The second half of the Ridgemont Talent Show opened with a duet between Kathy Golson and Dave Kepler. They began at opposite ends of the stage and worked toward each other as they sang. It was another case of aspiring amateurs. For the first time all night, the rowdy contingent came alive.
Then came the noise again, an incessant little series of beeps, nearly impossible to trace to its holder. Jeff Spicoli was playing a pocket computer football game in the last row of the auditorium. Gregg Adams chose not to mention the noise from the stage.
Rex Huffman came out for a skateboard routine—all his best tricks, then Ernie Vincent did his balancing act, culminating in his balancing a wheelbarrow on his nose. No one knew he could balance until he auditioned for the show. (Interviewed in the school paper, he said, “It started two years ago with a broom, and the rest is history . . .”)
“Okay,” said Gregg Adams, “now we have a special nonsinging nondancing act. We’ve got Rhonda Lewis, whom you’ve seen at the fair and at the Baton Twirling Championships at the sports arena. She’s one of Redondo’s biggest baton twirlers, and we are glad to have her with us here tonight! Rhonda Lewis!”
The music started—a scratched and crackling record that would have been better suited to a Tijuana strip joint—Rhonda Lewis, in a ballerina costume, flipped through her first few twirls with a self-assured cock of the head. It was just like her at school; she did not acknowledge anyone in the slightest.
Then she tried a high-kicking twirl . . . and dropped the baton. Parents gasped. She was upset, gave a snotty little stomp of her foot, and picked up the baton again.
Now, Spicoli had decided to give her all the breaks, but after that . . . well, there was no choice. He started in with the football game. He was merciless, beeping away while she dropped it two more times.
Gregg Adams and David Leach returned, continued with their all-showbiz philosophy of ignoring the casualties around them.
“Well, David, you know what time it is?”
“What time is it, Gregg?”
“It’s time that we answer your questions. And you know what, David? It’s funny, but every year we get asked the same question on talent show night.”
“What’s that, Gregg?”
“They ask, ‘Where did you get those great tuxedos?’ ”
Boos.
“They sure do ask us that. And we always tell them . . .”
They sang in harmony, pointing thumbs at the huge clapboard signs that had been sitting on both sides of the stage all night.
“We got ’em at . . . Re-gis. REGIS FORMALWEAR, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. A BIG HAND!!”
“You look like SHIT,” someone yelled.
“Okay okay! The next number for you cannibals is . . . a slight deviation from the program. Originally it was to be Reginald Davis’s Stevie Wonder medley. But he’s sick, and he’ll be replaced by Paul Norris, with his original composition, sung a cappella, “The World.”
A lot of people didn’t know Paul Norris could sing, but sing he did. In a very loud voice.
“The wooo-hu-hu—hooooooorld . . .”
He sang every syllable as if his very life depended on the line.
“The woo-hu-hu-hooooooorld is a pa-laaaaaaaaaace of dooooo-uuuuuuu-ha-ha-ouuuuuut . . .”
He kind of snapped off the ends of his words.
“But we are Chilllll-dreeeeeen of the woooooooor ha-ha-ld.”
Some thought he had finished and applauded, but Paul Norris was just getting warmed up.
“The woooorllll . . .”
In the audience, Jeff Spicoli’s friends were goading him, challenging him. Go ahead. Go ahead, Spicoli.
“I say beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-heeeeee . . .”
Spicoli started tapping on the electronic game, bip bip bip . . . and right away Paul Norris started noticing it.
“I say beca . . .”
Paul was getting nervous.
“Because you got to, I say GOT TO take a chooooooicc . . .”
It was a low-threshold night for Paul Norris. He probably didn’t want to be there, but Reginald Davis had no doubt called and bottom-lined it. Man, I’m just not up to that Stevie Wonder medley tonight. . . .You could see something inside Paul Norris snap, his concentration shatter.
“KISS MY ASS!” he shouted.
He dropped the mike at his side and stomped backstage. There was silence, then embarrassed applause. Adams and Leach came bounding back out.
“Okay . . . we’ve reached that special part of the evening when we present THE BIG SURPRISE!”
The big finale of the Twentieth Annual Ridgemont High School Talent Show was pretty standard stuff. More fluorescent lights, another scratchy Polynesian record, and a big Tahitian dance featuring the entire football team in hula skirts.
It’s Up To You, Mike
Stacy Hamilton caught up with Mike Damone on his way to the bus stop. “Can I walk you home?” she asked.
“I was going to take the bus.”
“Let’s walk.”
“Okay,” he said. Might as well give her a taste of the Damone charm, he thought.
They made some small talk about how all the sophomore guys blasted K-101, the lamest station in town. Then Damone just said it point blank.
“You know Mark Ratner really likes you, don’t you?”
“I know,” she said.
They walked on.
“Do you like him?” asked Damone.
They arrived at Stacy’s house. “I like you,” she said. “Do you want to come in for a second?”
“Do you have any iced tea?”
“I think we have some.”
“Okay.” He was just going inside for an iced tea, Damone told himself. “You know Mark’s a really good guy.”
They stood around in the kitchen while Stacy fixed two iced teas.
“I really like Mark, too,” said Stacy, handing Damone the tea. “He’s really a nice boy.”
“He’s a good guy,” Damone said.
“You want to take a quick swim?”
“Well . . .”
“Come on. Brad probably has some trunks you can borrow. I’m going to my room to change!”
She’s going to her room to change.
“I think I better go,” said Damone.
“Don’t go! You don’t have to shout! You can come back here to my room!”
She’s asking me into her room while she changes.
Stacy was standing there in her bikini.
“Let’s go to the changing room and see if there are some trunks,” she said.
“I think I better go,” said Damone.
“God,” said Stacy, “you’re just a tease!”
“I ain’t no tease,” said Damone.
“Good!” said Stacy. Things were working out just as she and Linda had planned.
They went into the changing room, and Stacy locked the door behind her. “Are you really a virgin?” she asked.
Damone could feel his legs starting to shake the slightest bit. “Come on. . .”
“It’s okay.” Stacy walked over and kissed him.
“I feel pretty strange here,” said Damone. “Because Mark really likes you. He’s my friend.”
He kissed her anyway. Standing there, feeling Stacy in her bikini, feeling her kiss him, Damone felt some of his reservations slip away.
“You’re a really good kisser,” she said.
“So are you.”
“Are you shaking?”
“No,” said Damone. “Are you crazy?” But he was. The last time Mr. Attitude had gone this far on the make-out scale with a girl had been with Carol back in Philadelphia. Carol had let him reach into her pants and touch her, but just for a second. That had been enough for back then. That had been enough to make him feel like he and his brother, Art, could really talk about women. But this . . . this was The Big One.