“If you graduate.”
Spicoli was taken aback. Not graduating? No thumbing up the Coast, meeting ladies and moving to Hawaii for the dyno lobster season? More school? “Not graduating?” he said.
Hand broke into the nearest thing approximating a grin, for him. It wasn’t much, of course, but it was noticeable to Jeff. His lips crinkled at the ends. That was plenty for Hand.
“Don’t worry, Spicoli,” said Hand. “You’ll probably squeak by.”
“All right!”
“Aloha, Spicoli.”
“Aloha, Mr. Hand.”
Mr. Hand descended the stairway of the Spicoli home, went out the door, and on to his car, which he had parked just around the corner—always use the element of surprise. Hand knew one day next year he would look to that green metal door and it would be Spicoli standing there. He’d act like he had a million other things to do, and then he’d probably stay all day. All his boys came back sooner or later.
Hand drove back to his small apartment in Richards Bay to turn on his television and catch the evening’s “Five-O” rerun.
A P.R. Problem
Ever since the Lt. Flowers gun incident, Ridgemont High had been all over the front of the local section. Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, there had been an accident on the way to a junior varsity baseball game. Two vans, both driven by students, were headed out to the last game of the year when one of the vehicles “just flipped over.” None of the students would explain how the accident happened, but three sets of parents were now suing the school.
Mr. Gray, like most principals, took the bad publicity personally. Of course he had an ego. Ridgemont High was his school. Egg was dripping from his face. Principal William Gray had what was called in his Media Guide a “P.R. problem.”
At a time when most other principals were concerned with the details of their own summer vacations, Gray was on the phones. Talking to the board, talking to lawyers, and talking to goddamn parents and reporters. There had even been a picture of him looking haggard in his own school newspaper, the Reader, with the caption, “Gray reviews mishaps.”
A P.R. problem.
Principal Gray’s first move was to take Del Taco, the nearest and most popular fast-food stand for ditchers, by force. On a lazy afternoon toward the end of school, as students crunched into third-period tacos, the doors were suddenly clamped shut from the outside.
Two county security officers swept in and rounded up twenty-two ditchers. Trouble was, as Gray would soon learn, all but two went to Paul Revere Junior High School.
Even though Gray made a big deal about busting the two Ridgemont High ditchers, it was a well-known fact—Principal Gray, as the man himself might say, was P.O.’ed.
The buxom message girl from the front office came swinging into English Literature with a blue slip, a slip that meant you had a personal meeting with the principal at that very moment.
She delivered the slip to the teacher with a flourish.
“Mark Ratner?”
The Rat walked up to the front, got the slip, and headed out the door. Nerves of steel. Now Ratner couldn’t imagine what Gray would want with him, what this was all about. He trudged down the hall. Maybe they wanted him to give a speech! Or better yet—of course—he was probably going to get the Debate Award. Who else would they give that to? Of course! This was what they did for the award winners. They let Principal Gray slip you the news.
Ratner was ushered into the principal’s office.
“Mr. Ratner?”
“Yes, sir. Nice to see you, sir.”
“This is the new annual.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Gray, “it is.”
“It looks excellent, sir. That’s pretty great. That you get them this early, sir.”
Definitely the Debate Award.
“Yes. We do get them early. It’s a very nice annual. I like it very much this year.”
Ratner nodded his head. Gray sure was acting strange. “Are you sure you wanted to talk to me, sir? I didn’t work on the annual staff or anything . . . even though I would have liked to. I was pretty busy with Debate.”
“I don’t believe I’m mistaken,” Gray said coldly.
Gray then opened the annual on his desk and flipped through it carefully, so as not to break its new binding. Finally he reached a two-page picture and spun it around to face The Rat. The title of the school group shot was What a Way to Go!
“Mr. Ratner, are you aware that you are posed obscenely in this year’s Rapier?”
The Rat began to get a deep acidic feeling that started in his groin and worked its way up into the very pit of his stomach. He was dizzy.
It was the school group picture, taken last October by Arthur Chubb.
“We have information that this is you, Mr. Ratner.”
Circled at the far right corner of the group picture was Ratner, his ass stuck out in the air. They’d printed it all right. No airbrushing for this year’s Rapier!
The Rat’s eyes immediately raced to the opposite side of the shot. There was Damone, smiling serenely in an Arrow sport shirt. His pants were on. His hands were in his pockets.
“It’s me.” The Rat’s teeth started to chatter as he confessed. “It was supposed to be a gag . . .”
An icy stare.
“I was a ham in my time, Mr. Ratner. It’s just that parents pay for these things and, once in a while, they like to read through their child’s annual. And when they see your butt, they might be a little curious. They might get a little P.O.’ed. And you know what? This phone on my desk rings. Quite a bit. And if they were to see this picture in those 1,500 copies sitting in the gymnasium, that phone would ring. A lot.”
“Are you going to expel me?”
“Well,” said Gray. “What I’m going to do is tell you a little secret, Mr. Ratner. A secret between you and me.”
“What is that, sir?”
“Those parents aren’t going to see your butt this year. Do you know why?”
“Why, sir?”
“Because we have arranged for you to spend this weekend in the school gym. And you will be doing the following. Without soiling or breaking the binding on any of these books—which is to say, VERY CAREFULLY—you will be erasing your posterior from every one of our new Rapier. As you can see, the bond is erasable.”
He demonstrated with the tip of a pencil.
“Thank you, Mr. Gray.”
“You will supply your own erasers. And, oh yes, Mr. Ratner. Don’t forget to sweep up after yourself. I don’t want eraser shavings all over the floor.”
The Rat drifted out of the office. Stunned. A whole weekend of erasing.
“We have information,” my ass. The Rat hadn’t told anybody anything. It could only have come from Damone.
Damone. The Mouth. Mr. All Talk. The Rat walked straight over to Youth and Law class, where he knew Damone would be. The Rat walked straight into the room and pulled Damone out of his seat. Outside the door The Rat began the first step of the high school prefight ritual. He threw his books down and beckoned to Damone. Even though Damone was stockier and in much better shape, Ratner went ahead and spoke the unretractable words.
“Well, Damone,” he said, “COME ON.”
“What’s going on, Rat? What are you doing? Why do I want to fight you?”