Fast Times at Ridgemont High (21 page)

A
new girl from Phoenix, Arizona, had transferred into Stacy’s Child Development class. She looked a little scared standing at the front of the class. When Mrs. Melon placed her at Stacy’s table, Stacy decided to make friends with her.

Her name was Laurie Beckman. She was a doctor’s daughter. She wanted to raise horses. She was a friendly girl, if a little shy, and she wore braces.

Stacy had introduced her to Linda Barrett, and the three had taken to eating lunch together. It wasn’t long before Laurie realized what a gold mine of sexual expertise was sitting before her every lunch period. Within two weeks she was already into the hard stuff.

“Did you see that movie
Carrie?”
asked Laurie. “Do you know when John Travolta gets that girl to give him a blow job?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Do
you
do that?”

Stacy looked at Linda.

“Of course,” said Linda. “Don’t you know how?”

“No. Not really.” Pause. “They don’t talk about it in sex-ed.”

“It’s no big deal,” said Linda. “Bring a banana to lunch tomorrow and I’ll show you.”

The next day, Laurie Beckman brought a banana to school. The three girls sat down together on the very outskirts of lunch court. Linda peeled the banana and handed it back to Laurie.

“Now, what you’ve got to do,” she instructed, “is treat it firmly but carefully. Move up and down and hold it at the bottom.”

“When am I supposed to do this?”

“Do it now.”

“Give it a try,” said Stacy, in fine deputy form.

Laurie looked casually to the right, then to the left. Then she mouthed the banana.

“Is that right?” she asked.

Her braces had created wide divots down the sides of the banana.

“You should try to be a
little
more careful,” said Linda. She watched as Laurie tried again, with similar results.

“I have a question,” said Laurie. “What happens?”

“What do you mean?”

“What happens . . . I mean, I’ve never asked anyone about this, right, and . . . and don’t laugh at me, okay . . .”

“Just
say
it, Laurie.”

“Okay, like when a guy has an orgasm . . .” Laurie sighed heavily. “You know . . . I’ve always wondered . . .
how much comes out?”

Linda leaned forward and stared Laurie in both eyes. “Quarts.”

Laurie’s eyes popped.
“Quarts?”

Stacy slugged Linda. “Don’t do that to her.”

“Okay . . . not that much,” said Linda. “You shouldn’t worry about it. Really.”

Laurie looked relieved as she stared down at the peeled banana still in her hand. From the two opposite ends of lunch court, Steve Shasta and Mark Ratner watched the blow-job lesson. The Rat had no idea what was going on. Shasta had a wide grin on his face.

Cuba

M
r. Hand was going over Chapter Thirty-One of
Land of Truth and Liberty.
He was lecturing about Cuba.

“We gave Cuba independence in 1901,” said Hand. “But with certain strings attached. The Platt Amendment dictated that the U.S. could interfere if they felt
compelled
. . .”

Mr. Hand stopped. It was one of his favorite tactics. He’d be dutifully lecturing in his best McGarrett bark, then suddenly he’d just
stop.

Anyone daring to whisper during the lecture naturally took an extra second to react and shut up. But in that second, an extra syllable might slip out of a talker’s mouth, and Hand could always trace it right back to the culprit. All he needed was a syllable.

It was no big surprise to find Jeff Spicoli hanging from the extra-syllable noose today. Hand had put the brakes on his Cuba talk . . . and plain as could be, Spicoli had let two whole words fill the crashing silence.

“. . . my
anus.”

Amid the barely stifled laughs, Hand moved in on Spicoli, just like McGarrett did every week when he finally found the schnook who was threatening the law and order of the fiftieth state.

“I’ll see you after class, Spicoli. Right
here
at 2:11.” Then Hand slammed the book he held open in his hand. “You know, Spicoli, you’re a big
waste
of my time.”

Spicoli cried out, “Aw, come on, Mr. Hand. I was listening!”

Hand looked at him and gritted his teeth. You could tell from his face he was about ready to say something about saving it for somebody
else’s
class, some other class where the goof-off contract teacher lets
you babies flourish.
It wouldn’t happen here. Not in U.S. History.

But Spicoli threw him a curve.

“Mr.
Hand,”
said Spicoli in another tone entirely. It was a tone that said, Hey, we do this cops-and-robbers bit for the kids, but outside of that, between you and me, guy to guy, I gotta ask you this . . . “Mr. Hand,” said Spicoli, “how come you never
laugh?
How come your face is always like . . .” Spicoli couldn’t find the word. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s always like
that.”

Hand was standing there, in classic ice-man pose, with a sprig of Vitalisized hair on his forehead.

It was a brilliant move on Spicoli’s part. Somewhere within the resinous caverns of his mind
that
had come winging out, and it was just perfect. Hand was stunned.

“Yes,”
said a girl, the Vietnamese exchange student who always sat in front. “You never smile!”

Then Stacy Hamilton spoke up. “My brother,” she said, “said Les Sexton saw you smiling once in the faculty lounge.”

Mr. Hand glared at Stacy with laser eyes.

“I was never smiling in the faculty lounge,” said Mr. Hand. “And since when does Les Sexton visit the faculty lounge, anyway?”

“I guess he saw through the window.”

“I doubt it,” said Hand. “I doubt it very seriously. And I’ll
still
see you in detention, Spicoli.”

And from there Mr. Hand resumed his Cuba lecture. But everyone knew they had nearly broken through to The Man. That alone was good enough for Spicoli, who showed up for detention in good cheer.

Late-Night Phone Conversation

S
tacy called Linda Barrett just after dinner. “I found this book in my mother’s drawer,” she said. “It’s called
Total Orgasm.”

“What were you doing in your mother’s drawer?” asked Linda.

“I can’t remember,” said Stacy. “Maybe looking for the extra set of keys or something. But I found this book.”

“Did you look at it?”

“Of course I looked at it,” said Stacy. “It had all these drawings of men and women getting down, in all kinds of positions. It was pretty funny. The point of it was that most women don’t have orgasms unless they work real hard at it.”

“Really?” Linda Barrett felt a slight competition with any other sex expert. “It says that?”

“Yes. It says most women derive pleasure, but don’t have real orgasms.”

“Hmmmmmm.”

“Linda,” said Stacy, “what
is
a total orgasm?”

“I’ll tell you what a total orgasm is,” said Linda Barrett. “A total orgasm is when I’m lying in bed early on a Saturday morning, and I hear this little knocking at the window. I open my eyes and it’s Doug standing there. He knows and I know that my parents aren’t up yet or anything, so I let him in through the window. Then I go brush my teeth, and he gets in bed with me. Then we start getting it on, and I’m still kind of waking up. And it hurts a little bit at first, and then the hurt turns into a little itch. It’s like I’m floating on a river, and I feel this little itch . . . and just as I’m about to scratch it, the boat takes me over the edge of the river . . . and I
don’t care.
That’s a total orgasm.”

“Shit,” said Stacy. “That’s better than anything in the book.”

“I still want to look at it, though,” said Linda Barrett.

The Hamiltons’ Jacuzzi

M
arch arrived, and in rolled a rust-colored wave of killer smog, the worst in forty years. A blanket of dry heat hung over Ridgemont. Newspapers and announcers warned against unnecessary activity. At school, even the P.E. classes were called off.

Coach Ramirez and girls’ P.E. teacher Anita Zix spent the day in the faculty lounge, having a grand time and visiting with faculty members they hadn’t spoken with since the Christmas party.

After school, Stacy Hamilton went home and tested the water in her family’s pool. Cold.

The phone rang inside the house. Stacy ran inside to pick it up. She waited the proper three rings.

“Hello?”

“Hel-lo.” It was Linda Barrett. “Gee, Stacy. Why don’t you invite me over to go swimming?”

“The water is pretty cold.”

“I don’t care.”

“Okay. Let’s go swimming. But I don’t know if I’m getting all the way wet.”

“I am!”

Linda arrived at Stacy’s house a few minutes later. Just after she walked in the door, the phone rang again.

Three rings. “Hello?”

“Stacy?” The voice was low, male, and sounded as if a hand was cupped around the receiver. “Is that you, Stacy?”

“Who’s
this?”

“Stacy?” Pause for heavy breathing. “It’s Mike Damone.”

“Oh, hello Mike.”

“Gee, Stacy, it’s really hot outside, isn’t it?”

“It’s fairly warm,” said Stacy.

“Gee, I wish I knew somebody who had a pool.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” said Damone, “ ’cause it sure is hot.”

There was another click on the line, then Mark Ratner’s voice. “Hey, sorry Mike. I didn’t realize you were on the other phone. I was just going to call the weather bureau and find out how
hot
it is.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Damone. “I’m curious how
hot
it is myself.”

“It’s pretty hot,” agreed Stacy. “And I’ve got to go because my mom is coming home soon and Linda is over here and everything and we’re about to go swimming! So thanks for calling!”

“Hey. Thanks for
answering,”
said Damone. “On such a hot day.”

Stacy replaced the receiver, laughing.

“Who was that?”

“Mike Damone and Mark Ratner. They wanted to come swimming.”

“Did you invite them?”

“No. They were so obvious about wanting to come over. I just didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. They’ll probably call back.”

The phone didn’t ring.

“Which one is Mike Damone?” asked Linda.

“He’s this friend of Mark Ratner’s. He’s in my English class this semester, with Mrs. George. He’s the one who got Mark’s wallet and brought it to the Charthouse.”

“I think they’re both virgins,” said Linda.

A moment later the doorbell rang. Stacy opened the front door to find Mike Damone and Mark Ratner standing there in their bathing suits.

“Hey,” said Damone, “thanks for inviting us over!”

“Yeah!” said The Rat.

“I don’t believe you guys.” Stacy looked at the floor, shook her head, and swung the door wide open. “Come on in. I can’t keep you out.”

“Oh,” said Damone, “and I brought some Wisk, too.”

One of the best reasons to swim in the Hamilton pool was their Jacuzzi. The pool was constructed in a huge S with a king-sized Jacuzzi attached to one end. The Jacuzzi (or “ja-cooz,” as Brad called it) was separated from the rest of the pool by a tile wall. It was possible to flip from the Jacuzzi into the bigger portion of the pool, like a dolphin. Best of all, if you really had the hot tip on the Hamiltons’ Jacuzzi, you brought a little detergent with you. Wisk for dishes was best. A little Wisk in the Hamiltons’ ja-cooz and you had so much foam that the effect was one of a huge hot and cold bubble bath.