and kicked the drummer's stool out from under him. From his new position on his backside, the drummer finished a roll before falling silent.

The entire crowd stood frozen as a siren swelled in the distance. Suddenly, the one-step photographer came rushing from the doorway. Like a loyal Coupon staffer, he delivered the news to me first. ``Pret Satchell,'' he sputtered. ``He tried.....he tried to burn down the school!''

``Come off it....''

``We haven't even got our diplomas!'' terri whimpered.

``Swear to God! Listen to this,'' the photographer caught his breath. ``I'm on my way to the dance, right? I'm walking by the cafeteria entrance when suddenly, I hear this, `Pssssst! Wanna toke?' I look across the street, and in the bushes of this house I see Norman Solomon. So, I figure, why not? Nice to change my mind before the dance. Now, he's blowin' weed in the shrubbery that gives him a safe view of the kids getting out of cars. I ask the Projectionist what he's up to. `I'm gonna spy on prom night and enjoy some absurd costumes before Rachel and I hit the folk club,' he says. But a little nervously, right? Suddenly Satchell's GTO glides into the lot. `Hide!' the Projectionist hisses, and I dive into the bushes with them. So we watch as Pret gets out carrying a whiskey bottle stuffed with a rag. Well, you know, that's a flippin' Mozeltov cocktail!''

``What's that?'' terri squeezed my elbow.

``Later,'' I said.

``So Satchell picks up a rock and gently smacks the window to Harmony's office. The glass caves in. He strikes a match and is about to light this rag when all of a sudden, Norman leaps out and shouts, `Halt in the name of....the whole school!' ''

I was bowled over. The Projectionist had confronted Pret. He had saved Zoysiadale High! ``terri, are you impressed?'' She nodded blankly.

``So Satchell just glares at him,'' the photographer went on. ``He lights the rag and flings the bottle through the window. He hustles toward his goat. That was when the Projectionist races over and reaches in Pret's car. What does he pull out? A fire extinguisher! Incredible? Pret's some kind of black belt in judo, for Chrissake. Pret, of course, punches Norman and sends him flying. But Solomon holds onto the extinguisher and, from the ground, starts spraying it toward the window. Flames are flickering. `Solomon,' Pret shouted, ``hand that over or I'll skin your ass alive.' Now they're wrestling. Which is when we hear a siren. Pret gives up and hops in his car. He high-tails it out of there. I run out and help Solomon off the ground, nose all bloody, teeth loose, but he insists that we spray at the fire. It happened so fast.''

I grabbed terri and swung her around. ``If Brent had been there, he would have held Pret for the police,'' she said frostily.

I swung her around again anyway and asked the photog, ``Can we get coverage of this?''

He pulled out his camera and patted it proudly. ``For the history books.''

terri and I joined the guests spilling out of the gym. Police and firemen were parading around the administration office. There, in a Karl Marx T-shirt was the Projectionist, his nose puffed like a cauliflower. He spotted us and giggled drunkenly.

``We did it!'' he shouted. Then he held up a book of matches bearing an ad for a high school equivalency program. ``A souvenir from Pret,'' he said. ``I want photos in the Coupon, Marty. Stop the presses!''

``Where'd you get the guts?''

``Well, I'll tell ya,'' the Projectionist said, inserting his thumbs under his armpits. ``I was a tad high. Rachel and I'd been changing our minds all night. She couldn't stand to come to the prom; I had to sneak a peek. So I'm sitting in the bushes gawking at these kids in zoot suits--they looked like the cast of `My Fair Lady.' I'm kinda zoning out when I see Pret's GTO. Everything's sort of a slow-motion ballet when Pret moves in with his torch. It was like an attack of school spirit. I was moved. I forgot all fear as I held onto the extinguisher. While Pret was crunching my face in, I was thinking about the glory I'd get if I survived, how the school would rally around me, how Pret would tremble in front of the judge, how Mrs. Satchell would find a way to blame it on the hippies or Ken Tenneson!''

My eyes were glistening. ``Norman Solomon, student leader!''

The policeman motioned him over. The spring in his step was its bounciest ever.

terri and I drifted back for a slow dance to Brown Rice's take on the Classics Four's ``Every Day With You Girl Is Sweeter Than the Day Before.'' The whole room was buzzing. I felt elated. I didn't care that terri and I weren't hitting it off. It didn't even bug me when Kikki asked if terri needed a lift home. It was midnight. ``Shall we call it a night?''

She stared silently and nodded.

The drive through Zoysiadale was rapid. My mind had already shifted ahead to Rachel, who was probably heading home from the folk club to await me. I pulled the Dodge into the Clines' driveway and turned off the engine. Crickets chirped. The radio played Jim Morrison singing, She won't waste time on elementary talk. I stared at shadows cast by the carport and drank the scent of terri's replenished Jungle Gardenia.

Nervously, she opened and closed her handbag. ``Marty, it's prom night.''

``Agreed.''

``It's like, the biggest event of school. Would you like to come in and spend the night?''

A reply eluded me. Her directness towered over me. So THIS was how Brent and the beefboys got theirs! These cheerleaders, who'd have suspicioned it? I counted to 10 before I gave my sexiest answer. ``Um, ....are you serious?''

terri flushed. ``Not really.'' My heart raced. Why the hell did I promise Rachel? After all, it was the biggest night of high school. The beefboys would be awed that I turned down Tastee Cakes. (The Projectionist would hyperventilate.)

I wasn't turning her down because I was loyal to Rachel. I guess I just didn't know what terri had meant. Hard to imagine what it was like to have the sexual confidence of a terri Cline. She could have any guy she wanted. She had propositioned me guiltlessly, like some ancient tradition had made it her duty to bestow her goodies on prom night, even if it was with some John Q. Senior.

I wondered if I could back up and tell her yes. But then I'd have to proposition her. If I didn't, would I regret it in later life? Was Rachel so much more deserving, so much more relevant to my life after high school? What if she wasn't even home? What if she was with the Projectionist?

I looked over at terri, at the blonde-streaked bangs pouring from the pure-pep tilt of her head. I saw the tears gleaming. ``You know, Marty, Brent wasn't good at lovemaking, if that's what's bothering you. Too full of himself. Really, with Brent, the thrill came mostly from being with him when so many other girls wanted to be.''

``But what about that Mr. Pleasure Fingers stuff?''

She shook her head. ``Am I the only one who knew it was all for show?''

terri was melting me. I felt my authority rise. I realized that if you fantasize about someone long enough, the reality, once you encounter it, fails to live up. Both the reality and the fantasy lose their appeal.

``If I wanted to experiment,'' terri continued, ``well, a cheerleader can't just go propositioning. But Marty, I find you easy to talk to. I know hippies are supposed to be honest about sex.''

I took her by the hand. ``TTTTterri,'' my voice wavered. ``It's been great getting to know you these past few months. It was an honor to be terri Cline's prom date. And I'm real sorry you and Brent split up. But I think you'll agree, I'm not really qualified to pinch-hit for him. Besides, I promised Rachel I'd be over. I had no idea we'd be this late.''

terri stared ahead, and then a light flickered on upstairs in her parents' house. ``They're awake now, anyway, Marty. They're getting up to save their daughter's reputation. Thanks for the dinner and dance. Wait'll I tell Mom about Pret!'' She planted a smooch on both my lips. ``You would choose Rachel,'' she said shaking her head. ``And I'll probably marry Brent, anyway.'' Carrying high heels in her hands, she hopscotched into the house.

* * *

It was 12:30. I gunned the Dart's engine to a speed of 45, careened around the corner and zoomed toward Rachel's. Except that it was early. We'd agreed on 1:00. I needed time to absorb all this. Perhaps I needed to immerse myself in the anonymity of ... the big city.

I eased the car onto the parkway and cruised over Key Bridge. A thrilling feeling of liberation hit me on leaving the suburbs, like a track runner sticking out his chest to break the tape.

I came onto M Street past the ``Agape'' Jesus freak coffee house, the head shop, the vending machines offering underground papers, the hippie capitalist with a sandwich sign promoting bellbottom headquarters, and the street musicians and spare-changers.

In front of Riggs Bank dome I spotted the guitar player on crutches. Tall, cotton-haired, strumming aggressively in front of an open guitar case sprinkled with coins. I slammed on the breaks. Cotton hair? Crutches? Brent! Without an entourage.

Brent stared past me, screeching out a tuneless song, his fingers on the frets forming phony chords. He scanned the sidewalks of Georgetown like he was looking for fans in the bleachers.

``Caught ya!'' I yelled in his face. ``What the bejessus are you doin'?''

He stopped his song and grinned bitterly. ``Bein' a hippie.''

``Come on....''

``See that money?'' he pointed at $5 or $10 in change in the case. ``All from people who don't know me. Who've never even heard of me. Who don't have any idea I had a full-ride scholarship. They can't even tell I have no musical talent. They still give. That's hippies for you, Marty.''

I persuaded Brent to let me park the car. We walked past a troupe of acrobats juggling bong pipes. ``More hustlers,'' Brent said with disgust. We ended up in the Little Tavern hamburger stand, me holding the door while Brent propelled himself and his guitar in on his crutches. We ordered our ``Buy 'em by the bag'' miniature burgers from a skinny, acne-scarred man with a tattoo on his forearm: ``Born to Muddle Through.''

``He's from the real world,'' I chided Brent. ``We got about one more week before we have to confront it.''

He positioned his cast on a stool. ``So, how you'd like it?'' he asked.

``Like what?''

``How'd you like terri minus her clothes.''

``You sure get to the point.''

``I swear, Winley, you're at the prom with my girl. I'm the one who took her from crayons to perfume. Am I not supposed to be curious?''

I was tempted to fib.

``You going to see her this summer?'' Brent demanded.

``I know you won't believe me, Brent, but...well, we stopped well short of it.''

``You're bullin' me.''

``I turned her down, Brent. The vibes weren't right.'' And in a surrender to male bonding, I told it to him straight. ``I just don't belong between a cheerleader's legs,'' I told him. ``It's not the order of things. Besides, I'd promised Rachel I'd be over. Now I'm late.''

Brent chuckled. ``You not only go to the prom with my girl, but you two-time her the same evening? Winley, I didn't know you had both balls on you.'' We gobbled our burgers in silence. I could Brent's injury had trounced his plans. ``I'm going to stay here for the summer and work construction,'' he told me. ``After the leg heals, I'll talk to the Tech coach. I'll have to find out, Marty. Did I peak in high school? I mean, does being good at sports make you good at life? I'll be facing a lot stiffer competition in college and the pros. A lot of people are counting on me. The success is something I've counted on. What if it's not available? Christ, not everybody outside Zoysiadale is gonna know I hold the yardage record.''

``There's a Robert Frost poem,'' I offered. ``No memory of having starred/atones for life's later disregard.''

The fullback spat his burger.

``Brent, the thing about sports is that it's cutthroat,'' I persisted. ``It separates winners from losers, and I think that's why the hippies hate it. But even I know that sports teach you how to fight when you're losing. I think the hippies are learning now.''

``Marty, you think all the world's scholars secretly desire to get in front of a crowd and smack a grand slam?''

``When they're young, maybe. But do you think the in-crowd from high school carries on throughout life?''

``I make no apologies for being the in-crowd, Bub. Having the best-caliber friends opens doors in later life. It's only the people not in the in-crowd who bad-mouth it. Yeah, the out-crowders have some rights, sure, but they've got to respect those who make it on merit. Anyway, my Dad says the most important thing to keep you ahead is a good credit rating. That's what I'll be aiming for.''

``You make it in the pros and you'll get plenty of credit,'' I said.

``I'll give you this, Winley, I have been re-evaluating. I was walking down the hall after school last week when I heard a record player blasting. I learned later it was George Harrison's `Wonderwall Music.' Terrible stuff, I swear, the solo Beatles suck eggs. Anyway, I look in and see this one weed sitting alone in the room. I asked him what the record was. He says nothing. I ask him again. I get no answer. I'm getting pissed, so I grab the guy by the collar. `Do you know who I am?' He looks set to pee in his jockeys, and he whimpers no. Can you imagine such a guy?''

I nodded. ``Visions of your own mortality.''

``Aw, he's probably some sophomore. But yesterday, Skip and I were walking by the storage room when we see Coach Danvers and a couple of assistants viewing old game films. I hear Coach say, `After 10 years at Zoysiadale, all these teams blend together.' But then he sees Skip and I--get this--he walks us out and tells us we were the greatest players he ever coached.''

``I bet a lot of teachers say you were their greatest,'' I said.

``That was a real cold toilet seat.'' He swigged the Seven-Up in his cloudy institutional glass. ``Not sure you ever noticed, Marty, but on our teams, at the end of the season, we had these awards banquets. We'd get dressed up and parents would come to the Country Club and they'd pass out team pictures and trophies and tell stories of big plays. Well, I've been thinking about them as graduation gets close. One year in the A-League, they passed out trophies in two categories: Most Improved player and Satisfactorily Improved player. I thought it was bogus. At least half the players got Most Improved trophies so they could take home and make it look like they were the only one who got it. And nobody, not even the worst scrubs, got Unsatisfactorily Improved.' I mean, is this supposed to be democratic? If you give everyone an award, why give it to anyone?''

``They just wanted to encourage everyone.''

``I don't think the excellent should be held back by average noodles,'' Brent went on. ``But this banquet deal seems a big con. It's a creation of the parents and coaches and teachers to give you a goal to fantasize about. They let you think the world is one big cheering section, when in reality, the world doesn't give a hoot except when you win. So, I'll admit it, Marty. After we lost the Terracetown game, I began to see what those hippies were bent out of shape about. They shouldn't be my cheering section if they've got better things to do. I just thought most of 'em preferred to be fans than to risk coming up with their own personality. There's no awards banquet at all for them. And all of us will just go about our business and die.''

``I've got to go about my business right now,'' I told him.

We stood to leave, and ``Born to Muddle Through'' eyed us suspiciously as we laid money on the formica counter.

As we neared my car, Brent asked me once more. ``So what's with you on the college thing, Winley. You off to Golden State?''

``Leaning that way. But there's part of the application I haven't finished.''

``Their team's the Ganders or something. Nothing special.''

``That's one of the reasons I'm hesitating,'' I lied. I left him at the bridge.

* * *

2:30 AM. I expect Rachel to have conked out by now. I cut the engine a half a block away and glided up under her streetlamp. The familiar violet light above her side entrance was on. I felt heavy from fatigue as I stole around and tapped on her window, half hoping she'd already turned in. My heart raced. The door swung open.

``Right on time!'' Rachel said sarcastically. Her dope-stung eyes burned red. Her gypsy blouse was unbuttoned in front, her barefoot toenails painted purple. Her wine-tinged breath commingled with the odor of incense.

All I could do was point at the Fritz Perls poster on her wall: ``I am not in this world to live up to your expectations, you are not in this world to live up to mine.''

``How was your enchanted evening?'' she said.

``Mostly as planned. D'ya hear about Pret?''

``Every detail. At least the version the Projectionist told the entire folk club. But I mean it, Marty, how was your night with terri?''

I flopped on the sofa. ``Not all it was cracked up to be. She's a nice girl. A bit confused, a bit caught in an identity others have handed her.''

``I don't want to know any more.''

``Did the Projectionist go home?''

``He went with the one-step photographer to develop the photos.'' Rachel cued the Moody Blues.

The mighty light of 10,000 suns challenges infinity and is soon gone.

Nighttime to some, a brief interlude; to others, the fear of solitude.

She flipped on her lava lamp. She poured me some white Almaden and snuggled against my shoulder. The scent of her musk oil invaded. I stared at my plastic glass. ``I never expected plastic in your house,'' I told her.

``We're prisoners of our parents' lifestyles.''

``You think Pret's gonna go to reform school?''

``I don't care if he goes to San Quentin.'' She was still sore.

``So, you ready for Blankenship's death in the yearbook?''

``I don't care if I end up in San Quentin, Marty. How's about we get down to business.''

I rubbed my fingers around the wine glass.

``I'm serious,'' she said, locking us in eye contact. ``I think it's time we opened a new chapter. It's time we did something about your virginity.''

``My virginity? What about....?''

She smiled. ``I left mine at Earth Reunion.''

``Ahhhh, Frug. I should have known.''

``Close, but not quite. Try Ken.''

I leapt to my feet and began stomping. But the fatigue made me slump in her lap. So Rachel would be my first. But goddam Ken was hers. ``You know, I should have figured it out. You always knew things about Ken I didn't know.''

``He didn't call me much afterwards.''

``Well, you know he's a walking busy signal.''

``And I wasn't really ready when we did it,'' she said. She was fighting a sob. ``In fact, he kind of forced it.'' Rachel shook with a spasm of emotion.

``I'm not sure I want to hear more,'' I said.

``I don't want to spoil the mood, but just listen. Hippies are supposed to be sexually liberated. But my experience with Ken only made me see that my mom was right. Girls who wear torn jeans come across as sluts to the boys. There's something about sex that makes boys see you in a way you aren't. Ken played on my need to be hip. You know, they say boys give love to get sex, and girls give sex to get love. It's true for hippies, too. Now, I don't care about what the beefboys or socialettes think about my reputation, but I'll be darned if I'll be used by any guy, even a radical leader, if all he wants is to get laid.''

``Noble sentiments, Rachel. I guess even hippies can love 'em and leave 'em.''

``Then there was the pregnancy scare.''

``You kidding?''

``My monthly friend didn't show for eight weeks. Ken expressed zero concern.''

This was not a sexy conversation. The realities of sex made me long for creamy fantasies of terri. ``But you're not pregnant?''

``Fate spared us, Marty. I prayed to the Gods of the world's five great religions. And then one day in Emery's class, it came!''

``Wowee.'' I was dizzy and eager to get home.

As I stood, Rachel reached across my lap, trapping me like a seat belt. As I watched impassively, she opened the drawer of an end table. Her deft fingers struggled a bit before glomming onto .....a box of Trojans. My eyes bulged. This was school's most spontaneous hippie!

``You feeling romantic at the end of high school?''

I sat bewildered. Rachel studied my reaction. ``Don't make a move,'' she said and slipped into the bathroom.

A long minute later, Rachel returned. Only it wasn't Rachel. It was Rachel wearing a Zoysiadale cheerleader's outfit. What a prom night!

I confess that the vision of this earth momma in the baby-blue jersey cloth was an interesting Madonna/whore hybrid, a sort of Doris Day meets Gertrude Stein. The wine, the dope, the whole night. Egad.

In the dimness, I noted that Rachel had shaved her legs. They were smooth. The sight of her flowing hair cascading down the hilly front of that mystical Zoysiadale Z, her thighs curvy and firm in that pleated skirt that hugged her tush--it was the night's best vision. Underneath all those flowing gypsy dresses, Rachel was a very sexy girl.

``Where'd you get it?'' I blurted.

She stared at me. ``terri didn't need it tonight, Marty. Now look. I know you've always considered us just friends. But I say, how's about wonderful friends? I'd be honored to be your first.''

Rachel was coming through with high dignity. But I felt uneasy. It was a blow to the whole hippie ethos that Rachel would be reduced to impersonating a cheerleader. I spoke in what I thought was an annoyed tone. ``Rachel, why don't you take that thing off?''

``I thought you'd never ask.'' And gently, acting out the fantasy of every guy in every row of bleachers, she peeled off the cheerleader's top. She unzipped the skirt and, balancing on one leg, stepped gamely out it. The peach fuzz on her soft belly set off by the lava lamp, she began the gentle tug that moved the mystical blue panties on their inevitable route to the floor.

Rachel's breasts were round like softballs, firmer and bouncier than I remembered from the Polaroid caper. The darkness between her thighs was a perfect feminine triangle, her swooping hips changing color as she shifted in the shadows.

``Get naked,'' she instructed. She cued another record and peeled open the condom. I stripped off the suit of the game-show host and we sunk down on the woven rug. The Moodies reverbed on:

To reach the chord is our life's hope

To name the chord is important to some

So they give it a word, and the word is.....AAAAAAHOUUUMMM

It was 5:00 AM when we floated up from the floor. ``Rachel, you're one heckuva prom date,'' I said as I dressed.

At the door, she beamed from inside her Indian blanket, and we ended with a deep hug.

``One more thing,'' I said slowly. ``Were there others besides Ken?''

``Just you,'' she smiled. ``Just Ken and you.''

I barreled out in the Dodge, past the Tennesons', past the Satchells', past the Clines'. I even pulled by Lee's in time to see Cedrick's green Impala drifting away. Before heading home, I needed one more glimpse of Rachel's. With the FM station blaring dangerously loud, I pulled up singing my hoarsest with Neil Young: I'm only waitin' 'til the morning comes, 'til the morning comes. Rachel's porchlight blinked out.

Charlie Clark is a frequent contributor to The Idler, and author of Finish High School At Home, now available from Amazon.com.