Fast Times at Ridgemont High (35 page)

“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

T
he 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.”

“Linda,” said Stacy, “you and Doug were meant for each other. He saved you from a fate worse than death.”

“What’s that?”

Stacy smiled. “High school boys!”

The two girls walked through the Annual Signing Party, and soon spotted Mike Damone collapsed against the back of the gym. He was letting people approach him. Once the story of the erased bare ass came out, it was Ratner’s and Damone’s turn at celebritydom. Damone was signing annuals at a furious pace.

“I remember erasing this one,” Damone was telling some timid underclassman. “Don’t you hate it when people start something in your annual and then cross it out?”

“Yes,” said the girl.

“Have a bitchin’ summer,” said Damone.

He had crossed out “I don’t really know you, but . . .” and just left “Take care, Mike Damone.”

A friend from Damone’s P.E. class slammed down on the hardwood gym floor next to him. He flipped his annual into Damone’s lap, nearly cracking him in the nuts.

“Go for it,” said the kid.

Damone signed.

“Sheesh,” said the kid. “My only fuckin’ picture is on fuckin’ page 98. I have a partial on 106, but that’s bullshit. I look like I weigh about a thousand pounds.”

Damone handed the book back. “To the future of America—it’s in your hands. Don’t splash, Mike Damone.”

Mark Ratner showed up and sat down next to Damone. The two held court all Annual Signing Party.

Mr. Vargas passed by, carefully documenting the event with the school’s camera equipment.

Linda Barrett was next to come by. She fell down next to Mike in a black low-cut dress. She’d gone home to change. She wrote “I LUST YOU” on the knee of Damone’s jeans.

“I’m back with Doug,” said Linda. “We’re going to get married as soon as I get out of college.”

“When is that?”

“In four years, stupid.”

“Yeah,” said Damone. “Sure. Doug’ll be in the old-folks home, and one day you’ll come cruising up and say, ‘Let’s get married.’ But he’ll be deaf by then so he won’t even hear you.”

“. . . I’ll never forget your bod,” said Linda. She looked up to see Brad Hamilton standing nearby. “Hi, Bradley!”

“Hi. You see Laurie Beckman and Steve Shasta? Look at that! They’re about to go for it right there on the floor.”

Several teachers on both sides had already discovered the slow-dancing couple. Plotting their chaperonal strategy, they decided on a double-flashlight attack that pinned two separate beams on the couple. But it did not break Laurie and Steve up. Mr. Burke had to go out there and do it himself.

Jeff Spicoli wandered up, annual in hand. He stopped to look at the band on stage. He stayed there, staring off into space, for several minutes. His hand was frozen in his hair, as if he’d forgotten to let go.

“Hey, Spicoli,” said Damone.

Spicoli turned to see The Rat and Damone, Linda Barrett, Brad and Stacy. His head started bobbing. He was on some distant plane, no doubt ripping through the cosmos of his surf-ravaged mind.

“Want us to sign your annual?”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.” Spicoli laughed menacingly. “It’s so
radical
.” He offered his annual to Damone.

Spicoli’s annual was filled with comments like, “Dear Jeff—I’m not real good friends with you, but you will never have any problems in life. There will always be someone to tell you where to get off.” Or, “We got high in P.E., didn’t we? Fuck class!”

It made Damone feel sorry for the guy. He’d take his annual home to his mom and dad. His dad would ask what he spent the fifteen bucks on, and then he’d flip through the annual by the living-room light.

“Jefffff? Why do all these boys keep thanking you for the drugs?”

Damone signed Spicoli’s book. “Good thing you’re going to Hawaii,” said Damone. “ ’Cause you’re gonna get kicked out of the house when your parents read your annual.”

Spicoli smiled and nodded. “Good luck to all you rats coming back to this crackerjack joint,” he said. “I laugh in your face.” He had written the same line in any annual he could get his hands on.

Damone and The Rat watched Spicoli drift off to other parts of the Annual Signing Party.

“You just know he’s gonna grow up to be a shoe salesman,” said The Rat.

The All-Night 7-Eleven Man

B
rad could see it. He could hear it in the way people said goodbye and good luck to him. He could read the expression in their eyes. They looked at him and thought, Here’s a guy I’ll have to visit
—when I come back.

Everyone was leaving, all his friends. Even the ones who said they’d never go near college. Well, they were all talking about applications and acceptances these days. Even Linda Barrett, and that had been one of the big surprises for Brad. The way he heard it, Linda had come home from school after the Annual Signing Party when her mother broke the news. She had been dealing with Paula Crawford, Linda’s RHS counselor, since last semester. No wonder they’d all talked her into taking the advanced classes.