“I can see the sign,” Raymond added. “‘Do Not Feed the Praying Mantises.’”
Sean looked at Raymond. “Isn’t it about time you were going?”
After Raymond’s departure, Sean checked on the insect situation in the kitchen. His mother had restarted the trap to kill some of the bugs already there, but that only served to attract new visitors. Sean suggested ant powder but was rejected outright. It wasn’t technological enough.
Later, as he was making his way upstairs to his room, Nikki’s door opened, and he was hauled bodily inside.
“Hey, Nik, what’s the big idea?”
“You and Raymond Jardine were eating lunch with a girl at Miami Beach,” Nikki began.
“You’ve been spying on me!” Sean accused.
“Not me. But Betty, who my friend Carita knows because she took a kitten the last time Carita’s cat had a litter — not her friend, but her friend’s friend saw the three of you, and it got back to me through the grapevine. The girl — is she with Raymond?”
Sean’s head was spinning. Nikki was a freshman. When had she had time to set up a communications network? “Yeah, she was with Raymond,” he said finally. “She was with me, too. We were having lunch together. So?”
“No, no!” Nikki was impatient. “Is she with him? Is she his girlfriend?”
“Of course not,” said Sean. Then, a little less positively, “Did she look like she was — interested in him?”
Nikki sighed. “Who wouldn’t be?”
Sean cleared his throat carefully. “What makes you so sure she wasn’t ‘with’ me?”
“Oh, come on, Sean. I mean, no offense, but a girl like that — you know — a girl that pretty wouldn’t — well, you know —”
Sean was enraged. “I’m on the varsity basketball team!”
“Yeah, yeah, Sean, I know —”
“A starter! The best player!”
She smiled placatingly. “Sure, Sean. You’re right.”
“I’m going to break all your records,” he said tersely.
***
It was coming down to the wire for the submission of a topic for the poetry assignment, and Raymond and Sean worked in the library through English class and lunch period, and then long after school was over. It was at five o’clock Thursday afternoon, when the chief custodian unceremoniously threw them out of the building, that Sean decided it was time to panic.
“Come on, Raymond! Let’s just pick any old poet and do him! Kerr wants our topic nine o’clock tomorrow morning!”
Raymond was adamant. “If we can’t find the right poet, we may as well do no project at all. I see no point in passing eleventh-grade English if I can’t go to Theamelpos.”
Thus, the next morning at six-thirty, the two partners met outside the school, snuck into the library when the chief custodian wasn’t looking, and locked themselves into the audiovisual room with every volume of modern poetry the library had. Raymond had even thought to bring a flashlight in case of SACGEN failure. As it turned out, his batteries were stone dead, but fortunately, SACGEN provided them with a dim glow right up until first period. It took almost that long.
Sean had long since ceased to function. He sat crumpled in a chair, bathed in sweat, glancing at his watch, and pulling at his collar. You’re going to flunk, he told himself. Everybody was going to know that the star of the basketball team flunked. They’d probably kick him off the team, too, all because this idiot was making him flunk. He looked narrowly at Raymond, who was still scanning books at five to nine, and decided that Sean might flunk, but Raymond was going to die!
Countdown: T minus four minutes and counting: three-fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven —
“Here it is,” said Raymond suddenly. “I say we do this guy.”
“What? What?”
“This poet. Gavin Gunhold. Here, read it. See what you think.”
“Not necessary!” Sean exclaimed. “I trust you! Here, let’s get this to class!” He grabbed the book and darted out the door.
Raymond followed, calling, “Hey, mellow out. We’ve still got more than two minutes.”
With Raymond in his wake, Sean barreled through the hall, clutching the book to his heart like a football player heading for the end zone. They arrived at English just as Mr. Kerr was about to shut the door, and fell into their seats beside Ashley.
“We’ve got our topic!” Sean whispered in triumph.
Ashley was filing her nails. “Topic?”
“The poetry assignment,” Raymond supplied patiently. “We’ve found the poet we’re going to work on.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
Mr. Kerr began calling on the groups one at a time to present their topics for approval, which gave Sean’s heart time to resume a steady rhythm as he became accustomed to the idea that no, he wasn’t going to flunk after all. Then and only then did it occur to him to open the book and read the only poetry that had touched the soul of Raymond Jardine.
“Registration Day” by Gavin Gunhold (1899– )
Toronto Review of Poetry, 1947
On registration day at taxidermy school
I distinctly saw the eyes of the stuffed moose
Move.
Sean sat forward in his chair as though he had been hit across the back of the head with a shovel. This was it? This? Of all the poetry in the English-speaking world, Raymond had chosen this? Sixteen words of — of — how would you describe it?
Raymond was positively glowing with accomplishment. It made Sean want to wipe the grin off his partner’s face with a sixty-millimeter howitzer.
“Isn’t it perfect?” Raymond whispered ecstatically. “That Gavin Gunhold is some poet! I can hardly wait to start reading his other stuff!”
For spite, Sean handed the poem to Ashley. When she saw what Raymond had done, she’d never forgive him.
As Ashley read, both boys regarded her intently, their eyes following the movement of her beautiful lips. Finally, she looked up and said, “Wow. That’s awesome.”
Sean’s brow knit. “It made sense to you?”
“Of course not. But it’s really heavy.”
Just as Sean was weighing the pros and cons of a tantrum, Mr. Kerr called for Delancey, Jardine, and Bach.
“Gavin Gunhold is a nonconformist Canadian poet,” Raymond explained to the teacher. “He’s not very famous in America, but Ashley, Sean, and I find his work really interesting and enjoyable, and we’re looking forward to studying him in depth.” He made no move to show the teacher “Registration Day,” and kept the book in plain sight but shut.
To Sean’s amazement, Mr. Kerr smiled broadly. “I must say I’m delighted, and very impressed. In choosing a more obscure poet, you’re showing a desire to explore and, as a teacher, I find that very gratifying. But you realize that your path will be more difficult. Are you sure there’s enough material for such a major study?”
“Oh, yes,” said Raymond. “He’s been writing since the forties.”
“Well, that’s wonderful, then,” Mr. Kerr pronounced heartily. “Carry on. And enjoy yourselves.”
Sean walked back to his seat in a daze. Well, how about that! Raymond was right! Pick the last poet anyone would ever think of paying attention to, and everything else falls into place. As for “Registration Day,” maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. If the Toronto Review of Poetry thought it was good enough to publish, who was Sean Delancey to say no? He looked at his partner with a newfound respect — a cautious respect.
Even Ashley was impressed, commenting, “Wow, you guys are smart,” before returning to her nails, the poetry assignment completely out of her thoughts.
***
“So what’s our next move?” Sean asked Raymond on the way to Miami Beach at lunch that day. “I guess we should read up on Gavin Gunhold and pick which of his poems we’re going to do, huh?”
Raymond had other ideas. “We’ve got half a semester to worry about that kind of stuff. Our problem now is to pull off that Halloween part
y.”
Sean groaned. The agony and triumph of topic selection had completely driven Halloween from his mind. Now, less than two hours after deciding maybe Raymond wasn’t such a bad guy after all, Sean remembered the most recent reason he wanted to strangle his partner. “You know, this project isn’t going to be easy, and Kerr is expecting a lot from us. I wish you hadn’t opened your big fat mouth to Eckerman!”
Raymond was shocked. “Are you crazy? Do you have any idea how good Student Social Activities Organizing Committee is going to look on our records when the staff decides who’s going to Theamelpos and who’s going to Secaucus? This party is important. It’s our first step toward appearing like well-rounded dudes. Which, of course, we aren’t, but who’s going to know?”
“You see, Raymond …” Sean paused. “I never go to these school dances. I like house parties better. Sure, I might drop in for a few minutes on my way to someplace else — you know, just to put in an appearance. But how can I plan what I’ve hardly ever seen?”
Raymond frowned. “Seriously?”
“Yeah!”
“But what happened to the all-American, Mr. Popularity, Varsity Big Man on Campus?”
“He didn’t go to school parties.”
Raymond looked at the ceiling. “That’s right. Give Jardine a hermit for a social planner. Go heavy on the dull. Nice touch.”
Sean bristled. “Let’s get this straight here. I don’t go in for the school stuff because I’ve got too many other parties to go to that are a lot better. So shut up about dull. You’re no one to judge —”
“I’m not judging — I’m dying! We’re in trouble, man! How was I supposed to know there was another eight-ball in the world? Dances? Who goes to dances when you’re Jardine? It’s everybody else I always figured has a rich social life!”
Sean clenched his teeth and fists at the same time. “If you listened to any mouth but your own, you’d have heard me say that I have a rich social life. The only hermit is you.”
“I’ve got an excuse. I’m Jardine. Let’s not lose sight of the issue here, Delancey. We are standing on the threshold of a really lousy party. We need help.”
“Who’s going to help us? Eckerman? He’s never planned a party in his life! Who do you know who knows anything about parties?”
They entered Miami Beach, each flinching slightly from the oppressive heat, as though they had just come through an airlock into a blast furnace. There, waiting for them outside the cafeteria line, stood Ashley Bach. And suddenly they were standing still, grinning at each other.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Sean, vaguely disconcerted that a great person like himself could be sharing thoughts with Raymond.
Raymond nodded, terribly pleased. “Eureka. Doth I see before me a party goddess?”
“Hi,” said Ashley brightly. “I’m glad I caught you guys. Go get a table and sit down. I’m picking out lunch today.”
Oh, no, thought Sean, having a sudden vision of the Amazon rain forest.
“Terrific,” said Raymond. “I could use a change.”
Sean raised pleading eyes to Raymond, who looked back sternly. Ashley trotted off into the food line, and the two boys selected a table.
“Aw, Raymond,” Sean was whining, “why did you have to encourage her? You know what kind of food she’s going to bring us — all that stupid healthy model stuff. Look at her over there in the salad section. We’re going to get nothing but sprouts, and roots, and leaves, and grass.”
“If she’ll bail us out on this party, I’ll eat her whole front lawn,” Raymond promised devoutly. “Today we bite the bullet, gag down the granola, and from now on, we just make sure we get to Miami Beach before she does. One lunch of garbage to pull our party up out of the toilet — fair enough.”
“You’re not planning to dump it all on Ashley the way Eckerman dumped it all on us, are you?” Sean asked. This, he reasoned, was out of concern for another human being rather than the fact that he was dying to date Ashley.
“Of course not,” said Raymond. “We just need advice. If she wants to help us beyond that, that’s up to her.”
They sat, anticipating the unpleasantness that was to come in the form of lunch, and watching the excitement at the beachfront poker game. There was much cheering and shouting going on, because Howard actually seemed to be losing a few hands that day. Nearby, Steve Semenski and some of his friends were tray-surfing, another activity developed by Howard. The surfer stood balanced on a cafeteria tray atop a long dining table, while two others hoisted the end of the table over their shoulders, sending him careening down the “wave,” executing hot-dog maneuvers. It was one hundred percent against school rules, but naturally, the teachers never came anywhere near Miami Beach. It was too hot.
As usual, Steve was the biggest show-off among the surfers, strutting around in loud bathing trunks and a sleeveless muscle shirt. He immediately caught the jaundiced eye of Raymond.
“Look at him! Cementhead! Doesn’t it make you want to cut his head off and stick it in the sand on Easter Island?”
Sean was annoyed. “Listen! His name is Steve, and he’s a good friend of mine. So quit calling him Cementhead.”
Ashley appeared, her tray holding an expanse of green. “Now you guys are going to learn what real good eating is all about.”
What followed was a nutritional nightmare for Sean as 217 calories (Ashley’s calculations) made their way down his throat and lodged themselves along his digestive tract. It was exceedingly painful to be so hungry, and to be faced with a plate of food, and yet have absolutely nothing to eat. He would have traded his parents’ argon-neon laser, his grandfather’s supply of Scrulnick’s, and thrown in Nikki for a single bag of potato chips. He could see that Raymond, too, despite his resolve, was suffering, and it brought him some small comfort. The only other positive thing that Sean could see coming out of this experience was the fact that Ashley was watching them eat with loving pride.
Due to the crunching, conversation was limited, and the Halloween party didn’t get mentioned until the last spoonful of bran had scratched its way down their throats. Ashley’s ears perked up at the mere mention of the word “party.”
“You guys are incredible! You’re the most happening guys in the school! I love Halloween parties! Can I help you with it?”
Raymond pretended to consider this. “I guess so,” he said finally. “Got any ideas?”
“Of course! The most important thing at a party is the music. We’ll hire my friend from the city. He’s a great deejay. He’s got a giant sound system and an amazing light show. And he’ll emcee the trampoline contest.”
Sean, who had been nonchalantly searching for stray chip crumbs on the table, suddenly snapped to attention. “Trampoline contest?”
“Yeah! It’s all the rage in the city. The prize goes to the person with the best costume who can do the most stuff on the trampoline. It’s so fun! Plus, we’ll need to make sure all the kids know about the party. I take art, and I bet I can get my whole class to paint us up some great posters. Oh, parties are my favorite things! We’ll need soda, and pizza, and chips, and peanuts, and create-your-own banana split …”
Sean checked to make sure his tongue wasn’t hanging out on the table. It was cruel to list such a menu in front of someone who had just finished an Ashley Special. Raymond, too, appeared a tad peckish, but nothing could mitigate his air of triumph as Ashley described the Halloween party of everyone’s dreams, detail by detail. When she finished outlining her plans, Raymond actually applauded, and Sean joined in, too, saying, “Gee, Ashley, you’re going to be a great — uh — help.”
“Surf’s up!” came a bellow from across Miami Beach.
Everyone turned. There was Steve, poised and waving, perched on a tray on the longest dining table on the beach, manfully awaiting the Big Wave.
“Hang ten!” chorused the many spectators.
Two stalwart surfers hoisted the end of the table, and Steve slid down at break
neck speed toward the floor. Just before point of impact, his bare feet kicked the tray backward high into the air. It spiraled down, and Steve caught it deftly with one finger, to tumultuous cheers from his audience. It was well known that Steve was the best surfer in Miami Beach.
“Hey, Howard,” called Steve. “What did you think of that one?”
Howard, who had discontinued his poker game in an attempt to stem his losing streak, adjusted his sunglasses and rolled over onto his back. “I’m working on my tan.”
Ashley, who had been watching the surfing with great interest, sighed dreamily. “Who is that absolutely gorgeous guy?”
Sean stiffened. “Who?”
“The one who just surfed. The one in the black muscle shirt.”
Sean goggled. “You mean Cementhead?”
Raymond looked up at the ceiling and mouthed the words, “She likes Cementhead.”
Ashley leaned across the table, her sea-green eyes animated. “You know him?”
“No!” chorused Raymond and Sean.
* * *
By fifth period, Sean’s hunger pangs had changed into a great numbness in his stomach. By sixth, the numbness was a queasiness with a touch of heartburn. And by seventh, he was in the corner stall of the second floor washroom, feeling not very well at all. He cursed Ashley, not only for the killer lunch, but also for turning her beautiful eyes away from the ever-so-worthy Sean Delancey to cast them upon the ever-so-cementheaded Steve Semenski. He hadn’t been so jealous since eighth grade, when Steve had proved he had the guts to sneak into the locker room and steal Karen Whitehead’s underwear.
He heard the washroom door open, and then a few footsteps on the tile floor. There was the squeak of a worn-out tap, and the sudden rush of water from air-bound pipes.
“That’s right,” came a voice. “Give Jardine a booby-trapped sink. Soak him good. He wasn’t comfortable in those dry clothes anyway.”
“Pssst! Raymond — is that you?”
“Hi, Delancey. Nice day for a stomach-pumping, isn’t it? I take it lunch has done a number on you, too.”