Journey, The (10 page)

"Michelle, the purpose of this meeting is to note your progress of the past thirty days, identify strengths and weaknesses, and proceed from there. I'm not a big fan of performance evaluations, at least at this stage. I'd just as soon have an informal chat once a week and be done with it, but the school board insists on formal reviews. I'll try to make this as painless as possible."

"I appreciate that."

"The long and short of it is that you're doing a pretty fair job, as I expected you would."

"Thank you," Michelle said.

For the next ten minutes, Dennison explained why he thought she was doing a pretty fair job. He praised Michelle's work in two fundraising drives, her efficiency in filing and processing forms, and her decision to volunteer for several committees.

"I have also spoken with Mrs. Zimmerman and other staff and they all, to a person, say you are a pleasure to work with," Dennison said. "That's saying a lot too. It's pretty hard to bat a thousand around here."

"Thank you."

Michelle breathed a sigh of relief as she digested the principal's words. She had feared that he might bring up her freelance work as a tutor and counselor and shut down the kind of random acts that had become her mission in life. But she cringed when she saw the big man trade his smile for a frown and lift the marked sheet from the top of his desk.

"There is, however, a little matter I must bring up before I let you go."

"Oh?"

"The sheet to my left contains attendance numbers for September and early October of last year," Dennison said. He grimaced as he moved his eyes from the form to Michelle. "The sheet in my hand contains attendance numbers for the same period this year."

"Are they good?" she asked.

"They're different," he replied.

"Oh."

"Last year through the first six weeks, Mrs. Wainwright recorded ninety-five unexcused absences. That has been the norm since I've been here."

"OK."

"This year through the first six weeks, you've recorded eight unexcused absences. That has
not
been the norm since I've been here."

"I see."

Michelle sank in her chair. She should have known that signing off on every lame excuse that came her way would lead to a meeting like this. An hour earlier she had accepted notes from six students who had claimed that their cars had suffered flat tires on Riverside Drive. The word was out that the new attendance secretary was a pushover and would-be pushers were lining up.

Dennison looked at her with empathetic eyes.

"I think we both agree that the current number falls outside the boundaries of statistical probability and that there is much you could do to bring it in line," he said. "That is, after all, your primary responsibility as attendance secretary."

"I understand."

Michelle fidgeted in her chair and glanced at the floor, where an ant, carting debris, slowly worked its way from the principal's desk to a potted plant near the wall. She envied the insect and anything else that could stay on task and perform a simple job. It was clear that she had overstepped her bounds. She lifted her eyes and looked at her supervisor.

"I'm sorry I let you down, Mr. Dennison."

The principal settled into his chair, put a finger to his chin, and stared at Michelle for what seemed like an eternity. He put his hands together and leaned forward.

"You haven't let me down, Michelle," he said. "There is a lot more to this evaluation than the number of unexcused absences and more in this folder than attendance forms. There are a dozen statements from faculty, staff, and even parents informing me of the profound and entirely welcome impact that you have had on several students."

Dennison smiled.

"You haven't let me down at all," he said. "In fact, I'd say it's just the opposite. You're the best thing to hit this school in years."

CHAPTER 19: SHELLY

Friday, October 26, 1979

It began as a trickle and tuned into a flow. A 1966 Ford Falcon rolled down Main Street at seven o'clock, followed by a Chevy Malibu, a Ford Pinto, and a spanking new 280ZX. By eight, when the Rialto Theater opened its doors, fifty cars plied the ten-block gut of Unionville, Oregon. By nine, a hundred more did the same.

Shelly Preston adjusted to the glacial pace of the flow as she approached a red light at Seventh and Main. She shifted the 8-ball into second, listened to gears grind, and silently cursed her decision to pass up a car with an automatic transmission.

"Crank it, April. I love this song."

April Burke was already on it. Within seconds, a louder, and thus better, version of "Good Times Roll" by the Cars spilled out of the Volkswagen and onto the street, where teens in vehicles mixed it up with moviegoers, pedestrians, and bar-hopping cowboys.

"There are a lot of people out tonight. Did anyone go to the game?" April asked.

"The cheerleaders," Shelly said with a sly smile.

April laughed.

Shelly had considered hopping the rooter bus to Bend but opted out at the last minute. She had decided that Scott could manage just fine without her but that she could not manage another weekend without a serious release.

She felt a little guilty nonetheless about staying behind. Scott had bought her flowers and dinner the previous night to make amends for another spat earlier in the week. So every half hour Shelly flipped to one of Unionville's two AM stations to see if the Cowboys were winning and whether her boyfriend, the quarterback, was playing well. He was. Scott had thrown for three touchdowns, helping Unionville run out to a 28-7 lead after three quarters.

As Shelly drove past the Majestic, another theater, and turned into a large parking lot on Ninth that formed the southern terminus of the strip, she saw many of her classmates in their element. Cass Stevens and Jimmy Grant sat glued at the hip in the seat of his shiny F-150, Heidi Harrison showed André Moreau the sights in her father's Lincoln, and Brian Johnson rode shotgun in good friend Jason Tilton's dilapidated Vega.

Shelly also saw a lot of people she didn't know, including those wearing lettermen's jackets from other high schools. The sight was nothing new. Unionville may have been a Podunk town to those who lived there, but to teenagers from surrounding communities it was Chicago and Main Street was Michigan Avenue.

"Hey, look! It's Tony," April shouted.

April stuck her head out the window and whistled with two fingers. She waved to Tony Bronson as he sat on the hood of his 1970 Boss 302 Mustang holding a 16-ounce can of malt liquor. He raised the can in reply. April kept her eyes glued to the state-champion wrestler as Shelly drove slowly through the lot.

"What a dummy," Shelly said.

"Why do you say that? He's just drinking beer."

"He's drinking beer with cops around."

"So are half of the people in the lot."

"You don't get it, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"If the cops catch Tony, he'll get an MIP. If he gets an MIP, he'll get kicked off the team. If he gets kicked off the team, he won't get a scholarship, and, if he doesn't get a scholarship, he'll be pumping gas for the rest of his life. That's what I call stupid."

Shelly turned out of the lot and headed north on Main.

"Well,
I
like him," April said. "He's been really nice to me lately."

"That's because he wants to sleep with you."

"You don't know that."

"Oh, yes, I do." Shelly turned to face April. "He wants to sleep with everyone, even sophomores. He brags about his conquests too. Heidi told me, and she doesn't lie. You don't want him."

"That's easy for you to say. You're dating the hottest guy in school."

"I say it because I'm your friend. You can do better, April, much better."

"Maybe, maybe not. My phone isn't ringing off the hook."

"It will."

Shelly reached behind her seat and searched a case of eight-track tapes with her fingers. She pulled one out of the front slot and replaced
The Cars
with
Van Halen II
. "Dance the Night Away" soon drowned out a conversation that had run its course.

As she drove past closed stores, open taverns, and brightly lighted theaters, Shelly pondered her future. Where would
she
be in a year? New Haven? Eugene? Corvallis? Working at Holiday Lanes? Would she be with Scott? Did she
want
to be with Scott? Ugh! Senior years were supposed to bring clarity, but her future was as clear as a mud puddle.

When she reached the north end of Main, she crossed the bridge and drove another block to a wide turnaround. City planners had put it there to channel visitors back toward Main Street businesses and away from North Side families that didn't want riffraff driving near their picket-fence homes. But over the years the turnaround had become less a convenience for lost motorists than a gathering point for restless youths.

Shelly waved to several friends and honked her vehicle's distinctive horn twice as she made the wide turn and pointed south once again. When she approached the turnaround's intersection with Riverside Drive, she saw a familiar-looking Plymouth Barracuda parked by the curb and its familiar-looking driver leaning on the lid of the trunk. Shelly pulled up behind the muscle car with the hood scoops and turned off the ignition.

Nick Bender pushed himself upright, straightened the collar and sleeves of his jacket, and sauntered to the driver's side of the Volkswagen. He smiled as he stuck his head in an open window.

"Hello, ladies."

April, seemingly unimpressed, stared through the windshield.

"Hi, Nick," Shelly said. She lowered the volume of the stereo. "What are you doing?"

"I'm waiting for that prick from Walla Walla to show up. He's been telling people he has the fastest car around when all he has is the fastest mouth."

"You really want to race him?" Shelly asked.

"It's not a choice. It's a matter of honor."

Shelly laughed and rolled her eyes. She had heard that kind of talk a million times at school, usually from football players vowing to avenge a beating from the previous year. High school boys may have thought of themselves as chivalrous knights, but most were only a step or two removed from gladiators and professional wrestlers.

"It's not like you get a prize or anything."

"No. I'll get something better. I'll get the satisfaction of watching him drive his sorry ass back to Washington."

Shelly smiled and shook her head. She was about to reply with something witty when she saw a black 1977 Pontiac Trans Am enter the turnaround. It moved slowly around a dozen parked vehicles and small clusters of teens before rolling to a stop behind the Volkswagen.

A well-built boy in a tight T-shirt and a cowboy hat stepped out of the car and walked to within a few feet of Nick. He put his hands on his hips and threw daggers with his eyes.

"I've been looking for you, Bender. I didn't think you were the kind to hide."

"I've been here all night, Princess. Did you finally grow a set?"

Nick stepped away from the Beetle and walked past the cowboy to the side of the Trans Am. He gave the vehicle a cursory examination, kicked a tire, and returned to face his challenger.

"That's a nice toy you've got there. Does it come with a learner's permit?"

"You've got a big mouth. Maybe it's time for me to shut it up."

"I'd like to see you try, Cooney."

Waylon Cooney, cowboy, narrowed his eyes and glared at Nick.

"Be at Route 10 and Mission Road in twenty minutes. Don't be late."

"I'll be there," Nick said.

Cooney got into his Trans Am, next to a ditzy-looking blonde who had twice popped her head out a window, and sped off, leaving fifteen feet of skid marks behind. Several bystanders left their cars and quickly gathered around.

"Don't let him get to you, Nick," Shelly said. "He's a nobody."

Nick smiled.

"He is a nobody. But he's a nobody I have to beat."

Nick turned his head toward Main Street as Cooney drove his Trans Am across the bridge to First Avenue, hung a right, and disappeared. Several people encouraged Nick to "kick ass" and "smoke the sucker." He smiled but did not directly acknowledge any of them. He instead returned to the Volkswagen, lowered his head to the driver's side window, and addressed the blue-eyed brunette with her hands on the wheel.

"What do you say, gorgeous?" he asked. "Looking for a thrill?"

CHAPTER 20: SHELLY

Friday, October 26, 1979

As
she
drove the five miles from Main Street to Mission Road, Shelly Preston noted two things: Plymouth Barracudas were easy to shift and Nick Bender was remarkably composed.

She knew that Nick's offer to let her drive would trigger expectations, just as she knew that taking him up would trigger talk. But she didn't care. She wanted a release and knew that a drag race on a dark rural road was one way to get it.

Shelly's rapid mastery of Nick Bender's car, however, did not seem to explain his apparent tranquility. While he had clearly established himself as the man to beat in Unionville, he had not, to her knowledge, "kicked ass" or "smoked suckers" from another county, much less another state. The Trans Am looked like a serious vehicle and its driver no pushover.

"I have to tell you that this beats driving the Love Bug," she said. "I love my car, but it's a toy compared to this. This is so cool. Thanks for letting me drive it."

"Don't mention it," Nick said. He smiled at the driver as he extended one arm along his windowsill and another along the top of Shelly's seat. "Just remember me in your will."

She laughed.

"I can do that. I'll leave you all of my Donna Summers records."

"I'll settle for a thank you."

Shelly smiled as she merged into traffic heading south on Interstate 80 but lost the smile when she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the lights of her Volkswagen. April had not been pleased with her decision to hop in the 'Cuda, particularly after the lecture on Tony Bronson. She had given Shelly an earful in a private conversation that had followed Nick's invitation but had let the matter drop when Shelly had put on a playful pout.