I turned onto my street and cut through Milo’s yard, into mine.
One of Momma’s yellow ribbons had come loose from our holly tree and blown into a hedge. It was snagged on a thorn branch, flapping aimlessly in the breeze. I untangled the ribbon and carried it back to the tree.
I crouched down to tie the ribbon, but then suddenly let my knees plant themselves down on the cold ground. I looked up at my house. My eyes were drawn to a loose shingle beating softly in the wind. That shingle had been holding on for dear life since I could remember. I looked at my window, then Bruce’s, then down at the garage where his car was stored. I looked at Milo’s house and then down the block, which led to the next and the next. I looked out at the streets of America, and felt tears sting at my reddened eyes.
“I can’t go,” I whispered. “I can’t go to Vietnam.”
I didn’t pray—I hadn’t once since Bruce died—but I came as close as I could let myself, and wished upon that shingle for President Johnson to end the war before I was old enough for the draft. The thought didn’t go any further—all I could do was wait and give peace a chance, as they’d come to say.
So I turned back to the tree, and wrapped the ribbon around it as if it would tether me there to my front lawn, where my parents were close and everything was safe—felt safe—for that moment, anyway. Then I sighed, tied a knot, and let the ribbon go into the wind.
That’s when I noticed someone watching me.
I stood up and turned to the Criswells’ old place, which had been vacant for nearly a month. A girl was standing on the veranda.
Her hair was long and straight and blacker than a funeral veil. It was striking against her frilly blue nightgown. But the jacket she wore smothered the girlishness of her pajamas like a boot heel to a match; the jacket was black leather with silver buckles, just like Marlon Brando’s motorcycle jacket in The Wild One.
She stood there cloaked in leather, smoking a cigarette, looking at me.
I threw her a tentative wave.
She turned her head and exhaled coolly. The wind lifted her hair like a marauder’s flag, concealing everything but the smoke.
When she turned back to me, she didn’t wave. But she nodded. Once.
She flicked her cigarette into the yard.
I stood there watching it die in the tall grass as she walked inside.
two
The Urge to Submerge
My brother’s jacket was a size too big on me and was the bitter shade of bad coffee. The wool collar was matted and smelled like the cigarette smoke of strangers from faraway lands. U-S-M-C ran down the zipper flap.
The government had shipped it to the house a few weeks after Bruce died. It came in the same package as his dog tags and his gloriously useless medals. There weren’t any patches on the jacket (his eyes had likely been X-ed out before he had a chance to sew any on), and I was glad.
I wore the jacket daily. Other athletes would have been hassled for not sporting their lettermen jacket, and I knew it was for Bruce—not for me—that my teammates made an exception.
I was wearing the bomber jacket as Dad drove me to school. He looked sleepy, grumpier than usual—that was the general mood at school the first day back from a break. I’d be the only one in the building that was happy Christmas was over, but I found school’s reliably repressive routine a great comfort in this cold new world.
Dad waved at a crossing guard as we rounded the next block. I leaned back in my seat and counted the plastic yard Santas left out past their expiration. He pulled up to the edge of Cordelia High’s vast courtyard. He stopped, but left the car running.
“Have a good day,” he grumbled.
“You too, Dad. See ya at practice.”
I grabbed my things and got out. Dad pulled the car around to the employee lot as I strolled through the grass, past a cluster of students chatting under a large willow tree. I waved hello but didn’t stop to chat. My feet kept moving forward.
Our school was two stories of scholarly brown brick. It stretched the length of the football field, which ran parallel to the building, and boasted a relatively modern design, including a veranda outside of the auditorium and a slanted awning that extended over the front of the building.
“Bingham, my man!” hollered a wrestler smoking beneath it.
I smiled at him as I went inside.
The front concourse was packed. My ears rang with post-holidaze chitter-chatter as I looked around for Milo, but it was too chaotic to single anyone out. The first day of the semester was always a mess.
Then the bell rang, and I joined the tide of students flooding the halls. I walked beneath a large, abrasive banner hanging from the railing of the second-floor balcony. It showed a crude drawing of a shark fin with discarded bird feathers gliding above it. In thick black print, it read
SHARKS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR RUFFLED FEATHERS
CREAM THE PELICANS THIS SATURDAY!
I groaned, exhausted by the thought of that match. I didn’t get my kicks from confrontation, especially on the mat. I wasn’t very competitive. Unlike my father and brother, physical domination never filled me with pride. That’s not to say I wasn’t good at it; I was a solid wrestler and could’ve been a real contender if I put in the effort. But that was my fatal hang-up as an athlete: I never fought as hard as I could—or should.
Why fight when you don’t have to?
I found it simpler to ease up and let the current of the crowd do the work. That morning it pushed me forward, farther into the hall. Underclassmen bumped into each other as they checked door numbers and schedules. But I knew where I was headed—Room 112, by the gym. So I took my time, amused by the confusion.
Then I saw something I didn’t expect: a mane of long, black hair flowing down a black leather jacket. The image disappeared into the crowd a moment later, a motorcycle mirage. I shrugged and entered Room 112.
The classroom was the same as all the others, besides the theme of the décor. Pictures of dead presidents lined all four walls. Mr. Donahue was written on the blackboard in chalk. A map of Southeast Asia was tacked up beside it.
Great. Another ’Nam addict.
I snagged a desk in back. The girl beside me had her face crammed into the pages of a TEEN Magazine. I scanned the cover stories as I got situated.
KEEP OFF THE GRASS—Pot shot at Marijuana
ARE LEFTIES MORE LOVEABLE?—Studies Say Yes
ANATOMY OF A HIPPIE—The Urge to Submerge
THE YOUNG RASCALS—An Interview
She sensed me staring and snapped her magazine shut.
“Hey,” I smiled, “I’m Ronnie.”