Fast Times at Ridgemont High (30 page)

You could tell Vargas was itching to get his hands on those cadavers.

“Now, Steve . . . can you identify the spleen on old Allen here?”

Vargas peeled open Allen’s chest cavity. Several girls gasped.

“That blue thing right in there,” said Shasta.

“Right!”

“Claudia? Where is the human heart located?”

“I don’t see it.”

“Right!” Vargas was loving it. “It’s covered by lung tissue! But, contrary to where we place our hands during the Pledge of Allegiance, the human heart
is
centrally located and . . .” Vargas pulled out a purplish blue muscle and hefted it in his hand.

“This,” he said, “is the human heart.”

Steve Shasta immediately turned to three friends. “You each owe me five bucks!”

Linda Barrett ran out of the room, holding her mouth. The rest remained through the entire episode, while Mr. Vargas displayed almost all the human body organs. Afterward, everyone boarded the bus for a quiet and reflective ride home. They returned to school like war heroes.

“What was it like in there?” asked one of the others. Their eyes were full of wonder and fear.

“It was hairy in there,” said Shasta on lunch court. “Some of us didn’t make it.”

The Mist-Blue Newport II

T
he cars, all washed shiny new, swished slowly past the entrance and into the parking lot. There were Ridgemont students everywhere, all headed for the red carpet leading into the Twentieth Annual Ridgemont High School Senior Prom.

This year the prom was being held at the Sheraton Airport Inn, in the “world famous” Lagoon Room. There was nothing about the location and motif that suggested a lagoon, but the ballroom did have all the essentials of a prom site. There was a splendid view of the city, a bandstand, room for the hors d’oeuvres table, and plenty of space for sitting and dancing. Best of all, the Lagoon Room had cork walls.

It happened to be a Ridgemont tradition to line the walls of the prom site with silver hearts. Each heart bore the names of a prom couple. The idea was to spend your first half hour working your way around the room, squinting at the names and reminiscing with any kids or teachers you met along the way, no matter how well you knew them.

If ever it was a time to drop the hierarchy of the high school lunch court, this was it. The conversations between even the most bitter enemies were the equivalent of verbal yearbook signatures on prom night.

“Oh, Rachel, I know we haven’t gotten along much all year. And I stole your boyfriend and badmouthed you all year long, but—I JUST LOVE YOUR DRESS!”

Next, a student was expected to make a pass by the table of Principal Gray and his wife, Nancy. They were seated by the hors d’oeuvres, bright and attentive. Principal Gray looked everyone in the eye as if he knew them. The rumor was that he had studied last year’s annual.

“Well hello,
Charles,
how’s your science work? Have you met my wife, Nancy?
Charles
was an excellent basketball player for us . . .”

And a student was expected to toss the bull around a little with the Grays.

“I had a great year, Mr. Gray. I’ll always remember the great times and my friends here at RHS.”

Most of the faculty chaperones sat together at other tables. On prom night there wasn’t a whole lot for them to do. It wasn’t like the usual Friday-night dance
orgies,
as they called them. On those nights a chaperone really got to use his flashlight. On one Friday night he might snag thirty groping couples in and under the bleachers.

The senior prom was classier than that. Kids in suits and gowns felt a responsibility to give up the fighting and groping for this night.
This thing cost me forty-nine bucks to rent!

For most girls the question of what to wear on prom night was a matter that required some thought. To make her own or buy one? And if she bought it, God forbid there was another girl with the same one . . .

For the boys there was only one avenue to travel. A tux. And you got it at Regis. Regis Formalwear carried four basic prom-class tuxedos. The style a kid picked was a statement in itself:

The Black (or Brown) Regency—A standard choice, it was single-breasted and simply cut. Many chose the Regency, and who could say it wasn’t a fine conservative suit.

Or Camel Camelot—A brown-and-black velvet affair, as it was called in the Regis brochure, this outfit meant the difference between “arriving and
making an impression.”

For the more daring, the Yellow Seville—A colorful, Gatsbyesque piece, the Yellow Seville was a “classic vision in soft yellow, with the added comfort of a suppressed waist.”

They were impressive offerings for any prom goer. Impressive, but none of the aforementioned tuxes could match the fourth and final Regis selection: There was nothing that matched the Mist-Blue Newport II.

The Mist-Blue Newport II was an awesome tux. It was turquoise, with black lapels like the fins on a ’56 Cadillac. They flapped as its wearer walked. The Mist-Blue Newport II cost a little extra, but it was also equipped with a Charleston tailcoat and a ruffled front—the better to go along with the half-size top hat that came with it.

Steve Shasta entered the Ridgemont prom at 8:30 in a Mist-Blue Newport II. He stood briefly in the doorway of the Lagoon Room. Then he turned to his date, Laurie Beckman.

“Come,” said Shasta, “let us find our silver heart.”

Brad Hamilton arrived a few minutes later with his date, Jody, a junior he’d met two weeks before. Like many prom couples his was a match bred out of necessity. Both shared friends, both wanted to go to the prom, and neither had the right date. They both looked grittily determined to have a good time.

There were many, of course, whose personalities prevented them from attending such an undeniably sosh school event like The Prom. There were still others who had at first dismissed the prom as “useless tradition.” Then, faced with an evening home alone, they began madly looking for a date in the last few days. William Desmond, the wrestler-columnist was such a case. He’d been slamming the prom like crazy, then in the last week had asked four girls to go with him. He discovered an odd phenomenon.

“Do you have plans for the prom?” he’d ask.

“Well . . . no.”

“All right!
You’re going with me!”

And here was the weird part for Desmond.

“But I can’t go with you, William.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Why? I know a couple of people on the prom committee and everything. They’ll take care of us. I know the band . . .”

“I can’t, William, because
someone
else wants you to ask her.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you who. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Who!” Desmond would start to get excited. “You’ve got to tell me!”

“I can’t! I promised!” And the girl would scurry off.

Desmond thought about it. It was killing him. He ended up going with no one and spending another evening at the mall. He ran into Jeff Spicoli at Rock City.

“Why aren’t you at the prom, Desmond?” asked Spicoli.

“I
hate
the fuckin’ prom,” said Desmond.

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you
why.
Because you have to be a
certain way.
How can I explain it? They want you to be a certain way or they don’t accept you in high school. I’d like to get hold of the person who started all this prom and letter jacket and A.S.B. shit and . . .” Desmond crumpled a paper cup sitting on top of Space Invaders. “And KICK HIS ASS.”

“You got it,” said Spicoli.

Ridgemont High had worked up to its Twentieth Annual Senior Prom with . . . well, a guy like A.S.B. President Kenneth Quan would have to call it
spirit.
There was quite a turnout tonight.

The only trouble was, like Brad and Jody, no one seemed to be having “the time of their lives.” Perhaps it came down to the “Hello Richard” thing. When couples began pairing off at the beginning of the year, it seemed that one of the first things said in the heat of passion was, “We’ll do this and this and this and then, at the end of the year, we’ll go to the
prom
together!”

But during the year they broke up, and when prom time came they reluctantly called each other.

“Hello, Richard. It’s
Brenda.”

“I know it’s you, Brenda. I recognize your voice. How’s it going?”

“Oh, pretty good. I’m getting a little nervous about going to college. I’ll be okay. It’s just the end-of-the-year blues.” Translation:
I didn’t get asked to the prom.

“Yeah. Things are the same with me.”
Me neither.

“Richard, I was driving around the other day, and I heard ‘Beast of Burden,’ and . . . God, I thought of us! I got a little sad.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“You know what?”

“What, Brenda?”

“Richard, we should go to the prom together. Wouldn’t that surprise a few people!”

And on prom night, just as they were getting through with that expensive steak and lobster dinner, sitting there in tails and gown, all the old irritations would return.

Linda Barrett and Doug Stallworth arrived. It was another obligation, of course. They were fighting when they walked in. Then they had not been able to find their silver heart. By the time they sat down at a table they weren’t speaking.

“What took you guys so long?”

“Men
drivers,” said Linda.

They were all sitting at the same table—Linda and Doug, Brad and Jody, Steve and Laurie—all saying nothing. They had come together for the memories. Now they just wished they could get out of there and on to the after-prom parties.

Tina Dellacorte came slithering up to the silent table. “Hi you
guys!”

“Tina,” said Shasta. “How are you doing?”

“Really
gude,”
she said.

“What are you going to do this summer?”

“Stick around!” said Tina. “Go to Mammoth! I don’t know!”

“Fantastic.”

“Well,” said Tina Dellacorte. “S’ya later.” She left the table.

“I see her on a desert island,” said Shasta. “She’s been shipwrecked for two months. The natives have raped her like crazy. A boat comes to pick her up. ‘Are you okay?’ they say. ‘How are you?’ And Tina Dellacorte smiles real big and goes, ‘REALLY
GUDE!’ ”

Silence at the table. The prom dates looked around restlessly at the other couples.

“Well,” said Shasta, “there’s always Grad Nite.”

Later, in the bathroom, two seniors were discussing Grad Nite in front of the mirror. Grad Nite, it seemed, was the special consolation prize for seniors with post-prom depression. Sponsored by Disneyland for graduating high school students in the western United States, Grad Nite was the one night a year the Magic Kingdom opened its doors only to juniors and seniors. For a $20 entry ticket, you and a date had the run of Disneyland from the usually closed hours of 10
P.M.
to 5
A.M.
Grad Nite was an experience often spoken about in hushed tones.

“Girls roam in
packs
at Grad Nite,” said one senior before the Lagoon Room mirror.

“It’s gonna be awesome,” said the other girl. “I only came to the prom ’cause everyone makes such a big deal about it.”

At midnight, the lead singer of Takoma read aloud the winner of Prom King and Queen voting.

“KENNETH QUAN AND CINDY CARR!”

Gasp. Hands to face again. Cindy Carr, this time in all black, burst into tears and stumbled to the front of the hall in near hysterics. Kenneth Quan accepted back pats from friends and then joined Cindy at the bandstand. A tiara was placed on her head; he was given a crown. Gregg Adams sat resolute at his own table.

“Hey, man,” he told his friends, “be
happy
for her.”

Takoma played “Three Times a Lady” one more time, followed with a few more Cheap Trick and Van Halen songs, and finished up with “Kashmir” at 12:30.

“Thanks for having us! Good night and drive carefully!”

The Ridgemont couples then spread out in every direction for the second stage of prom night. It was still very early by prom standards. Most of the kids would be roaring all night long, and by 12:50 there was nobody in the Lagoon Room—the site of unimaginable thrills and tears—except for a couple of janitors cleaning up.

The After-Prom