We were charging up that last hill coming out of the woods and this is where he always seemed to finish me off, the final three hundred yards or so. But today I found an extra lift and I could feel him straining. Perfect October day—bright sunshine, crisp air, and the smell of wet leaves on the ground. We’d dropped everybody else by the midway point and it was just Smith and me pushing it, and it was one of those races with no gaps of effort, no easing up on the downhills or saving anything for a kick. That last climb up the narrow winding path before you burst out of the maples and onto the grass and into the open toward the finish line, that’s when I finally broke him, when I couldn’t help turning it into an early sprint and building a gap of a couple of yards that kept growing.
I could still hear him breathing, hear his feet hitting the ground and the squall of the spectators, knowing they’d be surprised to see me first out of the woods. Then the all-out sprint across the field, brushing the grass, no pain at all this time, just a rush and a charge and a league championship and a win over this guy I’d been chasing since middle school.
He grabbed my arm in the chute and said, “Nice race” and I turned and nodded and said, “About time I got you.” He squeezed his thumb a little harder into my bicep and said he’d figured I’d get him sometime.
Coach came over and gave me a bear hug and said I finally put it all together. I watched my teammates finish and yelled for the ones who were close to other runners. Then I walked back toward the woods and when I got there I pumped my fist and shouted, “Yes!” although I barely let it come out above a whisper.
I gave myself a minute alone to let it sink in, then jogged back across the field toward our pile of sweats and stuff.
Denny Smith goes to Weston North. He’s the defending district cross-country champion and placed fourth in the 3,200 at the state track meet last spring. A month before at the Scranton Invitational I’d given him a race to the finish, and then in the dual meet a week later the same thing happened; he just sat on my butt and outkicked me down the stretch.
People from our girls’ team were telling me Nice-race Nice-race Way-to-go-Ron when Smith jogged up to me and asked if I wanted to cool down. I said yeah and took off my jersey and put on a long-sleeved T-shirt I’d ordered from L. L. Bean. It was a warm day, but I like sweating; he was just in his shorts and had a thin chain around his neck and I could tell the girls were checking him out, the ripped abs and the tan and the lean wiriness and the smile, but they’re mostly shy like I am.
So we jogged around the perimeter of the field and talked about training and I said I’d been doing a bit of track work in the evenings, just eight 200s a couple of times a week, and that seemed to be paying off. He said he’d be doing a lot of speed work over the next two weeks to get ready for the states and wouldn’t be doing any more weight work until winter.
He came up to me again after the medal ceremony.
“Listen,” he said. “There’s a great party over near your way tonight. You want to go?”
“Sure,” I said. I didn’t know of any parties this weekend except a rumor of a closed one at a cheerleader’s house. Didn’t know how he’d know about that.
“It’s in a barn off Owego Road. Friend of my cousin. I’ll be going through Sturbridge. Pick you up?”
“Yeah. Should I tell these other guys?” My teammates.
He tightened up his mouth, moved his head from side to side. “Might be better not to. It’s kind of a small space and I don’t think I should bring a crowd.”
“Got ya,” I said. “Tell you what. I’ll be out on Main Street by eight o’clock. We hang down by the Turkey Hill store.”
“I know the place. I’ll pick you up like eight-thirty, quarter to nine.”
“Great.”
I see him pull up in a blue pickup truck and turn the corner, easing to a stop on the side street. I’m standing with Kevin and Tony in back of the bench finishing a pack of Twinkies, scraping the excess off the cardboard with my teeth.
“I’m taking off,” I say. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
“Don’t be a faggot,” Kevin says. “It’s only like eight-thirty.”
“I’m not going home, slime,” I say. “I gotta go somewhere. I might be back.”
“You suck.”
Smith’s standing outside his truck with the door open and the motor running. He’s got his hair gelled and he’s dressed better than any of us ever are—gray sweater, a belt, leather shoes.
“Hey,” he says.
I get in the truck and he says, “Great race today, Ron.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
I’ve never hung out with anybody from another town before, so this feels kind of life-expanding. I’ve gotten to know Smith somewhat over the years. Cross-country and track are like that—you almost can’t help getting to know your opponents because you aren’t hidden behind a helmet and you have time after the races to talk. But my social life has never crossed the Sturbridge border before.
We drive past Turkey Hill and I give Tony and Kevin and the others a nod and they look at me like Where the hell are you going?
“So where’s this party?” I ask.
“A few miles out of town,” he says. “It’s mostly college people. Should be fun. Last time I went out there they had a karaoke machine. I mean, the barn is all fixed up—it’s not like there’s cows living in it. It’s like an underage club. Some guys from the U of Scranton run it. Like I said, a friend of my cousin is behind it.”
“Sounds cool.”
“I think you’ll like it.”
We turn off 191 onto Owego Road and head toward Waymart. After a few miles he turns onto a narrow dirt road and slows down a lot to avoid bottoming out in the ruts. He’s been playing a Garth Brooks tape and I haven’t said anything about it, but my friends would not ever let me hear the end of it if I played anything like that around them. Not that I would anyway. But I bear it and figure maybe this is some kind of country-western place we’re headed to and he’s getting into the spirit.
I can see a barn up ahead with some light coming from it, and we pull onto a grassy field near a couple of dozen other vehicles. “You don’t need to lock it,” he says.
Sounds like old disco music playing; the Bee Gees, I think. It’s a clear night, a lot cooler than at race time, with lots of stars.
There’s a guy at the barn door in a baseball cap, with a scruffy goatee. “Hey, love,” he says to Smith.
“Jerry,” Smith says.
“Five tonight.”
“Okay. I’ll pay for my buddy. This is Ron,” he says, motioning to me with his hand.
“Hi,” the guy says to me. “Thanks, sweetie,” he says to Smith, who’s handing him a ten-dollar bill.
Sweetie? Give me a break.
“Thanks,” I say to Smith. “I didn’t know there was a cover.”
“For the DJ and the kegs,” he says.
The barn is lit by several bare lightbulbs hanging from wires, so it’s kind of dim. And it does have the lingering aroma of cows. There are hay bales stacked against the walls, but mostly it’s a big empty space with a dirt floor. I’d say there are forty-five people here, most of them guys between eighteen and twenty-two or so.
“Beer?” Smith says.
“Sure.”
I scan the room for girls and see a handful, but this looks mostly like a drinking and laughing situation. I’d been hoping I might meet somebody. You never know. It’s early; more women may show up later.
The DJ is about twenty and he’s got his cap on backward and he’s dancing in place to the Supremes with his fists up about chest level, rotating his body back and forth, and a cigarette hanging from his lips. The kegs are set up to his right and are labeled COORS LIGHT and YUENGLING. We get big plastic cups of Yuengling. Smith introduces me to a couple of people.
“Wendy, Steve, this is Ron.”
Wendy is kind of overweight and Steve looks sort of girlish; no shoulders, perfect hair, a red ribbed turtleneck sweater.
“These guys graduated from North last spring,” Smith says. “We worked on the school paper.”
“Nice to meet you,” Wendy says. Steve doesn’t say anything. “Where you from?”
“Sturbridge,” I say. We have to shout a bit because the music is loud in here. “I know Denny from cross-country.”
“Oh, you’re the one,” she says. She gives Smith a little smile and flicks up her eyebrows. She must have heard that I beat him today.
“Twist and Shout” comes on and Wendy says to Steve, “We gotta dance to this.”
He agrees, sort of reluctantly, and they move toward the center of the barn.
“Steve was so afraid to come here,” Smith says.
“How come?”
“He’s just petrified. Wendy finally got him to come, but only if she promised to come with him.”
“She’s his girlfriend?”
“No. No, they’ve been friends since like kindergarten. But no … she’s, she kind of gives him confidence or something.”
About fifteen more people have arrived, so the place is filling up fast. A big guy in an LJC Wrestling T-shirt comes up and grabs Smith’s shoulders from behind and shakes him. Smith turns with a grin and says, “You butthead. What’s up? How’s school?”
“Great. Parties every night. You’ll see, next year.” He looks around.
Smith motions with his chin toward Wendy and Steve. The wrestling guy nods.
“This is Ron,” Smith says.
The guy shakes my hand hard. “What’s going on, Ron?”
“Nothing much. Just hanging out.”
“Any karaoke yet?” he asks Smith.
“Nah. The place is just filling up now. You performing?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “As soon as I get a few beers in me.”
“What are you doing?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Something funny. I was working on a few things all week. You’ll see.” He sticks his arm straight out and points at the kegs and starts walking that way with his arm still sticking out.
Smith turns to me. “Marv’s a riot. Last time he did ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light’ with some girl he knows from school. You know, that old Meat Loaf song.”
“Must have been funny.”
“The karaoke is a blast. You’ll see.”
An hour later the place is packed and there’s been a steady stream of guys doing songs by macho country people like George Strait, Alan Jackson, and Travis Tritt, plus insipid versions of “After the Loving” and “To Sir, With Love,” but the crowd is rowdy and everybody’s laughing. I’ve just been hanging back, leaning against the wall and drinking beer. Wendy and Steve and Marv the wrestling guy are with us, but we can’t talk much because they’ve upped the volume a lot. Wendy has been talking to me between songs and keeps running her thumb down my sleeve. She’s got curly brown hair and bright red lipstick. Smith seems to be fostering communication between Marv and Steve. I don’t know why those two would have any interest in each other; Marv is a loud party animal and Steve looks like he could gently flap his wings and float toward the ceiling. So Steve and Marv are talking to Smith and looking across at each other. I’m guessing that Steve likes Marv. I’m also guessing that Marv would beat the shit out of him if he tried anything.
“All right, I’m ready,” Marv says after a while, and starts working his way through the crowd toward the DJ.
Apparently he has a reputation, because he gets applause even before he starts singing. He gives a big embarrassed grin and shakes his head. Then he raises his hand for quiet and the song begins.
“You don’t bring me flowers,” he sings in a high girly voice that doesn’t sound a lot like Barbra Streisand, “you don’t sing me love songs.…”
But then he changes his voice, and he really does sound like Neil Diamond: “You hardly talk to me anymore, when I come through the door at the end … of … the … day.”
The crowd goes nuts. He does the whole song like that, doing both voices of the duet, and people are yelling for more.
“Later, boys,” he says, and hands the microphone back to the DJ.
Wendy pokes my arm. “You gonna sing?”
“No. I suck. Are you?”
“Sure. It’s easy. You just have to pick something upbeat or funny. It’s a rush, believe me.”
“She’s good.” The first words Steve has said to me. Marv has made his way back and Steve smiles over at him. “Nice,” he says. Marv smiles back, blushing a bit. I wince a little and look around.
Another guy is up there doing “This Magic Moment,” standing kind of sideways with his eyes closed and his elbow up at a right angle, holding the mike steady. Steve kind of rotates his shoulders in a little dance, squinting at Marv, who’s got a sweaty forehead from singing.
“I’m going up,” Wendy says.
“You go, girl,” says Smith.
She has to wait while two guys do the “Summer Nights” duet from Grease. Wendy does “Passionate Kisses” and she can go pretty good. Quite a few people are dancing now.
I turn and see Steve smoking a cigarette, holding it awkwardly between his thumb and first finger to bring it to his lips like it’s the first one he’s ever smoked. I think it’s one of Marv’s. Smith is sort of dancing, just working his hips and shoulders.
Wendy comes back and wipes her brow. “Whew,” she says to me. “Want to get some air?”
“Sure.” I pat Smith on the shoulder and say, “I’ll be back in a bit.”
I mean, she’s in college.
The faggy guy at the door nods to Wendy and says, “Mon chéri.” She grins and shakes her head slowly. “Jerry. Too sweet.”
It’s cold enough to see your breath as we step out toward the cars. Takes a minute for my eyes to adjust, and we almost bump into a couple of guys sitting between cars smoking a joint.
“Sorry,” I say.
She stops after a few more steps and leans against an old Toyota. “This is Steven’s car,” she says.
“Oh.”
“God, I’m so glad he finally got here. Those two have been eyeing each other all semester, and Steven was just so scared to come out here.”
“Who?”
“Marv and Steven. Like you couldn’t tell?”
“Well, uh … I was wondering. But why here? I mean, it’s a pretty tough crowd.”
She looks at me like I’m from Jupiter or something. “Are you … blind?”
I laugh. “No. What do you mean?”
“This is the secret jock place. Denny didn’t clue you in?”
“No. He just said it was mostly a college hangout. I mean, is everybody gay in there?”
“Not everybody. But look around. There are about six women in the whole place. I only came so Steven wouldn’t wimp out.” She looks me over for a few seconds. “So.… You’re not?”
“What?”
She gives me a look.
“No,” I say. “No.”
She nods. We’re quiet for a minute, listening to the rhythm from the barn. She changes the subject. “So, you know where you’re going next year?”
“You mean school?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Sturbridge. I’m only a junior.”
“Oh.” She smiles. “So I’d not only be betraying Denny, I’d be robbing the cradle, too.”
“What? Oh … I guess.”
She’s not my type. Well, considering the alternative, she definitely is.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “We’ll just hang out. I’ll protect you from the boys,” she adds with a laugh. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get another beer. I don’t want to miss Marv’s next performance.”
“Sure. Hey, Wendy?”
“Yeah?”
“Why did Denny …”
“Invite you here? You tell me.”
I laugh a little, roll my eyes. A van pulls onto the grass and bounces to a stop. Six people get out, two of them girls a bit older than me.
“Dorrie!” Wendy says, and they look over.
“Guys from the U,” she says to me. “Straight. We can hang with them if you want.”
“Whatever.”
She talks to them as we walk toward the barn, and I follow behind. Kevin and Tony and those other dudes would beat the shit out of me if they ever found out about this one.
The guy at the door greets them and pecks the girls on the cheek. He gives me a quick little nod and I go in and look for Smith. He’s talking to a couple of guys.
“Hey,” he says. “Ronny, you remember Adrian? Ran for Saint Peter’s in Wilkes-Barre a few years ago?”
“Hi,” I say, shaking his hand, wondering if he’s gay and figuring he probably is. He’s probably thinking the same about me. Big arm muscles.
“Ron’s the one who kicked my ass today,” Denny says. Somehow that word “ass” makes me uncomfortable. I look around to make sure no one’s checking me out.
“So,” I say to Adrian. “Where are you now?”
“Bucknell. This is Joe.”
Joe has short bleached-blond hair and is wearing a gray T-shirt that says RUTGERS LACROSSE.
The music gets loud again and somebody starts singing “The Dance,” which is another Garth Brooks song I never paid much attention to. Denny’s watching the singer—most everybody is turned toward the stage—and I watch Denny from the corner of my eye. He’s a confident guy. Seems to know who he is. One of the best runners in the state. I guess that means I am, too.
Wendy asks me to dance when “I Will Survive” comes on, and I shrug and say sure. It’s late now; the crowd has loosened up and guys are dancing together. Even Marv and Steven are on the floor, farther apart than the other couples, though, more tentative. Wendy bumps her butt against me and laughs, swirling her arms with the rhythm.
When the song ends she takes my hand and starts rushing toward the front. Marv’s pulling Steven along, too. Marv and Wendy grab the microphones. Denny is pushing through the crowd toward us. Marv turns to us and says, “You guys are just backups. You know the song. Meat Loaf. Everybody knows it.”
The crowd is nuts. It is a rush being up there, even though I’m as much a spectator as a performer. We just shout along with the chorus like everybody else in the barn. Nine-minute song; Marv is sweating like a pig. “Though it’s cold and lonely in the deep dark night, I can see paradise by the dashboard light.”
We dance another half hour, then get ready to leave. Wendy takes my arm and we step into the night. “I’m heading back to Weston in Denny’s truck,” she says. “Steven is occupied.”
So we get in the truck three across with Wendy in the middle and bump across the field to the road. Smith tunes in the oldies station out of Scranton and rolls down his window. It’s cool and a breeze is blowing through the cab.
“Good time?” he asks.
“Great,” Wendy says.
“Yeah. Lot of fun,” I say. It was.
Denny kind of drums on the steering wheel for a few seconds, probably wondering if I’d ever go back. He doesn’t glance my way.
“Lot of fun,” I say again. Then we’re quiet for a while.
They drop me by the Turkey Hill store. It’s still open, but none of my friends are around.
“Thanks,” I say. “I guess I’ll see you at the districts.”
“Better train your butt off,” Denny says. “You won’t get me twice.”
“We’ll see,” I say, but I know where I stand with him competitively. We’re on even ground now—whoever wants it more will take it.
Wendy gives me sort of a one-armed hug and I lean over and shake Denny’s hand. “See you guys around,” I tell them, and I get out of the truck and run toward home.