“So . . . pretty nice house you got here.”
“Thanks. What do you want to do?”
Damone’s Rule Number Two: Always call the shots.
“I don’t know,” said The Rat.
“Do you want to see some pictures? I have all these pictures and stuff from Paul Revere. I kept a whole scrapbook! How stupid!”
“Sure.”
She fished the old Paul Revere scrapbook out of her closet, and they sat together on her bed looking at the photos of mutual friends and acquaintances. Her knee grazed his.
She definitely expects something.
For twenty minutes, Mark carried on two conversations. The one with Stacy about her scrapbook and the one in his head. There was a scoreboard in his mind, and the odds seemed to be racking up in his favor. He debated all the signs. She had brought him inside, they were alone, she had changed. He had unzipped her.
But what if he tried to kiss her and she screamed or something? He would feel like Jack the Ripper. No, he wouldn’t. Or maybe he would. What a wuss.
Then it occurred to The Rat. It wasn’t one of Damone’s big rules, but he had given Rat the special advice just the same: Tell her you don’t hang around many high school people, make her feel special. He decided to use the tip, but it came out like this:
“Not too many people like me in high school.”
Stacy looked at him oddly. “That’s too bad,” she said.
More silence. He watched her pull her hair up and let it fall back down again. Another sign?
After a while it all got to be too much for The Rat.
“Well,” said Mark, “I’ve got to go.”
“Really?”
He got up off the bed and stood up.
Beg me to stay.
“Do you really have to go?”
“It’s getting pretty late.”
Beg me to stay just a little.
“Well . . . if you’ve got to.” She stood up, too. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
The Rat gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and ducked out of the front door.
He walked down the steps of the Hamilton house. He wanted to turn around, to go back and tell her that he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to violate all the rules of The Attitude and tell her how much he liked her.
And she, of course, she would tell him that she wanted him to stay, that she was glad he came back. And that this was just the beginning for them. And she would hug him and press up against him and . . .
Just as The Rat was heading back up the stairs, he saw Stacy’s bedroom light shut off. He stopped in his tracks. It hit him like an enormous gong. It was as if the words were a Cecil B. De Mille production written in the nighttime sky, just for The Rat: YOU BLEW IT, ASSHOLE!
Bob Savage
Early in January, just after classes were back in session after Christmas vacation, Ridgemont High held a traditional mandatory assembly. The subject was ordering the school yearbook, the Rapier, and class rings.
A.S.B. President Kenneth Quan kicked the assembly off with a brief pep talk about spirit and rivalry as a substitute for violence and vandalism. It was a direct reference to the spray-paint job done on the school over vacation. The usual culprits had hopped the locked steel fence leading into the Ridgemont campus. When students returned from the Christmas break they found the black spray-paint insignia over everything: LINCOLN SURF NAZIS! It was the biggest green job for the janitors yet. Forty buckets. The school had smelled like paint all year long.
Kenneth Quan introduced the editor and two members of the Rapier staff. They gave a quick progress report and dropped a juicy news item—this year’s Rapier would be black. They were off in a hurry.
Everyone was waiting for the main attraction. His name was Bob Savage. A young man in his late twenties, Savage was well known to many of the students. If you had no desire whatsoever to own or wear a class ring, you were digging for the money after ten minutes of listening to Bob Savage.
Bob Savage had the kind of shaped hairstyle that could only belong to (a) one of the Bee Gees or (b) a werewolf. It was reddish brown, and came back in a wide sweep that seemed to be held in position by laws defying nature.
Savage began his presentation with a slide show. “High school is a time for living and learning,” narrated Savage, “and being young.” His timing was well practiced, as it should have been; he had been making the same spiel for at least seven years. “It wasn’t that long ago that I was sitting in class. Boy, did I want to get out . . .”
Polite laughter. He switched to a shot of kids in cars leaving their campus parking lot.
“But I have strong memories of high school. The cars. The fun . . .”
Switch to a shot of an attractive student couple walking down the hallway, hand in hand.
“. . . The romance.”
Switch to a shot of a gymnasium dance and lots of swinging teenagers in ten-year-old formals.
“And the prom. It didn’t matter how you felt about going to the prom. You went. I went. I thought I’d go all the way with high school. I’d go to the prom. I’d take my best girl, and I’d even order a class ring.”
Switch to a student admiring his new class ring.
“Some of my friends told me, ‘You’re not in sports, you’re going to graduate soon, you don’t need one.’ I told them I was going to get mine anyway. I laughed at the time. ‘Maybe it’ll be worth something someday.’ ”
Switch to shot of drag racers at night.
“Racing was my thing,” continued Bob Savage. “And it was on prom night that I made a real bonehead move. I know a lot of you may have heard about it. I played a little game called chicken on a blind curve. I didn’t swerve in time to avoid the oncoming car. My girlfriend was killed. The other family had some injuries, but they’re recovered now. But my legs are still severed.”
A shocked silence settled over the assembly.
“A lot of people ask me why I do this—how I can still talk about it. I tell them it’s the only way I can bear that accident. I think about it every day of my life. During my many months in the hospital we were unsure whether the grafting might take. My family and friends were there constantly. But there were many more times when no one could be with me at all. All I had were my memories.”
Switch to a class-ring close-up.
“And that’s what getting into the spirit, getting a class ring, is all about. I want you to call me at home—I live right here in Redondo—and talk about it. My number is in the Reader and in the phone book. I’m honored to be able to represent Contemporary Casuals Class Rings. And I’d be honored if you ordered one from me.”
Bob Savage. He’d probably been a real jock at school, before the accident. But as he wheeled himself offstage in his motorized wheelchair, it was like he was a rock star. He’d reached them all.
Even Brad Hamilton, who had decided against it earlier, went ahead and ordered a class ring.
Even Jeff Spicoli stood and applauded. “That guy is tremendous,” he said.
School Picture Day
There is a certain smell unique to high school gymnasiums. It’s a difficult aroma to break down exactly, but certainly the three main ingredients are old socks, hardwood flooring, and English Leather cologne. Every year teams of janitors are paid to sanitize gyms everywhere. Still they smell the same.