tune of “Fight Ye Falcons,” no less. The crowd loved it.
The Homecoming court convertibles appeared on the track that encircled the football field. The girls perched on the backseats, their white, clenched fingers digging into the upholstery as they smiled at the crowd. They were escorted from their thrones by as-yet-unsullied football players to be presented to the crowd and to accept bouquets and admiration. Followed by the kindergarten attendants, Cheryl Anne clutched the arm of her darling Thud, who clumsily put a plastic tiara on her head and handed her a bouquet of roses. It brought back memories, distant and blessedly mellowed with time, of faces arranged in the yearbook, all grim and determined to succeed. I looked particularly stem under a bouffant hairstyle that always left Caron and Inez weak from sustained laughter.
The presentation of the court, sniveling babes and all, was touching. The next two-and-a-half hours of bodies flinging themselves against each other were not, except in the obvious sense. Grunts and thumps, the sound of helmet against helmet, the incessant screams of the pep squad, the boisterous verbosity of the fans-it verged on something worse than Dante had ever envisioned for the lowest circles of the Inferno.
The thermos ran dry. The flask went the same way. My feet forsook me and my hands turned blue. My nose ran a marathon. I was kicked from behind and elbowed from both sides. A coke dribbled down my neck during a particularly exciting play.
The majority of the plays were incomprehensible, although I did my best to follow both the ball and the seesaw score. The home team took the lead, then lost it via a fumble. Thud snatched the ball from a Bantam and scampered all the way to the goal line, sending the cheerleaders into paroxysms of glee. The Bantams doggedly scored once again. Everyone in the bleachers, with one exception, rose and fell with pistonish precision.
The final quarter arrived, along with a couple of Falcon fumbles and Bantam triumphs, causing the scoreboard to tilt dangerously to the enemy side. Just as I neared a frostbite-induced coma, the referees called it a night. The cheerleaders burst into tears on each other’s shoulders, while the band played a version of the fight song that seemed more of a dirge. Cheryl Anne stalked down from the bleachers, paused to hiss at the forlorn Falcons, then led her cortege into the metaphorical sunset. Thud threw his helmet on the ground, having displayed enough foresight to remove his head from it first. The coaches shook hands and trudged across the field, their troops in straggly formation behind them.
“Shall we go?” I said, trying not to sound too heartened by the thought of a car heater and even a gymnasium.
Evelyn sighed. “It’s such a shame to lose the Homecoming game. The kids really care about this sort of thing.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Shall I carry the blanket? Where’s the nearest exit?”
Sherwood glanced at me, but offered no editorial. We followed the stream out of the stadium. The students punched each other on the shoulder and verbally rehashed the final plays of the game; their liberal use of profanity was more than mildly disturbing to someone who would be obliged to restrain them in the immediate future:
I tugged at Evelyn’s arm. “What precisely is my assignment at the dance?”
“You have floor duty. Emily always volunteered for it, swearing she enjoyed it, and no one ever argued with her for the privilege.” Her voice dropped until it was almost inaudible. “You’ll survive, probably.”
“Floor duty?” I said.
Sherwood patted me on the shoulder. “You are the ultimate in
“And the band from singing obscenities,” Evelyn added. “The lyrics can get pretty raunchy if you don’t keep an eye on them.”
“Don’t let anyone drink anything that comes from a back pocket,” said Sherwood. “No smoking, snuff, or chewing tobacco. No vodka in the punchbowl. No fistfights. Don’t let the girls roll up their skirts or the boys unzip their jeans.”
“That’s all?” I laughed gaily. “And I’m going to do this all by myself, right? I won’t have a squadron of marines to help me out, or even an automatic weapon. I’ll just shake my finger at perpetrators, and they’ll back off from whatever felonious activity they’ve chosen.”
“Oh, you’ll have help.” Evelyn gave me a wry look. “I believe you’re assigned with Mr. Chippendale and Mr. Eugenia.”
“Wonderful,” I sighed. And I had alienated Peter, whose presence might have saved me from what threatened to be slightly worse than root-canal surgery done by a drunken dentist-in a bouncing jeep. Just when I needed a whiff of nitrous oxide.
Evelyn drove us to the faculty lot. We went to the gym, which was dripping with red-and-gold crepe paper, and glumly surveyed the battlefield. I presumed it would be strewn with bodies by midnight; all I could hope was that mine would not be included in the count.
Speakers the size of refrigerators were arranged in front of a low platform cluttered with beglittered guitars and an intricate formation of drums. The acned boys in the band huddled on one side, their eyes darting as if they anticipated attack or arrest. They had long, stringy hair and feral expressions. A droopy banner taped on the wall above them proclaimed them to be “Pout,” an ominously appropriate name. Evelyn and Sherwood wished me luck, then drifted away to their assigned posts elsewhere in the building, where they might not even be able to hear Pout’s best efforts to deafen us.
Mr. Chippendale came through the door, metal chairs under his arms. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Malloy, are you prepared for the dance?”
“Certainly. Mr. Chippendale. I’ve made a new will, consulted a neurologist about potential auditory nerve damage, and booked a private room at Happy Meadows.”
He gave me a startled look, then busied himself unfolding chairs along the wall. A grayish man with bifocals introduced himself as Erwin “Gene” Eugenia, Algebra and Trig, and took a stack of chairs to the opposite side of the vast room. Students drifted in to set up the refreshment table, all sober from the defeat at the hands (talons?) of the Starley City Bantams. I watched them carry in the punch bowl, reminding myself that I was assigned the formidable task of assuring their continued sobriety until the dance was done.
A short while later the gym began to swell with students. After a few false starts, Pout found its stride and broke into what was presumably their opening set. Mr. Chippendale took a post next to the stage, although I doubted he could isolate stray obscenities in the ululation that passed as lyrics. Mr. Eugenia stayed beside the punch bowl, leaving me to monitor the dancers for distance and the nondancers for discretion.
Once my ears grew accustomed to the volume, I realized I might survive. Some of the students from the journalism classes poke to me, or at least moved their mouths in what I interpreted as amiable discourse. I smiled politely, though blankly. No one asked me to dance, which was for the best since I had had no training in that particular mode of stylized warfare.
During a lull, I spotted Caron and Inez near the door. For the first time since the onslaught of puberty, my daughter looked timid and vulnerable; Inez appeared to be in the early stages of a seizure. After a beady look at a leather-clad hoodlum with an earring and fast hands, I joined them. “I didn’t see you two at the game.”
Caron regained some of her usual superciliousness. “You went to the football game, Mother? Whatever for?”
“I was coerced,” I admitted. “I sat with Mrs. West and Mr. Timmons in what I fear was the most vocal section of the bleachers. I suppose it was good practice for the decibel level in here.”
“Caron and I sold programs at the south gate,” Inez volunteered. “We turned in our money, then sat with Rhonda and some of the girls. Wasn’t the game just dreadful?”
“I thought so,” I said, suspecting our criteria were different. Pout roared into song once again; conversation was impossible. Caron grabbed Inez’s shoulder, and they hobbled away to find seats amidst the wallflowers.
Despite the lack of a victory, the kids seemed to be enjoying themselves. I was beginning to feel somewhat confident when Cheryl Anne swept through the door and stopped to survey the scene, her mouth a tight red rosebud and her hands clenched at her sides. Thud hovered behind her, clearly uncomfortable in her wake.
The dancers nearest the door halted in mid-gyration and backed off the floor to make a path that would have led straight to the throne, had there been one. I was mildly surprised no one had thought to bring a red carpet.
Cheryl Anne snapped her fingers over her shoulder. “Don’t just stand there, for God’s sake. I want to dance.”
Thud’s eyes were almost invisible under his lowered brow, but he lumbered around her to his designated spot. “Come on, then-dance, damn it,” he grunted. After a second of icy disdain, Cheryl Anne joined him and they disappeared into the mass of writhing bodies. I was not the only wallflower to let out my breath, Tupperwear- style.
At the end of the second set, the lead guitarist announced they were “gonna haf to break” for fifteen minutes so their “instruments could like cool off, you know.” I slipped out the door to assess whether I had brain damage, and promptly bumped into my Baker Street Irregulars.
“I saw Miss Parchester!” Caron said, her fingers digging into my arm. “She’s in the building.”
“When did you see her, and where is she?”
“We saw her go around a corner when we went to hide in the rest room,” Inez said.
“Hide in the rest room?” I said, momentarily distracted.
“The geek, Mother. He’s here-and he keeps looking at me,” Caron said. “Anyway, we tried to catch Miss Parchester, but we couldn’t keep up with her. My ankle, you how.”
“I know,” I said. “Tell Mr. Chippendale that I’ve gone to the lounge for an aspirin, and that I’ll be back after the break. Miss Parchester probably went to the basement to look for clues or some such thing. Perhaps I can persuade her to listen to me.”
I headed for the basement, aware that I was spending an inordinate amount of time in the dark bowels of this building. My flashlight was still in my purse (I do profit from experience), and I switched it on as I scuttled down the stairs. The corridor was empty. The lounge was locked. The journalism room was dark and still and held no hidden presence that I could discern from the doorway.
As I paused under the exit light to think, I noticed one of the classroom doors was ajar. A taped card had Miss Zuckerman’s name and a list of classes, which included such esoteric things as Steno II and A-V Machines: Advanced. Miss Parchester might have slipped in to pick up something for her friend, I decided as I eased through the door.
If she had, she was already gone. I shined the light on the far wall, which had inspirational messages taped in a tidy row. “Clean ribbons make clear copies.” “Type right on your typewriter.” The back wall exhorted the students to practice their swirls and curlicues. “Shorthand-your key to a good job.” A travel poster that touted the charms of Juarez contributed the one splash of color in an otherwise drab decor. Miss Zuckerman must have felt quite naughty when she included it, I thought with a sigh. “Nimble fingers come from practice.” My light continued. around the room. “Join the Future Secretaries of America.” “Speed and spelling equal salary.”
I decided to search the room in case Miss Parchester had inadvertently dropped some vital clue, such as a motel key. I began with the rows of shrouded typewriters and worked my way to the desk drawers. I expected to find rosters and lesson plans. I did not expect to find a crude little cigarette in an envelope.
During the sixties, I had encountered such things, sometimes in an intimate fashion. That had been more than fifteen years ago, however, and I was not sure I could trust my aged nose to ascertain if this was truly a marijuana cigarette. It seemed absurd that Tessa Zuckerman would have one stashed in her desk; she was
