In the stands, Jeff Spicoli turned to L.C. “I think we may have gotten away clean,” he said.
It was a much-celebrated Ridgemont victory. Ridgemont residents could hear the hum of the car horns from two miles away.
The homecoming dance, an informal affair being held at Jack Benny Hall, was about to begin. But it was much, much too early to go there yet. For the victorious football players, there was another ritual to attend to. All the squad members picked up six-packs of beer at Mesa De Oro Liquor and drove out to the Alpine Information Tower at the foot of Ridgemont Drive to discuss the game.
Later, only later, when the time was right and the dance was almost over, did the team make their calculated entrance en masse. They were applauded, and a crush of girls who’d been sitting on the hardwood floor watching the band now gravitated to the celestial Ridgemont Raiders.
“Well,” Steve Shasta whispered to a friend, “here’s the dilemma—seek it or stroke it.”
An adoring girl rushed up to him. “Here,” she said, “I saved this for you.” She surrendered a warm beer to Shasta.
Shasta took a sip and handed it back. “Thanks,” he said. “I hear they drink it like this in Germany.”
Linda Barrett and Stacy Hamilton, meanwhile, stood in the girls’ bathroom and listened to the talk at the mirror.
“We were sitting in the bleachers,” a girl was saying as she brushed her hair in long, savage strokes, “and he really had a boner. I was embarrassed ’cause you could see it and everything.”
“Are you talking about Dave Carpel?”
“Yes.”
“He walks around with a boner all the time.”
“I think your tits are getting bigger,” said another girl.
Three girls turned around and said, “Mine?”
“So, anyway,” continued the brusher. “I thought it was going to bust out of his pants.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, Mr. Burke shined the flashlight on us. And David just wilted. And I got out of there quick.” She paused. “This school is so insane.”
“Did you know,” offered yet another girl at the mirror, “that Steve Shasta brought in booze.”
“That boy is such a good kisser.”
“You kissed Steve?”
“That boy is a fox and he knows it.”
“I know, but he’s nice.”
“I know,” commented the brusher. “It’s such a shame, isn’t it?
The Shame About Steve Shasta
Steve Shasta walked into Child Development wearing his customary wraparound Vuarnet sunglasses. Cindy Carr was working in one of the minikitchens, making guacamole dip.
“What’s for dinner, snookums,” said Shasta, grabbing her waist from behind.
Cindy jumped slightly and pounded Shasta with little fists. “Steve,” she said. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Shasta turned around to see his visitor, a man in his late twenties, holding a notebook. Reporter.
“Hi, Steve,” said the visitor. “I’m Jim Roberts from the Herald. I found out at the office that you had a free period and might be here. I wonder if we could talk for an article I’m writing about high school soccer.”
Shasta didn’t flinch. He checked his watch and slipped into Steve Shasta mode. “Sure, Jim. I’ve got about twenty minutes. Want to do it in the cafeteria?”
It was not an uncommon sight on Ridgemont campus, Shasta walking across the commons with the media in tow. Local print and TV reporters flocked to him, and he had the media personality that they loved.
“You know, Jim, the thing I like best about soccer is that it’s not a collisional sport. You know what I mean? It’s very physical, but the emphasis is on ball handling. Nothing against the game of football, of course . . .”
Shasta could dish it right up. When most of the other kids were down at Town Center Mall, Shasta was indoors watching soccer games down on the far end of the TV dial. He loved the sport, and had it added to the athletic program at Paul Revere Junior High. He had developed strategies that would probably be in use at RHS long after he, or even Coach Ramirez, left. The All-Out Crush Offense? Forget it—that was Shasta. The Dogmeat Five, in which five players converged on a single opponent by surprise? That was Shasta’s, too.
Shasta was also a left-footed player, which made him doubly dangerous. He was nearly impossible to guard. He practiced his shots until dusk after school and all hours on weekends.
Last year he had been voted Most Valuable Soccer Player in the C.I.F. Shasta carried himself with a sort of disheveled dignity. He had those sloe-eyed just-woke-up looks. He wore shades almost all the time.
As he spoke with the reporter, Steve Shasta positioned himself with his back against the windows of the cafeteria. He was facing only the clock on the back cafeteria wall. Behind Shasta, Jim Roberts could see a small cluster of girls begin to gather, peeking and craning for looks through the cafeteria window behind him.
“I think last year it just kind of clicked as to what it was all about for me,” Shasta was saying, tipping back in his metal chair and tugging at his green shirt. “That’s why I started playing soccer better. All of a sudden I felt that confidence. Before that, I was just an average player—my coaches would tell you that. It was just one day it all popped into my mind what it was all about. On the soccer field it all seemed like everything was happening twice as slow. I’ve felt on top of the world ever since.”
It was a stock Shasta rap, already published in the Herald.
“You practice quite a bit. Do you have time for friends, and girls?”
“Those things,” said Shasta, “are of little or no importance to me. At all.”
“Do you date at all?”
“Definitely.” Shasta grinned. “Definitely.” Shasta eyed the reporter carefully, as if to decide if he was okay or not, and then continued. “This is off the record, all right? My theory on girls—I’ve gone out with countless girls, and my motto is Don’t get involved or you get yourself in trouble. You know it’s true. As long as you don’t think it’s serious and you don’t let them think it’s serious, it’s a hell of a lot of fun. But these people who go out for two years and propose. . .” He spit out an imaginary chaw.
Shasta leaned toward the reporter, and his tone became even more confidential. “See those chicks behind me? They follow me everywhere. See that one chick with the permed-out brown hair?” Shasta didn’t even have to turn around to know she was there.
“I see her.”
“I’ll tell you, Jim. Girls are more aggressive than guys at this school. I went out with that girl once. She’s followed me around ever since. And her friends, too. I never even went out with any of them! I’ll tell you, Jim, these girls are all the same. They just want someone to go out with. You spend time with one of them, and it’s all around the school the next day.
“They call me all the time. There’s only one Shasta in the Ridgemont phone book so they know . . .” He sang it, like Sammy Davis, Jr.: “It’s gotta be me!” Shasta checked the clock. “And when I don’t go out with them, they start telling me off! It’s amazing.
“But what else do you want to know about soccer?”
Steve Shasta had an ingenious way of solving his abundant problems with high school girls. He had used a convenient tool, the biggest gossip at Ridgemont, his sister Mia. Anything he told her was immediately dispatched to a large network of girls who regularly pumped her for information.