War and Watermelon

I look across the pool and see Patty Moriarity and Janet DeMaria hanging out by the refreshment stand. They’re in two-piece bathing suits, but not bikinis. They’re the type of girls that are over our heads. Not at the top of the list of coolest girls, but close to it. We’re pretty much near the bottom of the guys; low-middle at best.

We’ll be starting seventh grade three weeks from tomorrow—the day after Labor Day. Switching rooms for different classes, though not as much as my brother, Ryan, did when he went there. The third floor of Franklin School was condemned last year because of the roof, but we’ll still be using the rest of it. And taking shop.

We lie in the sun for about half an hour. I never tan much; I get freckles. My family is mostly Scottish, if that explains anything.

We walk past the refreshment stand, but those girls aren’t around. Gary Magrini is leaning against the bricks like he’s holding up the wall. He’s sneering, as always, but he gives us a slight nod of acknowledgment.

Gary’s on our town’s junior football team with us. He’s very tan, and there are some black hairs growing around his nipples. Tony’s got that dark curly hair, too, but pretty much only on his head.

I say our football team, but it’s not mine yet. The coaches will make the final cuts tomorrow afternoon. Me and Tony are right on the cut line.

They announce an adult swim for noon—nobody under eighteen is allowed in the water for fifteen minutes.

“Let’s go!” Tony says. The only time he ever wants to swim is when we’re not allowed to.

We sit on the edge of the diving area with our feet dangling in the pool. It’s not crowded today, so there are only about twenty adults in there. I keep my eyes on the stuck-up lifeguard with the white cream on his nose; Tony watches the chunky girl guard with the long black hair. When neither of them is looking our way, Tony whispers, “Now.”

We slide off the edge and into the water, staying under as we swim toward the diving boards. We work our way behind two old guys who are hanging out near the corner. One of them has both arms over the edge of the pool and is slowly kicking his feet. The other one is bobbing up and down, keeping a hand on the wall.

We’ve been in the water for eight seconds, so we haven’t accomplished much. But anytime we get away with anything, Tony thinks it’s a triumph.

We hear a whistle and I turn, but it’s just the girl guard scolding a little kid for running near the pool. We sink underwater again, and I stay down for at least half a minute.

Tony was under for less time and must have burst out of the water like a drowning duck, because the other guard is already pointing at him and telling him to get out. I dive under again and swim to the other side.

I come up near the ladder and can see Tony parked on a bench behind the diving boards. The lifeguard is twirling his whistle around on its lanyard and facing Tony. He’ll be benched there until the adult swim is over.

I figure I’ve taken enough of a risk, so I climb the ladder and shake off. I point over at Tony and give him a “ha-ha” expression, but then I feel a tap on my shoulder and the other guard is frowning at me.

Patty and Janet stroll past. We get an amused glance from Janet, whose streak of sunburn across her forehead isn’t quite as red as her hair. Patty is looking good, with her sun-blonde hair reaching her shoulders.

She stops and looks over. She has no expression, but the way she’s standing is sort of challenging. She’s got a bit of muscle and some other new developments up top.

She kind of scares me. Not like she could beat me up or anything, but just that she could cut me down with a look or a few words. She could make it really clear where I stand in the eyes of girls our age. At least the popular ones. Where I stand is not very good, and we all know it.

Tony, on the other hand, does not seem to know his rank in the pecking order. He raises his hands, curving his fingers like he’s holding two tennis balls. “Eee, eee,” he says, squeezing the air.

Patty scowls and walks away. Janet laughs a little, then follows Patty. I punch Tony on the arm. “Idiot,” I say.

There’s a breeze tonight, so I throw my bedroom window open as wide as it goes. I can hear the hum of a plane landing down the hill at Teterboro Airport, and I see the red and white lights of the Empire State Building just a few miles farther to the east.

The Mets lost again. Shut out by the Astros. I can’t stomach listening to the post-game, so I switch the radio over to WMCA and catch the end of “Baby, I Love You.” Then they start playing some awful Bobby Sherman song, and I’m too tired to reach over and switch to another station. So it’s playing when my brother sticks his head in my room and points to the radio.

“Still?” I got the radio three weeks ago for my twelfth birthday. How long is that? “What are you listening to?”

Ryan smiles. “Dylan. Hendrix. Stuff you don’t hear on AM.” He rubs his chin, where a scruffy blond beard is trying to establish itself. The fuzz on his face is a lot lighter than the very long strands on his head, which reach his shoulders.

My radio doesn’t get FM. I fiddle with the dial and try to find another music station. The only one that comes in clear is playing the same stupid song. “Little Woman.”

“Turn it up, Brody!” Ryan says. He fakes like he’s really into it—miming the lyrics, swiveling his hips, and narrowing his eyes. He’s lean like I am and wiry.

I switch back to the post-game. Somebody’s interviewing Ron Swoboda about the Mets’ slump. “Everybody’s quick to blame the manager,” he says. “That’s too easy. We’re the ones losing. The players.”

Ryan laughs. “Worst team in the history of sports.” He takes a seat on the edge of my bed. “Great concert coming up this weekend. Big-time scene.”

He glances toward the door and lowers his voice. “If they let me use the car.” He’s been driving for almost a year, but not often. You don’t need to drive much in this town; it’s not more than a mile from one end to the other. And the buses take you into the city or to Hackensack.

“Upstate New York. Some farm. They say everybody’s gonna be there. Jimi, Santana, Jefferson Airplane.”

I’ve been getting stuck between Ryan and my dad a lot lately; they’re battling about his “future,” which doesn’t look all that great, and there’s been a lot of “tell Dad this” or “see that Ryan knows.” This looks like another situation where I’ll be the go-between.

“Not supposed to, but maybe Mom’ll write a note.” I reach across to my dresser and tap on my football helmet. “I got a scrimmage Saturday afternoon.”

Jenny is his girlfriend and Skippy is a delinquent who lives next door to her and has been her best friend for a long time. Skippy tags along with them everywhere they go. They don’t seem to mind. Ryan never had a lot of close friends, so when he acquired Jenny last spring, he got two for one. That changed things for him and me kind of abruptly—I had Ryan to myself most of the time before that. Jenny’s sweet, but she’s with him every spare minute.

Ryan picks up a G.I. Joe from my dresser and looks at it. I’ve outgrown those things; just haven’t gotten around to throwing them out yet. “There’s like a hundred bands gonna be there,” he says. “Or maybe fifty. I don’t know—a lot.”

Ryan stocks the frozen food shelves at Shop-Rite. Full-time since he graduated from high school in June. Our parents are pissed off that he didn’t even apply to college. Especially with the draft and everything.

“I’m calling in,” he says. “Twenty-four-hour virus.” He leans over with his mouth open and makes a puking sound. He laughs. “It’s going around.”

I can hear our parents coming up the stairs to go to bed. They stop at my door. “Keep it low, guys, all right?” Dad says.

“I gotta shower anyway,” Ryan says, meaning he’s about to leave the room. He usually leaves whatever room he’s in as soon as Dad appears.

“I was wanting to go to this . . . musical event. Friday evening. Brody wants to go, so I thought I’d take him.”

The more he talks, the less likely it is that they’ll let him go. Come on, Mom! This is gonna be great.

“Ryan, I don’t know,” Mom says. “You’d be gone a long time and would end up driving in the dark.”

Mom folds her arms across her chest, but I can tell she wants to let him down easy. “There’s a dance right here at the swim club on Friday night. Why don’t you go to that instead? They’ll be playing rock and roll, I’m sure.”

“Mom. Janis Joplin’s gonna be there. Arlo Guthrie. That’s not exactly what you get at a swim club dance.”

She sighs and turns to my dad. “What do you think, Alex?” When she does that, it means she’s made up her mind. She just throws it over to Dad to make it unanimous.

But he stuns us all. “I think Ryan can handle it. There wouldn’t be much traffic on a Friday afternoon.”

Dad lets out his breath and his lips vibrate. He’s mostly bald, and his head is shiny by the end of the day. He lifts one eyebrow and peers over at Ryan. “Think about filling out that application to Drew,” he says. “We can get you in for the second semester.”

So that’s the trade-off: apply to college. Ryan turns eighteen next month. Eligible for the draft. Old enough to get killed in Vietnam.

Ryan rolls his eyes, but he knows this is no time to argue. “Okay,” he says. “Like you said, I’ll think about it.”

The four of us look back and forth at each other for a few seconds. Ryan says thanks again, then heads for the bathroom. Mom kisses me on the cheek and turns off my light.

I lie there for a couple of hours, listening to the Top Forty on the radio and the crickets out on the lawn. I imagine myself taking a handoff at midfield, dodging right, and bursting through the line. A defender gets a hand on me, but I shake loose and pivot, cutting toward the sideline and stiff-arming a linebacker. They’re all chasing me now, and I tuck the ball tight to my chest and open my stride, dashing untouched to the end zone and lifting the ball high in the air.

At 4:39 I wake up to the Archies singing “Sugar, Sugar.” It’s already getting light out and the birds are chirping, but there’s no way I’m starting my day this early. I shut the window, turn off the music, and climb back into bed.

And why isn’t Ryan doing everything he can to keep from getting drafted? It’s not like he can stop the calendar from turning just by ignoring it.