The Boys of McKinley House
Chapter Four—The Dark Side of the Gym
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Racetrack lost his virginity comparatively late for someone who went to the same school as Benny Kittridge. Nationally, the average age for a human male's first experience of sexual intercourse was 16.9; in its seventy-year history, Caldwell had always more or less matched the national trend. The year Benny Kittridge arrived as a freshman, the number dropped from 16.9 to 16.3. It had been steadily decreasing with each semester she attended.
For Benny, maturity had never been a struggle. She always been exquisitely beautiful, without a single awkward phase that anyone could remember; ever since childhood, she had carried herself like an adult. One brilliant Sunday, a week after her thirteenth birthday, she woke up to find herself curled up in pain, chewing holes through the sheets. Her mother gave her a Valium and taught her how to wash "down there," and erase all offensive odors; her father went out for a bottle of Scotch whiskey, and Benny, sitting in her bed that night and smelling of nothing more than Lilac Mist, thought to herself, I am a woman now, and smiled into the darkness with all her twenty-six perfect teeth.
And that, in Benny's opinion, was that. Three months later, she lost her virginity to an eighteen-year-old sailing instructor at Camp Tamakwa, and after that, no one was safe. Benny collected boys the way some people collected comic books, and she wouldn't stop until she had every last one of them: every Green Lantern, Swamp Thing, Supergirl, Starman, and Thor.
Every person is, as much as anything else, a catalogue of stories, some famous, some hidden, some luminous fabrications. Of all these (getting drunk on peach schnapps the night of your eighth grade graduation; solving the mystery of what the religion professor's daughter conceals beneath her green dress; all memories involving tragic, beautiful first heartbreaks—even though the heart is, on the whole, stronger than a diesel engine), the perennial bestseller in the catalogue of human experience is the story of The First Time.
Maybe it is its infinite variation that fascinates us so. There is a rainbow spectrum of humiliation, mythical beauty, pain, bliss, and nostalgia; no two experiences have ever been exactly alike, and they never will be. And so while Benny Kittridge would always remember the feel of a wool blanket against her bare skin as she lay on a narrow bunk mattress, her hair static from the rain outside, Debby Boone on the radio and the smell of Coppertone 45 on Lance the sailing instructor's broad, tan shoulders (-how even though it had hurt so badly, she hadn't cried, not even a little), Jack, who lost his virginity in the art department darkroom when he was fifteen to a girl who thought he was his older brother Jamie, would always remember pitch black, being suddenly shoved up against the wall, someone's manicured hands under his shirt, pressed against the flat of his back, the sound of bottles breaking and the smell of hyposulphite of soda, and then, before he had even realized what happened, being alone again, knees shaking, belt undone.
John F. Kennedy, Jack's namesake, lost his virginity at seventeen in a Harlem bordello; David Berkowitz at nineteen with a Korean prostitute, while he was serving in the U.S. Army. Great minds seemed to take longer to mature: D.H. Lawrence was deflowered at twenty-five by a London prostitute, Mary Wollstonecraft at thirty-three in a Paris hotel room, and George Bernard Shaw at twenty-nine, with a widow fifteen years his senior, while Lasse Braun, the porn king of all of Europe, managed to stay pure until his eighth birthday, when he was found in the attic with a nine-year-old Italian girl. In comparison to this, John Holmes, owner of the most beloved penis in America, was a late-bloomer, losing his virginity at twelve with a friend of his mother's.
Holmes went on to star in over two thousand pornographic films, and would later estimate to have slept with roughly 14,000 women, although conservative guesses place that number in the low thousands. And that was the part that really bothered Race: at the very least, John Holmes had gotten laid two thousand times, and at the age of seventeen, going to school with the most sexually aggressive girl in Columbia County, Racetrack hadn't even managed it once.
It is impossible for you to know, unless you have experienced it, what it's like when all of your friends have slept with a girl and you haven't. It seemed like almost every morning Race sat through conversations about the strawberry-shaped birthmark on Benny's inner thigh; the perfume she anointed herself with every morning, behind her ears and between her breasts, and where the manufactured scent ended and her own intoxicating musk began; the way she melted into your arms if you ran a hand through her white-gold hair. Racetrack agonized over his virginity, cursed and lamented, and wondered why, when everyone else at school seemed to be going at it like a mink in full rut, he stayed pure. He contemplated, briefly, joining the priesthood, even if it meant he would be doomed to a lifetime of celibacy: he thought, bitterly, that celibacy was his ultimate fate, and at least this way he would have the dignity of being able to say it had been by choice. For years, he was in constant torment.
And then, one night in August, a month before the start of his senior year, he surrendered his innocence to the one girl at Caldwell who had always had a decent chance of someday becoming a nun.
Race had known Sylvy Golino for years, since she moved to St. Helens with her father, and her older brother Charlie. Sylvy had been eleven, Racetrack had been twelve. They had a lot in common: they were both faculty brats, both from back East, both had one Italian parent, and both had been raised Roman Catholic. They had been friends since meeting, and could easily have ended up in a convent together, with Racetrack as priest, and Sylvy as a sister. Instead, they lost their virginities together.
Here is what happened: Sylvy Golino wore a green dress.
Not just any green dress. A dress that clung to every curve, quivered with her every breath; a dress that showed everything. For years she had been hiding herself behind baggy clothes, developing her body in secret, like a gardener who grew flowers by candlelight. For years, he hadn't really seen her as a girl, as anything—and now here she was at a faculty dinner party in his family's house, on the hottest night of August, looking at him like she wanted to eat him alive. She seemed to have turned achingly, smolderingly voluptuous overnight; her every movement had a slow, heavy smolder. They were seated at opposite sides of the table, and for two hours, through shrimp, mushrooms, pasta, salad, and wine, they didn't take their eyes off each other.
At one point Racetrack though to himself, with some dismay, that he would have to come up with a new pet name for Sylvy, now that "Toothpick" seemed to be out.
After dinner finally ended, and all the adults were getting drunk and arguing about the situation in Central America, Racetrack headed upstairs, thinking he could calm down if only he could read some calculus. The full moon shone bright outside, and Sylvy was waiting for him in his room, standing by the window, looking out.
"Toothpick," he said.
And then, of course, they were down on the bed, and she only ever did get to wear the green dress that one time. And for how fast it was, how she kissed him so ravenously and didn't let up for a minute, she was so warm, and sweet, and giving, and when she winced from the pain of it for just a moment, he felt the strangest need to protect her from something, although he wasn't sure what. And so it happened by the grace of God that Racetrack Higgins lost his virginity to Sylvy Golino, the religion professor's daughter, who had always had a thing about full moons.
They didn't speak for the rest of the summer; that morning in the Ironside Café was the first time he had seen her in a month. He was thinking about that night in August as he drove over to Spot's house to meet here, and wondering what it was Sylvy could possibly be so upset about. The only answer he could come up with was that she had finally decided to become a nun.
Racetrack had lived in St. Helens since he was six, and had been friends with Spot Conlon for just as long. With the possible exceptions of Jack and Isobel, Spot knew him better than anyone else did. He had almost been kicked out of St. Helens High too many times to count, and had been going with Rexanne since that summer. You could tell him anything without fear of being judged, and although Race didn't see much of him during the school year, and they had been growing apart since he started at Caldwell, Racetrack was still at Spot's house almost as often as he was at home.
Spot lived with his Aunt Bev and Uncle Carl in a little house near the Boise Veneer lumber mill. Ninety-eight percent of the time, though, it was empty, at least of the people who called it home. Knowledge of it had spread through Caldwell, and now, it was a safe haven for dozens of teenagers. Girls who ran away from school could stay there for a while; meetings too secret to be held on the school grounds took place there; Spot's bed had been christened by amorous couples too many times to count. Every year, the Caldwell graduation party was held there, but more than anything else, it was a place to go where you didn't want anyone to find you, and so Racetrack knew, even before he met up with Sylvy that afternoon, that whatever she had to tell him was bad.
She was waiting for him out front, sitting on the porch swing amidst a jungle of dead spider plants and African violets. She knew he was there as soon as his car pulled into the drive, but she pretended not to see him until he was three feet away from her, looking for the key Spot's Aunt Bev kept under the doormat.
"I've never skipped class before," she said.
He turned the key in the look, not really listening, and swung the door open. "Yeah? What are you missing?"
"French."
"I failed that class."
"I know," she said, almost smiling. She followed him inside, hands buried deep in the pockets of her coat, and leaned against the refrigerator while he looked through the kitchen cabinets for something to drink.
"Well, this'll be a new year for you, Sylv. I'm sure you'll do lots of things you've never done before. You're…y'know…maturing."
"No kidding," she murmured into her collar.
He cringed at his choice of words as he pulled out a bottle of gin, and poured a little into two chipped mugs. "Here," he said, pushing one towards her.
"Can't," she said, putting a hand protectively over her stomach, and in about an eighth of a second he went from being puzzled to being horrified.
"Oh, Jesus," he said, putting his head in his hands. "Oh, Sylv." He looked up at her. "How long have you known?"
"Since last week. I think I'm about a month along."
"This is not good news."
"No," she said.
"This is bad news."
"Yes, it is."
He looked at her a moment, and wrestled with asking her a question he was sure he already knew the answer to. She was a Catholic girl. But still there was some chance, wasn't there?
"Have you thought of…um…getting it taken care of? I could drive you into Portland this weekend, even, if you wanted to."
"I thought about that for a minute," she said, leaning her head against the cabinet. "But really, I couldn't do it. Don't ask me to do it, Race."
"I won't," he said. "God, what would your father think?"
"I don't think he'll notice," she said, and her smile was less sad than knowing. Standing there in Spot's kitchen, the light that came from her making the yellowed linoleum shine, she looked for a moment like Our Lady of Squalor and Teen Pregnancy. Without thinking, he leaned forward, and kissed her on the forehead. "Oh, Toothpick."
"I'm just asking you now," she said, "whether you want to be a part of this. I mean—if you don't want to be—I won't tell anybody. I know a lot could change if you took responsibility. No one has to know."
"Sylv," he said, "with my friends, all this'll do is make me the stud god of Caldwell, and you know how long I've been waiting to beat Jack at that game. With the people in charge of the school—who the fuck—"
"Don't curse like that."
"All right. So as for the people in charge, who cares what they think? We haven't done anything wrong. And you know, we can do this together. We'll be…we'll be wonderful."
She nodded, smiled, pushed back her auburn hair, looked at the gin in the mug one more time, pushed it away from her. "But…Race…one last thing. Even if we're gonna—well, you know, we don't have to—um—"
"No, Toothpick, we don't have to get married. You know I like you too much to ruin your life like that."
"Oh, thank Christ."
"Don't curse like that," Race said with a smile. "You're somebody's mother now."
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Author's Note: Und zuss, ze plot thick—
DALTON: ((slaps her upside the head))
OW. …And thus, the plot thickens, much like the firming of Jell-O, whether it be cherry, raspberry, strawberry, strawberry-kiwi, lemon, lime, lemon-lime, mango-peach, or pineapple.
DALTON: Or orange!
…Yes. Or orange. So, to recap…((looks at a spreadsheet, sighs, and crumples it up)) …EVERYONE is having sex with EVERYONE else. And Racetrack is Too Young to be a Dad.
DALTON: I find it highly disturbing that RACETRACK has impregnated someone when I, Charlie, have not.
Could it be because you, Charlie, are gay?
DALTON: SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP.
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Shoutouts!
You guys can review like Boogaloo Shrimp can dance.
DALTON: …is that even a compliment? Are you sure you're not insulting them? Maybe you should compare them to Shabba-Doo.
((long pause)) …Charlie, listen to what we're saying. I think we have to put a stop to this ritual of watching Breakin' every Saturday night in my room.
DALTON: You're right. You go destroy the tape; I'll take care of the shout-outs.
Lady of Tir Na Nog
DALTON: Tir Na Nog? …like the land in the story the mom was telling to her kids in Titanic? …God, I always cry during that part…((coughs)) …Anyway, some guys may be cruel and manipulative, but I am not. I am fantastic. And you can come watch Titanic with me and Dakki any day of the week.
Lil Irish QT
DALTON: If I had my way, we would update MUCH more often than we actually do. But Dakki is really uncool. Anyway, I'm glad you like the fic—I'm responsible for pretty much all the good parts. You know the parts you don't like? They were Dakki's idea.
Cakes
DALTON: Look, next time you leave a review, try saying "great job CHARLIE." I mean, Dakki does the actual typing, but I return her library books and sign her report cards and make her macaroni and cheese and watch Lifetime with her. MOST OF WHAT YOU READ UP THERE IS MY SWEAT AND BLOOD. It just looks like gay smut. Okay? Good.
The Noble Platypus
DALTON: Well, personally, I object to ALL the Land Before Time movies. They might be fun for cruel, heartless people like YOU to watch, but think about how hard it is for the baby dinosaurs! They work long hours, suffer abusive treatment from the directors, and most of the money they make is taken by their parents anyway. Next time you watch your precious Littlefoot, think of the exploited brontosaurus who plays him.
Rubix the Cube
DALTON: Man, Rubix, babe, I agree. Not all guys who have good grammar are gay—authors (like DAKKI) just paint us that way for their own amusement. And it is so sickening. David Jacobs is ALMOST as straight and masculine as I am.
Unknown-Dreams
DALTON: When we passed the restaurant with the "hqmemade soup" sign, I wanted Dakki to pull the car over so I could fix the letters, but she told me I was just being silly. However, I think she was wrong. Because, you know, if you let people get away with incorrect spelling, pretty soon they start going to the bathroom without washing their hands, drinking milk past its expiration date…and then all of a sudden, PANDEMONIUM, people going around raping, burning, pillaging…AND ALL BECAUSE SOMEONE USED A "Q" INSTEAD OF AN "O." We have to stop this problem at its root. We have to fix that spelling.
Silky Conlon
DALTON: Then I shall call you…Butch! HI BUTCH! I'm so glad you like the fic! …most people named Butch do…although, isn't that kind of a strange name for a girl? Is it short for something? Butchina? Butchanne? Butcherella? …Are your parents Eskimos?
Sapphy
DALTON: Sapphy, I have only one thing to say to you: nobody puts Kenny in the corner.
madmbutterfly713
DALTON: I don't know why Dakki even wrote that, since I'm the only one who can pull off mustard yellow, as well as puce, chartreuse, drano blue, and pepto bismol pink. …I was just born for the runway, you know? Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.
Ccatt
DALTON: Honey, if you want to do the Time Warp with me, I would be delighted. Just put on your dancing shoes and see if you can keep up.
Written Sparks
Really, everything you liked about the last chapter was completely my idea. And as for Bryce making Skitts miserable…well, that's a way of showing someone how much you love them, you silly goose! Look no farther than my relationship with Dakki, and you'll see that it's true.
MusiCath
DALTON: Since most of this fic is my idea, I should answer your questions: Blanche Dubois is the heroine of Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire. In the play, the eventually went crazy, just like Skittery, although Blanche had a better wardrobe. As for the nervous breakdown thing: Skittery is altogether a calm and collected person, but he does have a history of crack-ups, which is where his name comes from, otherwise it would be fairly inexplicable. …Trust me. There are NO plot holes when Charlie Dalton is in charge. ((strikes a dramatic pose))
Ershey
DALTON: Now, I know you would miss the newsies dearly…but would you mind if I killed Dakki?
Saturday
DALTON: Sweetie, you've got to stop encouraging her so much. Every time she gets one of your reviews she squeaks and jumps up and down and runs around the house, and then, because we have hardwood floors and she NEVER wears those socks with the skids I bought for her, she crashes into something, and falls over, and sprains her wrist, and we have to go to the emergency room and have it taken care of and then I have to buy her a Goodbar and kiss it better and then by the time we get home "America's Next Top Model" is OVER. And Saturday, the only joy in my life comes from watching that show. And you are TAKING THAT AWAY FROM ME. So honestly, I don't know how you can sleep at night.
FlatOutCrazy
DALTON: If Dakki heard that, she'd go berserk. She's an Oregon girl born and bred; she goes to school in Beaverton, and lives on Sauvie's Island. Oh, and…((pause))…you living so close and all…you think I could move in with you and be YOUR muse? Please…I gotta get away from this girl…
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DALTON: Review, my art galleries! Because Dakki is starting her senior year this Monday, and she needs your support now more than ever. …not than anyone ever worries about MY needs…