Bonnie stood in line with six other girls. “Songleaders,” not cheerleaders. They all wore light-colored sweaters with the huge B in front, and dark, pleated skirts. They stood with pompoms raised in their left hands, right hands on hips, right legs thrown high.
Bonnie looked as if she were having the time of her life. Her head was tossed back. The shutter had caught her laughing. She’d kicked up her leg higher than any of the other girls. Not straight toward the camera, but a little to the side. The toe of her white sneaker seemed about to collide with her left armpit. Her skirt hung down from the upraised leg. She wore no socks. Larry gazed at her slim ankle, the curve of her calf, and the sleek underside of her thigh. He saw a crescent of underwear not quite as dark as the skirt, rounded with the slope of her buttock.
He fought an urge to bring the book closer to his eyes.
He looked away from the picture. He picked up his stein and took a sip of beer.
Glanced again.
It’s not actually her panties, he told himself. It’s part of the outfit.
But still...
He turned his attention to the second picture on the page. Same girls. Same costumes. In this one they were all facing the camera and leaping, pompoms thrust overhead with both hands, backs arched, legs kicked up behind them. Bonnie’s sweater had lifted slightly. It didn’t quite meet the top of her skirt. A narrow band of bare skin showed. Larry glimpsed her flat belly, the small dot of her navel.
He shook his head. He took another sip of beer, but had a hard time swallowing. He turned to the index.
Only one more page number after Bonnie’s name. He turned to 147.
And sucked in a quick breath.
A three-by-five close-up of Bonnie filled more than half the page.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
He glanced at the caption. “Bonnie Saxon, 1968 Spirit Queen.” On the same page were small photos of four other girls — princesses. Her court.
He postponed studying her picture. It was the last. He wanted to savor the anticipation.
On the opposite page was a photo of a tackled football player smashing to the ground. The heading beneath it read, SPIRIT WEEK HIGHLIGHTS FALL SEASON. Larry scanned a description of the festivities, which were apparently marred by Buford’s loss of the game. Then he came to the part he’d hoped for. “Sherry Cain, Sandy O’Connor, Julie Clark, Betsy Johnson, and Bonnie Saxon were presented as homecoming princesses at halftime. Bonnie Saxon was crowned queen at the Homecoming Dance that night. In spite of the defeat of the varsity, tremendous spirit was shown.” Nothing more about Bonnie.
Fantastic, Larry thought.
Homecoming queen.
“Good going, Bon,” he muttered.
Then he turned his attention to the photo.
And flinched as someone knocked on his door. “Time to eat,” Lane called.
“Okay. I’ll be right there.”
Larry glanced at the Spirit Queen, then shut the book.
He lay motionless in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. When the sounds of Jean’s breathing convinced him that she was asleep, he crept out of bed. The air was chilly. He shivered with the cold and nervous excitement. At the closet he pulled his robe off a hook. He put it on as he stepped into the hallway. The soft velour felt warm on his bare skin.
In the living room he found Lane’s book bag propped against the wall beside the front door. He opened it, searched inside with one hand until he felt the annual, and slipped the book out.
He carried it to his office. He shut the door, flicked on the light, and eased himself down onto his chair.
In spite of the warm robe, he was shaking. His heart felt like a pounding fist.
I must be crazy, he thought. What if Jean wakes up? Or Lane? What if one of them catches me at this?
They won’t. Calm down.
With the book on his lap, he turned to the Spirit Queen.
God, so gorgeous.
She wore a dark top that left her shoulders bare.
He could look at her later.
He took an X-Acto Knife from his desk drawer, pressed the open book flat against his thighs, and drew the razor-sharp blade down the annual’s gutter, neatly slicing off the page where it joined the spine.
He cut out every page that showed a photograph of Bonnie.
When he was done, he hid them in his file cabinet, sliding them into one of over fifty folders that contained copies of short stories he’d written over the years.
His pictures would be safe there, from Jean and Lane.
He sat down again and riffled through the yearbook. A few pages were loose. He touched their edges with glue and carefully inserted them.
He shut the book and peered at its top. Along the spine tiny gaps were visible where the pages had been removed. But only an extremely close inspection would reveal the damage. And if someone did notice, who was to say when the desecration had been performed? Maybe years ago.
Larry shut off the light and left his office. He returned the annual to Lane’s book bag, fastened the straps, and went to his bedroom.
From the doorway he could hear Jean’s long, slow breaths.
He hung up his robe. He crept to the bed and slipped cautiously between the sheets. He sighed. He thought about the pictures.
They were his now. His to keep.
He remembered the way Bonnie looked in each of them. But his mind kept returning to the songleader shots.
Then she was alone on the football field. She thrust her pompoms at the sky and twirled, her long golden hair floating, her skirt billowing around her and rising higher and higher.
Twenty-two
Larry woke up in the morning and remembered cutting the pages from the book. He was suddenly certain that the librarian would notice the damage. Lane would catch hell. It would be his fault.
He realized that he’d done a lot of things lately that left him feeling guilty: threatening Pete with the gun; bringing Bonnie home and keeping her presence a secret; wandering out to the garage, apparently in a drunken stupor, and not even knowing what he did out there; and now, defacing the library book, maybe getting Lane into trouble.
Before finding Bonnie out there in that ghost town, he’d never done much to be ashamed of. About the worst, he thought, was having a few lustful thoughts about other women. That seemed pretty harmless.
But all this.
What the hell’s happening to me?
Too hot, he flipped onto his back and tossed the blanket aside. Jean was already up. Good. He didn’t want any company just now. Especially not Jean’s. She might sense that he was upset and start asking questions.
