Yearbook (22 page)

Amy let Guy help her on with her coat.

Guy shook Evelyn’s hand good-by. “Happy New Year, Mrs. Silverstein.”

“Call if you’re going to be late,” Evelyn requested.

“It’s New Year’s Eve, Mother. We’ll be late.”

“Just be friendly and warm, don’t be afraid to smile and for God’s sake, Amy, don’t talk politics or use big words no one will understand.”

“Anything else, Mother?”

“No, dear. Just be yourself and have a good time.”

TWENTY-EIGHT
 

HARDLY THE JUBILANT gala Guy had envisioned, the party was flat when he and Amy arrived.

Eight girls sipped Cokes and gossiped on one side of the living room while their dates guzzled beer and talked sports on the other.

On a coffee table in the middle of the room a selection of party hats, noisemakers, streamers and confetti sat untouched, festive accessories clearly too childish for young adults.

Amy took one look around. “Who died?” she whispered.

Guy led her into the room, ignoring guests staring openly, certain that this odd couple must have the wrong address.

Corky, in spite of himself, winced when he saw Amy. He couldn’t believe
she
was the disaster Guy had warned him about.

Marlene Sanders, cheerleader-hostess, bubbled over. “Appy-ap-pee New Year! Don’t you hate it? Poof! A whole year gone, out the window. What happened to 1958?”

Marlene took Amy by the hand. “I’ll introduce you to the girls.” She looked at Guy and dismissed him. “You join the boys. “

Amy entered a discussion of how large an engagement ring could grow before ostentation set in, and Guy arrived to hear predictions of the next day’s Rose Bowl score.

Actually the jocks from the Rushport adventure were glad to see him, his appearance rekindling memories and provoking happy, exaggerated versions of the wild evening. All of which put them in mind it was time to get drunk again.

Corky surveyed a tray of bottles on the piano and returned with a fifth of Canadian Club. “Okay, fellas. Here’s where we separate the men from the pipsqueaks!’’ He poured a jigger of the whiskey and downed it. “ Aaah! Real firewater!’’ With half a breath, he passed both bottle and shot glass to Chuck Troendle. “All yours!”

Amy watched the boys draining the circulating bottle, listened to the girls gabbing about hem lengths, and decided she’d never felt more out of place anywhere.

The bottle went around the other side of the room three more times. Everyone passed the test.

As the whiskey found its way into young male bloodstreams, Corky brought the bottle over to the girls’ side of the room. “Anybody here want a shot?”

No one said anything. The boys across the way shared a full-blooded laugh.

“Chicken?”

“I’d have a drink if someone would make it for me,” Ro-Anne allowed.

“Name it, princess.” Corky smiled. “I’ll play bartender.”

“Can you make an apricot brandy sour on the rocks?”

“You kidding? I can’t even pronounce it without getting sick.”

“How about a sloe gin fizz?” asked one of the other girls.

“Come on, ladies. It’s New Year’s Eve! Isn’t there a real drinker in the house?”

There was a moment’s pause before Amy raised her hand. “I’ll have a slug!” she volunteered.

Silence. Raised eyebrows.

“There’s the ole Irish spirit!” Corky poured a jigger and handed it over.

What the hell, Amy figured. Anything to break the boredom. Zap! She threw the booze down her throat. Tears came to her eyes. Her insides ignited. She fought for air and when she could finally speak, gasped,”
Delicious/”

Never to be outdone, Ro-Anne seized the shot glass and thrust it at Corky. “Well … maybe just a teensy-weensy one!”

He filled it, she downed it and went into a light convulsion. When her coughing fit subsided, she announced proudly, “It worked, I’m drunk!”

The ball was rolling. The other girls giggled and squealed, sud-

denly eager to give depravity a whirl.

An hour later everyone was wearing funny hats. The phonograph was piled high with 45’s—Elvis, the Platters, Fabian, Dion and the Belmonts. Couples danced the Philly lindy. Guy took photos.

Streamers rocketed everywhere. Confetti blanketed everything.

At ten minutes to twelve someone turned on the television and put out the lights. The excitement blaring from a mobbed Times Square filled the room. Most of the guests crowded around the set.

At the piano, leafing through her younger sister’s music sheets, Marlene found what she was looking for. “Can anyone here play ‘Auld Lang Syne’?’’

Guy was drunk enough to think he could. Walking over, he dismissed the sheet music, telling Marlene he only played by ear. When he tried a few notes, he was amazed he could back up his facile boast.

Someone raised the volume on the television.

“That’ll be fine,” Marlene told Guy. “Wait for midnight.” Then she and Ro-Anne, giggling, went off to get more pretzels and beer.

Corky, deciding to join the crowd at the TV set, made his way through the maze ofbodies until he stood next to Amy.

Disoriented, but enjoying her first drunken experience, Amy swayed back and forth in time to Guy Lombardo.

“How come we never met before tonight?” Corky asked her.

Amy looked into his penetrating eyes and got lost in the greenery. “Travel in different circles?” she suggested.

“You and Guy dating long?” Corky pinched a confetti flake from her shoulder and held it between his fingers.

Amy smiled nervously. “Guy and I don’t
date
. We’re friends, is all.”

“How nice, “Corky whispered, moving closer. “Forme, I mean.”

Amy wasn’t at all sure what he meant by that, but she was suddenly having a terrific time.

Marlene and Ro-Anne returned, laden with reinforcements.

“Last call for drinks in 1958!” Marlene called out.

Guy plinked at the keys, not really hitting them, getting ready for his debut.

Ro-Anne eased her way through the group at the television and stood next to Corky, leaning against him. He put his arm around her, to his left, and winked at Amy, to his right. Amy, out of her mind, winked back.

One minute to midnight.

“Everyone keep your eyes glued to the ball!” someone yelled from down front.

With forty-five seconds to go, partygoers busied themselves blowing noisernakers, downing drinks, holding on to each other and chanting numbers in a tense countdown.

As the electric ball on the screen descended, the noise soared. Confetti scattered.

The ball hit bottom. Guy hit the ivories.

Little white bulbs on top of the New York Times Building spelled out 1959, and the eighteen revelers in Marlene Sanders’ living room joined the half a million in Times Square going crazy.

Couples embraced. Long, long kisses, deeply felt.

Amy stared at Guy Lombardo, wishing she were invisible.

Corky kissed Ro-Anne, squeezed her tight and licked her teeth.

“Let’s not fight anymore, darling,” she whispered in his ear.

“I’m for that, “ he replied.

Chuck Troendle broke away from his date, turned and tapped Ro-Anne on the shoulder. She and Corky parted and when Ro-Anne turned to greet Chuck, Corky turned the other way and took Amy away from Guy Lombardo.

As if he hadn’t already done enough damage, Corky summoned all his intensity, looked straight into her brown eyes and smiled his winner. Amy fell apart.

Guy played “Auld Lang Syne.” Considering the short amount of time he’d been with the instrument and the large amount of alcohol distorting his perception, it sounded pretty good.

He stumbled over a few notes only when, looking up briefly, he was distracted to see Corky taking Amy in his arms before gifting her with the longest, most affectionate kiss of the new year. It went on forever.

As one year became another, while all around him exchanged affectionate greetings, Guy played the piano. Naturally talented fingers concealed a familiar loneliness.

Ro-Anne was so relieved she’d made up with Corky she felt guilty locking tongues with Chuck Troendle.

An inebriated Amy sagged into Corky’s strong arms as they kissed. For her, nothing had ever felt so good.

For Corky, the pleasure was mostly sweet revenge.

The Venture
1959
 

JANUARY
 

TWENTY-NINE
 

Corky and Amy’s LIPS PARTED.

“Happy New Year,” she whispered, eyes still closed.

Corky clipped her chin with a soft-fisted love-knock and turned to give Ro-Anne another extended kiss.

Raising her eyelids Amy stared at Corky’s back, trying to put pieces together. They didn’t fit. Not at all. A novice player, she barely understood the rules.

Corky was satisfied. For weeks he’d been ridiculed after the Thanksgiving skit the Gadflys had put on. The whole school had heard how viciously he and Ro-Anne had been portrayed.

When Amy—a charter member of those creepy intellectual snobs—dared show her unwelcome, unattractive face at a party on his turf, he made damn sure she’d regret it.

Easy enough. As always, his for a smile. But like too much aftershave lotion, where a few drops would have done the trick, he’d doused her with a whole bottle’s worth of charm.

Someone stacked a fresh pile of 45’s on the turntable. Couples wandered off finding make-out niches on couches, in darkened hallways, behind living room drapes. Others, holding off, still drank and danced, straining to sustain the merriment of yesterday’s midnight.

Both bathrooms soon had a steady stream of visitors too new to alcohol to have learned restraint. Gagging sounds filled the air.

Marlene’s parents arrived home a little after two. Trouble. After stumbling over two sleeping bodies crumpled in the hallway and wading through a pile ofconfettied debris, they eventually arrived at a place that once had been their living room.

The only light came from the piano, where Guy and Amy sat, playing “Chopsticks.” Everyone else was scattered about the dark house, wrapped together like pretzels.

“Where’s Marlene?!” Mrs. Sanders demanded to know.

Guy and Amy stopped playing. “Upstairs, near the bedroom, last I saw,” Amy answered.

Mr. Sanders stalked the room, switching lights back on. “Alcohol!” he observed. “These children have been drinking alcohol/”

“Not me!” Guy burped. “Never touch the stuff. “

While Mr. Sanders stomped through the house, flicking on lights, Mrs. Sanders followed, collecting glasses.

Scattered about, in various states of unbuttonedness, couples rose up, faking sobriety.

Awakened, Marlene confronted her folks. “Oh no! How could you do this to me? Home so early? You promised to call!”

“Tell these juvenile delinquents to clear out. Party’s over. No one gave any of you permission to drink liquor!”

“It’s not yours, Daddy. Everyone brought their own.”

“You’re a disgrace! I remember when kids were children! You’ve all had it too damn easy, that’s what it is.”

The Sanderses soon had everyone roused and on shaky feet. A rush for coats, scarves and gloves ensued, and after hasty farewells, the spirited crowd departed.

Even walking down the hill, laughing, still drunk, partygoers could hear the family squabble raging behind.

Amy and Guy walked along a quiet, icy Quaker Street, hardly looking at each other.

Eventually her Mona Lisa grin caught his attention. “Well, was I right? Isn’t he terrific?”

Amy didn’t answer, just nodded several times, yes-yes-yes, Corky was terrific.

Lost in a cloud of euphoria, Amy floated down the block.

“How come Corky gave you such a big kiss at midnight?”

“Corky?” Amy repeated his name as if she wanted to hear the ringing of the two syllables in her ear.

Who, Guy wondered, was this enchanted stranger with whom he was walking? Could this mummified Corliss Archer be the same Amy, queen of the cynics, who pushed all that talk about how ugly it was to be one of the chosen beautiful?

“If you like/’ Guy suggested, “we could get together with him again sometime.”

“Fine.” Amy smiled. “Where do I sign up?”

“I can’t believe you’re acting this way!” Guy finally complained.

“Whatway…?”

“I don’t know. Like some love-sick puppy.”

“Don’t be an ass, Guy”—she snapped out of it—”you wanted me to like your friend and I did. Without reservations. I’d’ve thought you’d be celebrating instead of stewing.”

“Stewing!?” Guy protested. “Who the hell is stewing? I just can’t get over the effect he’s had on you.”

“That’s ridiculous. He’s a charming fellow.”

“Not until he kissed you, he wasn’t.”

“I’d prefer not to talk about it, Guy, if you’re going to act like a fifteen-year old.”

They walked home in the cold early hours of the new year without saying another word.

When they got to her apartment, Amy offered her hand. “I didn’t mean to get nasty. I never really drank before and I guess I’m a little mixed up. “

“I’m a little mixed up, too.” Guy twirled a finger at his ear, rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out like a crazy person.

“I didn’t even get to give you a New Year’s kiss, Guy. My own date!”

Guy offered his cheek and she pecked it softly.

Turning her face, she waited for him.

“No go. I want the same shot as Corky. Lip service!”

Amy tapped her cheek with a finger. “Smack one in there and cut the smart remarks.”

Guy pressed his lips across a row of blemishes. “Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year, Guy. You’re a lovely boy and a good friend.” Opening the door, she looked back over her shoulder. “Now if you could only play football, we’d really have something to shout about.’

THIRTY
 

EARLY MONDAY MORNING students returning to school after Christmas recess were introduced to the first issue of the Gadfly, the newsletter having been secretly run off in the school printshop and then stuffed inside each copy of the Eagle r.

Dr. Potter came across a copy over his morning cocoa and became enraged. He was not about to permit such yellow journalism within his hallowed halls and immediately organized a meeting to investigate and proscribe.