Pink and Slater took the former's El Camino over to Pickford's house. Mrs. Pickford's car was parked in the driveway with the trunk open and some luggage already inside. She stood beside it, checking a suitcase to make sure everything she wanted was inside. Pink and Slater approached her with the same false charm Don so frequently used on teachers.
"Hey, Mrs. Pickford," Pink said cheerfully.
"Hi guys. You here to see Kevin?"
"No, actually, we came here to see you."
"Aw," Mrs. Pickford cooed. She regarded both boys. She wished her son had more friends like Randall Floyd. He seemed well put together. Ronald Slater, on the other hand, became less and less put together every day. His hair reached his waist and he always looked tired and confused. "Bet you're glad school's out, aren't you?"
"Yeah," Pink nodded. He slowed his pace but never fully stopped. Pickford's mom would talk your ear off if you let her.
"We got our report cards today," Slater said. "Straight A's!"
"Both of you?" Mrs. Pickford asked.
"Just kiddin," Slater added under his breath.
Pink elbowed him. He gestured at the car. "Big trip, huh?"
"We're going away for the weekend."
"Oh, you're takin Kevin with you, huh?"
"No, he's staying here."
"Oh!" Pink faked surprise. "Oh, he is? Oh."
Normally, Mrs. Pickford would have preferred to interrogate them about school and summer plans a little longer, but she had more packing to do. She waved them along. "Go on in, he's up there somewhere."
The boys headed up the front walk.
"Straight A's?" Pink muttered.
"Hey, get off my case, man." Slater knocked Pink on the shoulder. "And what was that, 'Oh, oh, he is? Oh, I had no idea! Oh, this is such a surprise!'"
"Fuck you."
Pickford and Michelle were upstairs in the former's bedroom. Rather than join in hazing the incoming freshmen, they spent the afternoon lounging in the backyard hammock. Michelle liked to hear Pickford read aloud passages from J. R. R. Tolkien's The Silmarillion while she rested her eyes. She was supposed to have worked a shift at the Orange Julius today, but made sure to get someone to cover for her. Who in their right mind would go to work on the last day of school?
Now, Pickford and Slater were in the middle of conducting a business deal.
"Sample of the goods." Pickford handed a freshly-rolled joint and a full plastic baggie to Slater. "Fifteen bucks."
Slater took a hit off the joint, then passed it to Pink. He checked his shoe, where he always kept his cash, and came up with a five. He nudged Pink. "Can you spot me ten?"
Pink grunted mid-puff.
"I'll pay you back like…Tuesday, and shit."
Pink sighed and fished a ten out of his wallet, handing it to Pickford. There was a knock on the door, and both boys instantly jumped into action.
"Who is it?" Pickford called as Pink snuffed out the joint.
Mrs. Pickford's voice called from behind the door. "Kevin, I think you need to come out here a minute."
"Oh man, it reeks in here!" Pink hissed. Pickford ran to his dresser. He kept a can of air freshener hidden by his Alice Cooper poster. He ran in a circle around the room, spraying a generous helping and making Michelle cough.
"Kevin, there's someone out here who says he needs to talk to you." His mom jiggled the doorknob, but Pickford always locked his bedroom door and stuck a screwdriver between the door and the wall for extra measure.
"What about?" Pickford asked, trying to buy time. He rushed the air freshener back to its spot. By now, Pink had hidden the joint and was working with Michelle to get the thoroughly stoned Slater to hide the rest of the weed.
"Slater, lose it!" Michelle urged, and finally Slater had the presence of mind to stuff the baggie under his shirt.
"Go get the door, man," Pink said.
"Kevin! Open the door!" Now his dad was out there. Great.
Pickford surveyed his three friends. They sat in a half-circle looking as innocent and sober as possible. Finally, he went to open the door. He tried to keep it mostly closed, but his father's large mass forced itself through.
"Hey Dad. What's up?"
Mr. Pickford fixed his son with the usual strict glare. "Did you order some kegs of beer?"
"No?" Pickford said aloud, but inside was thinking Oh, fuck me.
"Well, there's a fella in a beer truck down on the street that says you did."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah."
"Just a sec." Pickford walked across his bedroom to the window, which gave him a clear view of the driveway. Indeed, a goofy-looking man stood next to a beer truck. Pickford specifically told him to arrive no earlier than eight o'clock, yet here he was. Shit. Fuck.
His dad came all the way into his room now, beady eyes studying every nook and cranny to see if anything else was amiss. But Pickford had never been one to give up easy; if he thought a situation could be dragged out until some unforeseen moment where it would suddenly turn in his favor, he would drag it out. He did so now.
"That guy said I ordered a keg of beer?" he asked, playing dumb.
His father nodded. "Yeah. He said it was to be delivered to the Pickford residence."
"This address?"
"This address."
"Hm. That's kinda funny. Why don't I go out there and see what's going on?"
Mr. Pickford nodded. "Yeah, I think you'd better."
To his friends, Pickford said, "I'll be right back," and rushed out of the room.
Mr. Pickford lingered. "You guys know anything about a party here tonight?"
Pink and Michelle both shook their heads, remaining otherwise still. Slater stayed silent, probably for the best.
"No sir," Pink said.
Mr. Pickford shook his head sardonically, as if to say Nah, 'course not.
Outside, Pickford rushed down to the curb with his feet bare and his shirt hanging open from when he and Michelle went to second base on the hammock earlier. He didn't dare look back, but knew his parents were watching from the front porch.
"Hey, hey, hey," he whispered. "Hey, man. Aren't you a little bit early?"
The delivery guy, whose name tag read BEN, checked his watch and chuckled cluelessly. "Oh yeah, 'bout an hour and a half. I wanted to get here early, see if anyone was here. Man, I got this little action happening tonight, if you know what I mean."
So did I, until you fucked it up. Pickford aimed a slight jerk of his head behind him. "So I guess you got the wrong house."
Ben took a moment to assess and comprehend, his eyes flitting between Pickford and his parents. "Ah." He checked his clipboard and exaggerated his voice. "Yee-ep! Inconvenient for you. I'm sorry! Wrong Mr. Pickford altogether!"
They shook hands and Pickford clapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, these things happen. Don't worry about it, man."
"Yeah." Ben clicked his tongue and wondered what the hell he was going to do with all the beer that hadn't been paid for.
Pickford walked toward his house, avoiding eye contact with his parents.
"Were you going to have a party here tonight, son?" asked his father.
"I don't know what that was all about," Pickford said. He walked back inside. Before the door closed, he heard his dad tell his mom to start unpacking, they weren't going anywhere. The chances this situation would somehow turn around in his favor were officially zero. Pickford hurried back upstairs to tell his friends they had to get the hell out of there before his parents grounded him for life.
Tony and Mike were so far having a considerably less exciting evening than Pink and the stoners. It was almost eight o'clock and Cynthia would be by to pick them up any minute. In the meantime, they played a game of heads-up poker.
Mike said, "I'm just saying, once you're labeled, that's it. High school kids don't seem to be able to comprehend multifaceted personalities."
"So how have we been labeled?" Tony paused. "Whose play is it?"
"Yours."
Tony pulled out a pocket calculator and punched in some numbers before throwing in a couple chips.
"You know. The slightly wimpy, slightly nerdy type." Mike supposed using the word "slightly" was giving himself a lot of credit, but he was trying to cut back on negative self-talk. "Women are the worst when it comes to that. Ask any high school girl what qualities she looks for in a guy and she'll say, 'Oh, that he's intelligent, sensitive, has a good sense of humor.' But the next day, that same girl will be walking down the hall getting felt up by some braindead gorilla linebacker." He checked his cards for the millionth time and folded.
Tony revealed his winning hand. "The only way to compete is to start a rumor you're hung like a horse or something."
Mike glanced over at the television, which was informing viewers that Skin Game starring James Garner was up next. "What are we even still doing here?"
"What did Cynthia say earlier?"
"She's gonna come by here and we're going to that party. You can stay here all night and yank it as always."
"For the record, I never said I was opposed to going out anywhere." Actually, he had. Multiple times. But Tony had started to feel a little more like cutting loose in the last few hours. Maybe it had something to do with the cute freshman from earlier. What was her name? Sabrina.
"Well, then good. It's decided."
Tony said, "Your brief derogatory allusion to masturbation makes me remember a thought I had the other day in reference to that subject. Isn't it funny how everybody does it, but if someone happens to catch you, you get treated like some kind of sicko."
Mike nodded. "But it's like practice for the real world. The same principle is at work in politics—"
"Politics is the real world?"
"—for example, all the stuff Kennedy did was okay because he didn't get caught, but Tricky Dick got nabbed and they made him pay for it." Tony's brow raised, and Mike clarified, "Not that I minded him paying for it, of course. In fact, I gotta go take a Nixon right now."
But Mike would have to hold it, because just then a car horn sounded from the driveway. Cynthia had arrived.
"Shotgun!" Tony said.
"Ugh," Mike replied.
Pink and the others managed to escape Pickford's house before his parents finished arguing about whether or not they ought to still go on their trip. The foursome stopped by Michelle's house next to pick up the drummer boy and flute player, then drove to a secluded area near the ballpark so Michelle could continue painting them. Though they were far enough away from the park that no one would see them, Pink could hear the unmistakable sound of his teammates shouting. No doubt they were heckling poor Mitch Kramer.
This was, in fact, exactly what O'Bannion, Benny, Melvin, and Don were doing. All four boys had a beer in hand, and all but Don banged their paddles against the fence, taunting Mitch, who stood on the pitcher's mound.
"Lookoutlookoutlookout!" O'Bannion called.
"Hey, battabattabatta, sa-wing!" Benny yelled.
Mitch heard his coach from the dugout, tell him to concentrate. No shit. He was doing his best. He took a deep breath and threw the ball. The umpire called strike two. Tommy, who was catching, asked for a timeout, and the umpire granted it.
Mitch relaxed, waiting for Tommy to jog over.
"Oh Kramer, one more pitch?!" O'Bannion shouted. "You better get this kid out, or we're really gonna beat your ass!"
"We're gonna beat you like a running mule!" Benny agreed.
Mitch could see them in his peripheral vision, but refused to look at them directly.
Tommy arrived at the mound. "Hey, man. Forget about those guys. Let's just get this last guy out, okay?"
"Easy for your ass to say." Mitch was perhaps still a little sore about Tommy making a clean escape from O'Bannion earlier that afternoon, while he and Carl found themselves in real trouble.
"Hey man, there's nothing you can do about it."
"How'd they all know I was gonna be here?" Mitch would never find out the answer to this question, though Zach and Jacob felt so guilty they ended up buying him a rather expensive birthday present, unprompted, the year after.
From the stands: "Hey Kramer! Quit stalling, let's go!"
"Hey, I hope ya got more than a jock strap under there, ya little rat!"
Tommy patted Mitch's shoulder. "Just 'cause you're not gonna be able to sit down the rest of the summer, don't let it affect your concentration." In spite of himself, he grinned.
"Up yours!" Mitch shoved Tommy just rough enough to be noticeable as the latter walked back to home plate.
Carl arrived next, from the outfield. His expression was similarly unsympathetic. "Hey Mitch, could you do the rest of us a favor and leave through the gate in right field? That'll draw them all outta here. I mean, they're gonna get you anyway."
Mitch knew that was true, but didn't understand why everyone had to keep saying it. "Yeah," he groaned. "Get outta here."
Carl returned to his position. The game was back on. Mitch's left hand felt especially sweaty inside his glove. The sun was almost completely gone now, and the evening was pleasantly cool. He gripped the baseball in his hand like it represented salvation from those senior boys. Mitch took a deep breath.
He pitched.
The ball shot into Tommy's glove like it was magnetic.
"Strike three! Ball game!" said the umpire.
Mitch exhaled, and for the first time since they arrived, looked directly at O'Bannion and his cronies. No matter what happened next, he wanted them to know all the heckling failed. He still won the game for his team. From the way O'Bannion suddenly went quiet, he seemed to get the message.
The moment both teams finished tapping each other's hands and saying, "Good game," Mitch found himself alone. Carl and Tommy stuck close to the coach as he and the rest of the team exited the park from the dugout. The gate in right field creaked ominously, waiting for Mitch. Next to it was a cheery sign reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA! 1776 – 1976.
"Aw, what happened to your buds?" O'Bannion called, having found his voice again.
"Aw, all alone!" Benny mocked.
Mitch spun in a circle, looking for any way out of his fate. There was none. Of course not. He was in the middle of a ballpark, for fuck's sake. He had no place to go. He should have gone right to Benny when school let out and taken his single lick. Or told Mrs. Burnett he was okay and let O'Bannion give him five licks. But it was too late now.
God, if you're real, please strike that bastard O'Bannion down with a lightning bolt right now. It doesn't even have to kill him, just torch all his hair off.
The senior boys made their way over to the right field gate. Melvin held it open for him, waving him forward and through.
Hey, God? Sorry about saying 'bastard' just now. I meant 'jerk.' Can you still strike him down, please?
God did not. Instead, Mitch was marched into the parking lot and made to lean forward against a random car. The seniors lacked even the decency to walk far enough to reach their own vehicle. Mitch closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. O'Bannion demanded to get his licks in first, because of course he did.
While the taunting had almost cost Mitch a ball game, it ended up saving him in a funny way. Pink listened to O'Bannion and Benny and Melvin's voices for several long minutes before he found himself saying, "Catch ya later," to the stoners and ambling over to the ballpark. He was self-aware enough to realize this was not because he felt particularly worried or sorry for Mitch Kramer. It was because Mitch's older sister was Jodi, and Jodi specifically requested Mitch be spared as much pain as possible, and Pink had a weakness for doing anything Jodi asked. Once, at the county fair, he spent a whole two dollars and seventeen cents in change trying to win her a troll doll by throwing a lima bean in a plastic frog's mouth. He failed to do so, but in lieu of victory made a split-second decision and stole the doll right out of the game manager's hand. He ran with one hand gripping the doll and the other gripping Jodi's wrist and he hadn't stopped until they were well clear of the fairgrounds. Then he gave her the doll and asked a question she took her sweet time to answer, and when she finally did, it was what he had dreaded hearing.
He would love to know if she kept that troll doll, or still thought about that night two—no, three years ago now. Shit, has it been that long?
By the time Pink actually made it to the ballpark, the small audience was filing out of the stands back to their cars. Distracted as he was by bittersweet memories, Pink failed to see Mr. Mills and his wife before it was too late. They were family friends and if he didn't stop and say hello, his parents would find out and read him the riot act on respecting your elders.
"How's your dad doing?" Mr. Mills asked.
"Oh, he's doing great." The only thing Pink ever seemed to be able to focus on during these conversations was how painfully slow Mr. Mills walked compared to…well, everyone else in the entire fucking world.
He felt two wrinkled old fingers pinch his bicep. "This arm ready to throw about two thousand yards next fall?"
Pink had a sudden urge to make Mr. Mills the first adult he told about his plans to quit football. Perhaps Mills would understand, being so old and knowing a thing or two about regrets and wasted time and all that existential shit. This would turn out to be true. When Pink finally told his parents he was quitting football, it was Mr. Mills who convinced Mr. Floyd that Randy was making the right decision for himself. But for now, Pink figured it wasn't worth the effort given the old man spoke slow and heard about half of what was said in a conversation on a good day.
"Oh, I dunno," Pink said instead. "We'll see."
Local sports were one of the only things Mr. Mills's deteriorating memory was still able to follow and he spoke with enthusiasm. "We're depending on you boys. And let me tell you what, you're looking good. Thirteen starters comin back, twenty-two lettermen. Looking tough!"
Who cares? A certain troll doll still danced around obnoxiously in Pink's brain. "Uh…yeah." He shook Mr. Mills's hand and nodded at Mrs. Mills. "Well, uh, you folks take care."
"Okay, good seeing you, Randy." Before Mr. Mills finished this goodbye, Pink jogged away in search of Mitch Kramer. It had been a long time since they saw each other last, but Pink used to go over to Jodi's house all the time and was sure he could still pick the kid out in a crowd if he had to. As it happened, he didn't. Mitch stood out against the darkening evening in his blue-and-gray baseball gear, and because he was receiving unforgiving abuse from Pink's teammates in the parking lot.
Pink arrived too late to stop the hazing. Melvin was just finishing his up.
"What's going on here?" Pink asked, hoping to sound playful so his buddies didn't think something was up.
"Ah Pink, you missed it!" O'Bannion said, giggling to Don about how much Kramer had to be hurting right now.
"We're going up to the Emporium, you gonna join us?" Benny pointed at his truck.
"Yeah, see you up there." Pink observed Mitch. He was still leaning over the hood of the car. The poor kid probably couldn't walk at all. And if he wasn't mistaken, Mitch was fighting back a few tears.
"Get you to sign my paddle later," Benny said. He joined O'Bannion and Don in heading toward the black pickup.
O'Bannion turned around at the last instant. "I gotta get seconds with him, this is just too sweet!"
Pink's body tensed a little. He didn't think he would let that happen, otherwise there would be no way to say he kept his word to Jodi.
"Wait," Melvin said, offering Pink his paddle. "You next?"
I owe you one, Mel. Pink took the paddle. "Sure."
"Hey." Melvin nudged O'Bannion. "You already got him."
O'Bannion scoffed. "Yeah, alright, fuck it." He leaned close to Mitch, enough for the kid to smell the beer on his breath. "You know what? I'm gonna go find your little skinny partner Carl and his mom, and lemme tell you something, I took it easy on you. Not smiling now, are ya? You little sack o' shit." Finally, O'Bannion went to catch up with Benny.
Mitch checked over his shoulder. Pink gave what he hoped was a reassuring look. Mitch groaned, believing another bout of bruising pain to be on its way, and reassumed the angle.
"Say, man. Bummer about Pickford's party, huh?"
"Yeah." Pink realized Melvin wouldn't to leave without his paddle, which meant Pink couldn't leave without hitting Mitch. He began to take fake practice swings, pretending to keep Mitch in suspense but really just buying time.
"Yeah, his old man found out. Total rip-off."
Pink didn't bother explaining how he was there when it happened. A bright idea suddenly came to him. He lifted the paddle with both hands, high behind his head like a bat, and brought it down hard. At the last second, he stopped and gave Mitch's rear a light tap.
Mitch winced anyway, sore as he was. He wondered what color his ass would be when he got home. If he ever got home.
Pink handed the paddle back to Melvin, who said, "But hey, man, you know us. We got a few sixers. You with us?"
"Yeah, I gotta go home and change. I'll catch up with you."
Melvin nodded. "Alright, see you later. Hey kid, take care of that butt!" With this farewell, he ran over to the pickup, which Benny had just started up.
Pink waited for the truck to drive away before asking if Mitch needed a ride.
"Yeah." Mitch grimaced as he attempted to walk. He pointed vaguely toward the ballpark. "I think they left me."
If he meant his teammates, he was right. Pink would blame them if he could, but he probably would have ditched Don or Benny back in his freshman year, too. Kids didn't know each other well enough at that age to truly understand loyalty. That was something high school taught you.
Pink noticed Mitch's baseball cap and glove had been tossed carelessly to the ground. He retrieved them and handed them back. "Here you go, man."
Walking back to the El Camino was like walking with Mr. Mills all over again. Mitch moved slow, letting the numbness work itself out of his ass. The problem with the numbness disappearing was that aching pain set in as a replacement. He would be feeling this for a few days, no doubt.
Once inside the car, Mitch started to give directions, but Pink assured him he knew the way. It was silent for a moment. Pink threw on his eight-track of Frampton Comes Alive! He found it made good background noise for casual conversation.
"Yeah, there's always one senior who has to be the badass," he mused. "I think O'Bannion's gonna be the first senior in history to take that honor two years in a row."
"Guy's a dick," Mitch said instantly, then looked at Pink in apology. "Right?"
Pink nodded, hoping to make clear he did not consider himself friends with O'Bannion. "Yeah, he's uh, kind of a joke." It then occurred to Pink that he didn't know what kind of kid Mitch was, really, and needed to make sure his honest opinion wasn't spread around. "He's not a bad guy to have on your side, though, blocking for you," he added, though this complimented little about O'Bannion save for his impressive physique.
Mitch picked at a loose piece of leather on his glove, trying to occupy his hands and his mind with anything other than how excruciating it felt to sit down. "Did you get it bad when you were a freshman?"
Pink snorted. "Shit, man. They waited for my ass after baseball practice and got me. God, it was vicious." He laughed, and this encouraged Mitch to laugh, too. "I mean, actually, it is best to get a lot at once, 'cause after about ten licks your ass gets so numb you might as well get it over with. I had some pretty cool seniors, though. They'd take you out, bust the hell out of ya…then go get you drunk, stuff like that." Pink caught himself reminiscing, still nostalgic for the summer before his own freshman year.
"Cool."
Pink glanced over at Mitch and grinned. He wondered why. It was probably just because Mitch was asking him questions and then really listening to the answers, something few people seemed to do these days. Sure, Mitch was only listening because he was young and impressionable, but still.
"You gonna be quarterback next year?" Mitch asked next.
"Oh, supposedly." Pink hesitated, because Jodi didn't know about his plans, but decided to tell the kid the truth, anyway. If he couldn't tell a freshman, how was he going to tell his coach or his parents? He said, "I dunno, I might not even play."
"Really?" Mitch sounded surprised, but not judgmental. Just curious.
"Yeah. You got a pretty good arm, though." Pink missed the evening's winning pitch but had seen Mitch play before. "Kinda remind me of myself. Skinny, but you got that…" He took one hand off the wheel and made a throwing motion. "You play football?"
"Yeah, but I like baseball better."
"Yeah, football was pretty fun in junior high, but believe me, it's pretty fucked in high school." Pink shook his head, because it was really too bad. He wished he didn't want to quit football, but he did, because it was no fun anymore. "I mean, the coaches run it. It's like they have to win or they lose their jobs, so there's all this extra pressure, you know? Guys throwing up before the game and shit." You mean you throwing up before the game and shit. Not his finest hour, to be sure.
"That's gross," Mitch said.
"Yeah."
"But still, it's gotta be fun, right?"
"I mean, yeah, it's a rush. Thousands of people yelling down from the stands and stuff. Bad times definitely outnumber the good times, it's just whether those good times are worth it." They weren't. Not anymore, not as far as Pink was concerned. "I mean, they don't want you doing anything else, you know. Don't even want you to have anything else on your mind."
"Or in your mind?" Mitch smirked.
Smart kid. Pink chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. It's like being in the army."
The El Camino turned onto Mitch's street. Pink cleared his throat. "So, uh, what's your sister up to tonight?"
I sound like a total fuckin nerd.
He wouldn't care in the long run. Especially if Mitch said something like, Oh, she's just hanging around the house tonight. Says she doesn't really feel like going out and partying. Then Pink could say, No kidding? Neither do I. Think she'd mind some company? Then Mitch would say, No, probably not. And then Pink would gain fifteen pounds of muscle and sprout angel's wings because why the hell not?
"Oh, I dunno," was all Mitch said. "Why, are you very good friends with her?"
Pink supposed this was a fair question to ask, given he didn't make it over to Jodi's house half as often as he used to. "Yeah, we have a couple classes together."
The El Camino stopped at the curb. Mitch felt rejuvenated enough to climb out of the car and walk without much trouble, though the pain was still ever-present. "Thanks, man," he said.
"Yeah, take care, man," Pink replied through his car's open window. He watched Mitch head up to the house and thought about how Jodi might be inside, getting ready to go out for the night. Maybe showering, maybe choosing her outfit. Then for a split second, he actually managed to forget about Jodi and instead remembered a thought he'd had a minute ago on the drive over. A thought he spoke aloud to Mitch without hardly realizing what it meant. You remind me of myself, he'd said.
"Hey, man?" he called. Mitch stopped and turned around. "Look, since the party's not going on, me and some of the other guys'll probably end up just riding around. You want us to stop by and pick you up?"
Mitch frowned. "You think that's a good idea?"
"Oh yeah, sure, man. No problem." Pink grinned reassuringly. "After you've gotten it bad, the guys who haven't got you yet will give you a few days to rest. And uh, it'd be a pretty cool move to show up and let 'em know it doesn't bother you that much."
Mitch appeared to like this idea. "Yeah, okay. Cool."
"See ya later?" Pink asked.
"Sure. Thanks for the ride, man."
Pink nodded and left Mitch with a last piece of advice: "Put some ice on it for a while. After that, it won't be anything a few beers can't take care of."
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