Ain't That a Shame
By Sandra S. FrenchiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Sandra S. French
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-5110-5Contents
Introduction It's All in the Game................................ixChapter 1 Hearts of Stone........................................1Chapter 2 Too Close for Comfort..................................8Chapter 3 Tears on My Pillow.....................................17Chapter 4 Money Honey............................................23Chapter 5 It's a Sin to Tell a Lie...............................35Chapter 6 Young Love.............................................44Chapter 7 Great Balls of Fire....................................58Chapter 8 Hound Dog..............................................66Chapter 9 Mr. Wonderful..........................................84Chapter 10 Danger! Heartbreak Ahead..............................95Chapter 11 Poor Little Fool......................................105Chapter 12 Witchcraft............................................115Chapter 13 Do You Want to Dance?.................................126Chapter 14 You Don't Owe Me a Thing..............................137Chapter 15 Smoke Gets in Your Eyes...............................148Chapter 16 The Great Pretender...................................160Chapter 17 You Don't Know Me.....................................171Chapter 18 Oh, Oh, I'm Falling in Love Again.....................178Chapter 19 Kisses Sweeter Than Wine..............................187Chapter 20 All Shook Up..........................................200Chapter 21 Fibbin'...............................................211Chapter 22 Singing the Blues.....................................221Chapter 23 Hard Headed Woman.....................................230Chapter 24 Jailhouse Rock........................................242Chapter 25 Wayward Wind..........................................252Chapter 26 What Is Love?.........................................263Chapter 27 Why Don't They Understand.............................278Chapter 28 Bye Bye Love..........................................285Epilogue Graduation Day..........................................295
Chapter One
Hearts of Stone
His hand reached out toward me, and before I realized what he was doing, he set something in my lap. A Christmas present? I stared at it in disbelief. He had no right to give me anything. He meant nothing to me. He wasn't a member of my crowd. He was a nobody: an unattractive, foul-mouthed PK who seemed determined to trick me every time I let my guard down. This was one of those times; I hadn't seen it coming. He ambushed me with a Christmas present! When he steered his car in the wrong direction, I should have insisted that he turn around. I blamed myself, but I also cursed Miss Maxmillian for making me promise to be polite to him. She knew that I hated everything about Pete, but she still wanted me to act as his mentor. I couldn't agree to that, but I promised her that I'd try to be civil to him. I was a good girl: I was careful about my promises, and I always kept those I made. The way I saw it, making a promise was the same as telling the truth. Lies, even white ones, could cause me trouble.
This story is the truth, exactly as I remember it, although I changed most of the names and put words into people's mouths. After all, I can't remember precisely what I or anyone else said all those years ago. I can't even quote the exact words people said in a movie that I saw only a week ago, but I can get the gist across. That's what I've done here. The dialogues that I've created convey the gist of what we said to each other. For example, on that fateful Christmas morning, I don't know precisely what I said to Pete after he gave me that gift, but I certainly recall how annoyed I was. However, I also figured that since he had bothered to get me something, I'd better stifle the noisy protest I wanted to raise and come up with an uncharacteristically demure objection instead.
"What's this? You shouldn't have gotten me anything."
"Don't act so stupid, baby. Open it. It ain't no big deal." That's how sloppily he always talked. I wouldn't make that part up.
"Don't call me baby," I said.
"Open it, baby."
"Okay." I shrugged my shoulders. What could I do? I attacked the wrapping. It was a small, velvety-looking box. A ring box? It couldn't be.
"Go on," he urged. "Look inside."
I hesitated.
"Like I said, it ain't no big deal. Come on, open it."
Slowly I opened the box, took one look at the ring, and exclaimed, "Oh, no!"
That happened at shortly after one o'clock in the morning on December twenty-fifth, 1958, providing further evidence that my senior year wasn't going according to the way I had planned it. For as long as I could remember, it had been my goal to become the first female in my family go to college. That much of my plan was still in the works: I had received a written notice of early acceptance to Gettysburg College in Pennsylvania, a big step for a girl who had spent her entire life in a small village northeast of Buffalo. I had worked hard to earn that acceptance; I was justly proud of my top-notch grades, and I felt entitled to enjoy my senior year. When school opened that September, I was dead sure that nothing, short of Buffalo getting bombed by Moscow, could possibly ruin my year.
Looking back on the way my life had gone up to that point, I wonder why I bothered to plan things so carefully. I even went so far as to pick out the guy that I was going to marry after college. Perhaps I was just too young or too full of myself to allow any wiggle room for more surprises. At any rate, it wasn't long after the first day got under way that the unexpected happened. Two new guys showed up in Advanced English. Right away I noticed that both of them had a good deal in common with my future husband Paul. The three of them were handsome, excellent students, and members of the right crowd. Each guy obviously admired me. Sadly, as it turned out, each of them caused me grief. One of them nearly cost me my life, although he never knew it. None of them, however, caused me as much trouble as that lying son of a preacher did.
I met Pete's dad at his initial service at our church. Dr. French was good looking for a minister, and he was so charming and amiable that when he introduced me to his eldest son Pete, I was both shocked and appalled. Unlike his dad, Pete didn't appear to be the least bit classy. He wore an ugly pair of Coke bottle thick, horn-rimmed glasses, his skin looked pale and imperfect, and his green tie didn't match his blue suit. He used gobs of Vaseline to paste his hair to a point in the back of his head. Some kids called that style a ducktail. Others called it a DA, short for duck's ass. I didn't approve of that term any more than I approved of Pete flaunting the first DA that I had ever seen on a boy living in Snyder. To top it all off, the jerk made it obvious that he couldn't care less about me. No boy had ever reacted to me that way. It was incredible.
Later on, when we couldn't avoid talking to each other, Pete didn't so much speak to me as snarl at me, abusing the beauty of the English language with repulsive words and contemptible grammar. Naturally I did my best to avoid him. I could usually spot him a mile away because he wore basically two different sets of outfits: mismatched suits and ties to church, and black shirts with dark pants to school. Black was the perfect color for someone with his disposition. I had never a met guy who was so gloomy and disrespectful to me.
I expected guys to tease me; that's not what I'm talking about. When Paul, Cal, Ken, or any of the other boys in my crowd made fun of me, I teased them back. They tolerated my playful comebacks with good humor like the gentlemen they were. But for some reason, Pete seemed to take pride in the fact that he wasn't like them. In fact, he held himself aloof from everyone at Amherst High. I could count the people who got along with him on fewer than ten fingers: his elderly grandmother, his little brother, and two or three fellow delinquents, including a frightening Negro who lived in Buffalo's inner city. The numbskulls in our church youth group, the Luther League, seemed to admire Pete too, but no one in that bunch of ninnies had so much as a lick of good sense.
I seldom saw Pete in school, but when I did, I ducked for cover. Pete didn't walk through the halls like the rest of us; he prowled through them, looking like a caged cougar with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Cigarettes were forbidden in school, but he didn't seem to care. He just skulked along, peering straight ahead, ignoring the normal kids who passed him. In my opinion, his high and mighty facade was just that: nothing but a big pretense. His disgusting appearance and fake posturing were enough to revolt a well-brought-up, reasonably popular girl like me, but I also sensed that he was hiding something. I was as curious as the next girl; I identified with Nancy Drew, Sherlock Holmes, and the other detectives in the mystery books I devoured. Yet I sensed that whatever Pete was up to was something no stylish sleuth would bother to investigate. He wasn't as weird as the two perverts I had encountered, but he was up to something that wasn't aboveboard.
I only agreed to be nice to Pete because two adults, my school counselor and my new pastor, waylaid me into it, and it was not my place to argue with grown-ups. But I was right about him, and I knew it. Any attempt to be polite to him would just be a waste of my precious time. Pete was no ordinary delinquent-slash-truant either. One minute he'd be spouting outrageously complicated theories, attributing them to writers only he had ever heard of; the next minute he'd be hoodwinking old ladies and nincompoops by masquerading as a veritable lion of generosity. In short, he was too clever by half.
Being polite to him stretched my considerable capacity for self-control; I never knew what to expect next. I certainly hadn't anticipated Pete's offer to escort me to the midnight Christmas Eve service. As a rule, I didn't accept last-minute offers from boys, but I agreed to go with him because the rest of my family was attending the earlier service, and I wanted to go to the later one. A respectable young lady couldn't go out alone in the middle of the night; she required an escort. So the trade-off I made to get to that service was to suffer the embarrassment of being seen with that disgusting pastor's kid. Don't get me wrong. I was no fool. Before agreeing to his offer, I made him promise to act like a gentleman and take me back home right after the service was over.
When we arrived at the church, the nave smelled of warm candles and pine. Everyone greeted us cheerfully, and I belted out my favorite carols with unbridled pleasure. Pastor French's sermon was short and heartwarming. All of that was good. But when we were driving out of the parking lot afterwards, Pete didn't turn his car in the direction of my house.
"Where are you taking me?" The shrillness of my question embarrassed me. I squeaked out "please," before continuing more calmly in my normal voice. "Remember that I promised my parents I'd be home directly after the midnight service. And you promised to take me right back."
"Take it easy, will ya?"
He pulled his car over to the curb near a street lamp and dropped the present into my lap. When I opened it and saw the ring, my shock must have been obvious, even to a guy as socially clueless as Pete was. Open mouthed, I stared at a huge red rhinestone heart set in gold mounting with two tiny golden bows carved on either side of it.
"Ya don't like it?" He sounded crushed.
I shut my mouth, sat there quietly for a couple more seconds, and then calmly replied, "Of course I ... like ... it." He searched my face as if he didn't believe me. I studied the ring again, holding it up so that the facets of the red stone reflected the glow of the street lamp. The ring was pretty, in a bizarre sort of way. "It's ... it's quite special," I improvised.
A heart? A rhinestone heart? Panic was setting in.
"That's a genuine gold setting," he said proudly. "You like it then? Really?"
"Of course. I ... I just don't know what to say." He had no right to give me this.
"Try it on," he insisted. "I think it'll fit."
I slipped it on the third finger of my right hand. Darn, I said to myself. It was a perfect fit. Now I'd probably have to wear it once in awhile. I scoured my brain for a polite, reasonable excuse for refusing to accept it.
"It does pose a slight problem," I finally muttered.
"Ya always lookin' fer problems? Even on Christmas?"
"No. That's not fair, Pete. It's just that ... you do understand, don't you? To some people, it could symbolize ... something. It's shape that is ..." I floundered uncomfortably.
"What're ya tryin' ta say? Spit it out."
"Well, someone might ask me what it means, exactly."
"Yer still makin' no sense."
"Sorry. I'm trying be as clear as possible, but it's not easy."
"Heh. A bossy dame like you should have no trouble makin' yer point. Yer not afraid of me, are ya, baby?"
"Don't be ridiculous," I scoffed. "It's just that, usually when a girl wears a ring a guy gives her, especially one that's heart shaped, it means ... it could signify that she's, well, going with him."
"Geez! We ain't never even had no real date, fer Christ's sake. Hell, I just meant ta give ya a Christmas present, it bein' Christmas mornin' now and all. Ya said ya like rings. I found a pretty ring that I figured a girl would like. That's it. It's simple, ain't it? Why d'ya gotta ruin it?"
Despite his swearing and terrible grammar, I thought it was a good question-one that I had often asked myself. Nobody I knew was as talented as I was when it came to ruining things where boys were concerned. I had already broken more hearts than any other girl I knew. Usually it wasn't my fault either. I wasn't responsible for the fact that I was born with the good looks I had inherited from my two grandmothers and the brains I got from Grandma Chrystene and Grandpa Schall. I also inherited Dad's good luck. If that hadn't been true, I probably would have been dead before then.
Chapter Two
Too Close for Comfort
I had had misgivings when Mike asked me to ride over to the rock quarry with him. My initial instinct had been to say no. "Why would I want go there with you again?" I had asked him suspiciously. "The last time we went there, you caught a big, black water snake and kept dangling it in my face, trying to get me to pet it. You know I hate snakes."
"I was just kidding around, Sandy. Why do snakes bother you so much anyway? They're cool. Look, I promise that if I catch one today, I won't even tell you. I'll keep it in my dungaree pocket where you won't see it, okay?"
Could I trust Mike this time? It had taken me forever to get the picture of that wiggling black creature out of my mind.
"Come on, Sandy. You like to go to the quarry, don't you?" The tone of his voice had turned uncharacteristically sweet. "Remember the time we caught fourteen tadpoles? And the pretty fossil you found? You liked that a lot, didn't you?"
He was right. I had enjoyed exploring the old town quarry with him before. It was a neat place, even if it was dangerous because you had to be careful not to step on loose rocks. If you lost your balance or tripped on a stone, you could slip and fall into a crevice or a deep hole and break an ankle or, worse, your neck. You might even end up in one of the pools of rotting water full of snakes and other creepy crawlers. I imagined most of them were poisonous.
My younger brother wasn't any braver than I was; he just never thought about the dire possibilities like I did. He only wanted to climb around the quarry and hunt for reptiles, using the bigger rocks in the ponds as his hunting posts. I can still picture how Mike looked when he was going after a water snake. Intent on his prey, he balanced precariously on the edge of a slippery rock, ready to grab it. The creature moved quickly, but Mike was quicker. He reached his hand into the water and grasped the loathsome thing before it saw him coming.
Unless it was pollywog season, I avoided those excavation pools. I searched around in the dry areas, sifting through the loose stones scattered at the bases of the pit's big boulders, hoping to find something to add to my treasure. There were many places in the huge quarry that I had yet to explore, including some narrow crevices I had spotted higher up on the cliffs. I was after fossils or rocks that had unique, colorful patterns. I took the best ones home and put them in the back of my underwear and sock drawer. After I brought my fern fossil home, I looked up fossils in our encyclopedia. I read about rare dinosaur-age fossils kept on display in science museums, but the encyclopedia had a picture of a fossil like mine. The caption identified it as common. I didn't agree. None of my friends had one.
"Did you ask Mom if it's okay for us to ride our bikes over there this afternoon?" I asked Mike.
"Yeah. She said she didn't care, as long as I didn't go alone, but Mark, Dave, and Bruce are somewhere else today. How about it, Sandy? Will you go with me?"
My brother was determined, Mom needed me to keep track of him, and most importantly, I wanted to go.
"Remember, you have to stick to your promise about snakes, Mike. If you so much as show me one, I swear I'll never go there with you again."
"Sure. I promise. Let's go."
"In a minute. I need to stop in the bathroom, and I'd better tell Mom I'm going with you. Get out my bike for me."
That was summer vacation of 1952, and I was eleven. Mike was only nine, but he rode his two-wheeler faster than I could, so he arrived at the pit's edge first. He abandoned his Schwinn against a jutting boulder and took off down into the deep quarry on foot before I could ask him where he intended to hang out. I carefully set my blue bike on its kickstand between two tall rock formations, not far from the boulder that propped up my brother's. Gingerly, I navigated over the rocks and down into the depths of the quarry. I spotted Mike several yards away on a rock near a pool of water. He looked safe enough, so I began to climb up a ledge leading to the top of a high embankment. I intended to keep an eye on Mike while I was up there searching for rocks for my collection. The ridge I walked on was narrow, and the going was rough in places. I stepped into a cranny to look through a pile of loose pebbles, but I found only one that I liked. It was streaked with crossing purple and red lines forming a plaid pattern. I tucked it into my dungaree pocket, thinking I'd probably throw it away if I found something better.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Ain't That a Shameby Sandra S. French Copyright © 2010 by Sandra S. French. Excerpted by permission.
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