All American Boy by William J. Mann Page A

him.
    â€œWho’s she?”
    Josephine’s rheumy yellow eyes had narrowed in outrage. “Why, Eva Le Gallienne was the greatest actress ever in American theater! Don’t start with me about Kit Cornell! Or Helen Hayes. Hah! Miss Le Gallienne had more talent in her pinky finger than any of the rest of them had in their whole bodies!”
    Wally smiles as he pedals his bike down Washington Avenue, thinking of her. Josephine’s become this presence to him, this big, colorful, commanding presence that fills up his mind. When he’s with her, it’s like she takes up all the space, sucks the air out of the room. When he thinks about her, he’s got no room left to think about anything else, no room for any other foolish little inconsequential thoughts that might—
    â€œHey, watch it, kid!”
    He has to slam on his brakes to stop his bike from zooming right out into traffic. The light’s changed to red at the busy Washington and Fisk Drive intersection. He waits impatiently. A Camaro full of teenagers rolls up next to him. The kids are all singing along with the radio: Life is a rock — but the radio rolled me — got to turn it up looooouder —so my DJ told me …
    One of the girls looks over at Wally on his bike. He recognizes her from the grade ahead of him in school. She smiles at him. He blushes, turning away.
    The light changes and he makes a dash across the street, quickly zigzagging down Gate Road. It’s ten after twelve. Josephine doesn’t like to be kept waiting. He rides straight through a game of soft-ball some boys are playing in the street in front of her house.
    â€œIf you want to succeed as an actor,” she calls from the front door, “it’s best to be on time for auditions.”
    She fills up the entire door frame. She’s a tall woman, at least six feet, with broad shoulders and short red hair. Wally figures she must dye it that color. It’s red almost the color of a fire engine.
    â€œI’m sorry, Josephine. There was some guy at my house taking pictures.”
    â€œPictures?”
    â€œYeah. I was named All American Boy.”
    She grunts, stepping aside so he can enter the house. “And what does that mean?”
    Wally sighs. “That I get good grades, I guess. And I’m president of my class.” He pauses. “And I’m patriotic.”
    â€œHow do they know that? Are you out there waving a flag for some bicentennial pep rally?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat a useless honor,” she sniffs. “What will you ever do with it? How can it ever help you?”
    He shrugs.
    â€œI assume your father was very pleased,” she says, folding her arms over her chest. She’s wearing a long red housecoat, fastened at the throat with a safety pin.
    â€œI guess it is kind of stupid,” Wally says.
    â€œWho would want to be All American anything? If I’d had my way I’d be living in Paris. This country had its chance in the 1930s. We might have become a nation with a conscience, with values, ideals. But instead what do we do? We hound men to death for their political beliefs. Our highest elected official is forced out of office for criminality. The land of the free. Hah! I’ve never heard of anything so absurd.”
    Wally sits down on her sofa, looking up at her. “I’m going to have to lead the Fourth of July parade on Saturday.”
    â€œYou poor child.” She places a hand over her heart, feigning weakness. “How will you ever get through it?”
    â€œThe photographer said I’ll be on the front page of the paper.”
    She shudders. “It must have been quite the morning at your house.”
    Wally smiles. “It was. My father put on his naval uniform and everything.”
    â€œAnd he let you leave all that flag-waving so you could come here and study to be an actor?”
    Wally sighs. “He doesn’t know that I’m