Damone was led to a very-much above-ground office behind Main Street marked JUVENILE SECURITY.
“Hello, young man.”
He had been brought before a middle-aged man, kind of like his father. This man spoke in that same folksy tone—but there was no mistaking his authority. This was some kind of behind-the-scenes Disneyland masher. And he was going to try to make Mike break. “All we’d like to know is what you were doing out on Tom Sawyer Island tonight. Did you fool around with any equipment out there?”
“No.”
“What were doing out there on Tom Sawyer Island?”
“Having some fun.”
“You know we don’t run Tom Sawyer Island on Grad Nite anymore.”
“Didn’t know.”
The two attendants who’d brought Mike Damone to Juvenile Security remarked that they had confiscated a bottle of whiskey, and that “the boy’s breath smelled alcoholic.”
“Are you intoxicated at this moment?”
“No, sir. No way.”
“May I see some identification, please?”
Damone took out his wallet and showed them his driver’s permit.
“Where are your friends, Mike? Are they friends from your high school? Or did you meet them here?”
“I don’t know.”
“We just want to find your friends and keep them out of trouble, Mike.” He was trying another tack. “We know they goaded you into doing what you did out there on Tom Sawyer Island.”
Mike said nothing.
“What did you do out there on Tom Sawyer Island tonight?”
Mike said nothing.
“Mike, I’m going to have to call your parents right now unless you can help us a little.”
Mike said nothing.
“All we have to do is check your file. We have all the forms you filled out with the ticket application. We have them all right here.”
Mike looked panicked. Inside, he felt relieved. He had listed the request line of a popular AM station in Los Angeles. Just in case. It was always busy.
The juvenile security chief picked up the phone on his desk. “This is Richards. And I’d like to place a parental call, W.D. code 1456 to 213-279-1771.” He waited a moment. “Could you try it again? Okay.”
He replaced the receiver. “It’s busy.”
“Sorry,” said Damone, “my mom talks a lot.”
“Mike,” said the security chief. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to get in touch with your head chaperone right now . . .” But the words trailed off in the man’s mouth. He was looking at Damone, who appeared to be going into some kind of serious spasm. “Are you all right? Are you a diabetic.”
Mike didn’t respond. He was going into convulsions. He fell off his chair onto the floor and started banging his head against Mr. Richards’s desk.
“Quick! Can I get some help in here! This boy is having a seizure! Can I get some help in here?”
But the Disneyland henchmen who brought Damone in had already gone off to nab some other kid, no doubt. So the security chief made the fatal mistake of leaving the room to get some help. He was gone less than thirty seconds, but it was time enough for Damone to pop up and head for the other door, the one he came in through. He disappeared out onto Main Street.
Tired and wasted, Damone wandered into Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln. He couldn’t find anyone he knew. He fell into a seat and watched the show. When it ended, he walked back out onto Main Street.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“It’s getting near five.”
Damone headed for the bus.
“Hey Mike!”
It was The Rat, who was running for him from the Monorail exit.
“Where have you been?” asked The Rat.
“A long story,” said Damone. “They got my bottle. Where have you been?”
The Rat held up a Wagon Train Motel key, his souvenir.
“Wa-tching the De-tect-tives.”
“You’re kidding! What happened?”
“I ain’t saying!”
“Did you make out?”
“I ain’t saying!”
The last thing The Rat and Damone did on their Grad Nite was get an old-fashioned picture taken on Main Street. It was a frozen moment in time. Definitely scrapbook material all the way.
It was The Rat who took the seat next to Charles Jefferson on the way home. He didn’t mind. Charles took a long time to notice him, however, pleading for the seat.
“But my teddy bear’s sitting there,” complained Charles. “Aw . . . go ’head.” He, too, was offered a corner, but only after the bus was in motion.
The sun rose while the five buses were still cruising on the freeway, fifty minutes outside Ridgemont. The whole inside of the bus smelled of stale socks. Most of the kids were asleep, though some were still awake and clutching their stuffed animals. Most of the guys were snoring loudly, their gangster hats knocked askew and their mouths pressed against the window.
Back at the Ridgemont parking lot, Damone rolled home and The Rat stood trying to wake up enough to drive his father’s car back up the hill.
He saw Stacy Hamilton.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“Oh,” said The Rat, “just had a wild night. Where’s Linda?”
“She got a ride. Can I get a ride home with you?”
“Sure,” said The Rat.
She crawled in the back of his car, and he drove her home. When they reached Valley View condominiums, he woke her up.
“You’d better let me get out here,” said Stacy. “My mother doesn’t want anybody to see me in an evening gown being walked home by a guy at seven in the morning.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” She rubbed her eyes. “Can I see you over the summer, Mark?”
“If I’m around,” said The Rat.
She handed him her Disneyland photo. “Here. So you won’t forget what I look like.”
The last thing The Rat did before going to sleep was stick the photo in the corner of his mirror.
Have a Bitchin’ Summer
The Ridgemont Senior High School annual was made available on Monday of the last week of school. In an effort to keep reasonable order in the few classes still in session, A.S.B. Advisor Joseph Burke announced in the morning bulletin that an Annual Signing Party would be held in the gym during sixth period.
Students came pouring into the gym to find another surprise. Burke had slipped in one more dance sponsored by the administration. The bleachers had been wheeled out, the lights were low, there was even a live band. The T-Birds, featuring one of the Robin Zander lookalikes on lead vocals, were already on stage.
Stacy Hamilton and Linda Barrett walked into the gym slowly, head to head in deep conversation.
“I’m torn,” said Linda. “Doug wants to get married. I know I love him. We know each other so well it’s the only thing left for us to do.”
“Then do it,” said Stacy. It was one of the rare times she could give Linda advice. “All your friends would be there. It would be very romantic. You and Doug, finally getting married.”
Linda nodded.
Romantic, thought Stacy. Did I just say that? At the beginning of the year it seemed that sex was the most fun that she, or any of her girlfriends, knew about. Did you get him? Now she was wondering about romance. Well, Stacy figured, some people learn about romance before sex. She just got it the other way around.
“I guess I’d go to junior college,” said Linda, “while Doug worked at Barker Brothers. My parents say that I should just be a housewife, but they don’t know what they’re talking about. They send Jerome—the smart one—to college, and tell me to stay home. Doug says the same thing. But maybe I don’t want to stay at home.”