God, watch over this room full of young lions as they prepare to break bread…” He imposes this on a room full of starving people for five or six minutes at a clip. Finally one night he has a grace which is based on his feeling that things have been getting out of hand lately around the school. Several seniors have just been caught drinking, some others have been caught stealing exams. Fendler’s grace begins: “Lord, most Almighty God in Heaven and on earth, you have given these boys a sack of gold. Now they turn around and treat it like a bag full of bent pennies…” His masterpiece goes on for eight minutes. At its conclusion, everyone groans and sits down in a din to eat supper. Except Zeke. He remains on his feet and gives Fendler one minute of standing ovation for his grace.
The next afternoon the Dean comes to his table in the middle of a tunafish salad lunch. Zeke follows him out. His father is waiting outside in the empty hall.
“Dad?”
“Let’s just get your stuff,” says his father. For an instant, Zeke thinks his father has come to rescue him. But the Dean’s bloated expression tells him the truth.
We ride a bus through the early evening traffic on the thruway to a small city. The school is on top of a little hill in a residential area. I ask someone, “What are they like at Plum Hill?”
“You mean Prostitute Hill?”
“Cherry Hill,” corrects somebody else. “Mostly pigs. One girl last year looked pretty hot. Carson was supposed to have planked her in the bathroom.” Maybe you can get venereal disease on a toilet seat?
“I had a boss chick last year,” says a guy in front. Seems to be a group of dance regulars. Maybe fifteen guys. They fancy themselves studs. The rest have less experience. This is my first prep school dance.
It is being held in the library. Everything has been done to disguise the books and make this place pulse with Christmas cheer. Red and green everywhere. The girls cling together, party dresses and high heels for all. Tons of makeup. “Check the one by the globe, in the corner,” says a guy I know named Jim. I locate the girl. She is cute, a gumdrop face, soft brown hair cupping a dazed, expressionless stare. She is a dormitory fantasy, a Keaton antidote.
“She’s pretty.”
“You can have her friend,” he says. The friend is weasel-faced with a figure like a stalk of celery.
“You’re pretty generous, Jim.”
“Don’t mention it. Why do they always travel like that? Beauty and the beast.”
“Symbiotic relationship,” I say. I have been reading about symbiotic relationships in some book recently. A girl suddenly comes out of the librarian’s office holding a handful of white cards. The girls stir with excitement as if she was holding the results of a million dollar lottery. These are the dance cards. On the front of each some girl has carefully drawn a little bunch of candy canes lying on top of a holly leaf. Inside each card, five names are listed. These are supposed to be the first five girls you dance with. “Why do they have these things?” I ask Jim.
“To make sure all the ugly girls get a crack at some handsome boys.”
“So my first dance is with this name here…Diane Nuccaroni?”
“That’s right.” I go over to the girl who has just handed out our cards.
“Who is Diane Nuccaroni?” She looks around the room.
“Don’t see her right now.”
“Is she pretty?”
“You’ll like her.” I get a funny look from her. In a couple of minutes, the records start, mostly rock and roll oldies. The segregated groups of Keaton boys and Plum Hill girls slowly join on the floor, holding their cards up in front of them, searching for partners. Jim and I lean against the wall. “Let them find us,” he says.
Immediately, the little gumdrop girl is floating on the arms of a handsome halfback named Wells. The two stars have located each other already. Might as well forget about her for the rest of the night. “Paul Spike?” A finger jabs my arm. Standing behind me is a girl around my height, with a beehive hairdo, a hard but not unattractive face. She looks a little older than most of the others.
“I’m Diane.”
“Nuccaroni?”
“Yes. How are ya?” she asks, cute as a Christmas cookie.
“Okay. You want to dance?” We move onto the floor and fortunately it is a slow record. I don’t feel like twisting or frugging because, frankly, I don’t do it very well. Her breasts poke through my jacket like hard cones. She must be wearing an aluminum bra. Her cheek rests on mine without hesitation and I catch a thunderbolt of tutti-frutti perfume. On my back, her hand begins to rub implications. She wants me closer. At once, she responds with a grind on my upper leg. This is amazing, the first dance. I get a hard-on immediately. My brain doesn’t hesitate but hands me a fantasy sandwich: “I am going to get laid tonight.” What a thought! This girl has already taken her hand out of mine and is dancing with both arms around my neck. The grinding moves over from my thigh onto my zipper. I move my hand down and press the top of her ass. Underneath, I feel something smooth and slick in contrast to the wool of her skirt. A girdle! Diane seems to be wearing a set of armor. Who cares? The grind goes on.
“What are the chances of sneaking out of here?” I ask after two more dances.
“See that woman over by the door? She’s our headmistress. She’s guarding the door. Anybody caught outside will be expelled.” One good thing about Keaton, they have never expelled any of their boys for sneaking out of a dance at a girls’ school. Only at Keaton. The double standard. “Do you like Keaton?” Diane asks.
“Can we talk about something else?” I am considering the possibilities of making this fantasy sandwich come true. “What’s upstairs?”
“The language lab.” I flash a room full of cubicles and headphones. Hardly a room in the Holiday Inn but I would lie down in a pool of slush to make love to this girl. I am a virgin. Weeks of midnight masturbation alone in my dormitory. Six weeks of seclusion at Keaton since my last visa to Tenafly. The grinding armor of Diane Nuccaroni has set me on fire.
“Let’s sneak upstairs. They won’t throw you out for that.”
“Do you think…I guess we could.”
“Sure. Where are the stairs?”
“Follow me.”
I am searching for a match to light her cigarette. The lights are off in the language lab. When I get it, the dim shadows grow blindingly familiar. About ten stalls with headphones hanging from hooks and dials built on the countertops. I wish this was the Infirmary or a teacher’s lounge. Something with a bed or couch to lie down on. Her hand slips into mine. Language labs are supposed to improve your pronunciation. I used to fall asleep with my head on the edge of the table, sitting in the chair. The time has come to kiss her.
Just in time to catch a face full of exhaled smoke.
Her hands embrace me very hard, the grind is going again. This is fantastic, I think. Who cares if you are leaning up against the partition in a dark language laboratory with a girl you find moderately attractive who doesn’t know how to kiss. Maybe you will get laid! I try for second base, shoot under her arm to cup one tightly wrapped breast. So many nights in the dormitories jacking off to fantasies of this. Now real! Stay there, Experience! I want to memorize you like the date of Teddy Roosevelt’s inauguration or the formula for determining the circumference of a circle. I’m going to be needing you soon, Experience. Tomorrow night in Coaltown.
Grind and rub. Knees poke knees. I feel the volume controls of the language stall crunching against my thigh. I try to pull her down on the floor. “My dress…” she whispers. Then drops her cigarette on the floor and searches with her shoe to stomp it out. I had not realized it was still