So Shelly by Ty Roth

the janitor compromised—largely for fear of losing his unsanctioned napping privileges and station. His conscience and state law demanded that he report the incident, but he’d swear that all that he had seen was the two of them kissing if they’d say nothing of his napping.
    Ms. Yancey’s contract with Trinity was immediately terminated—something about a morality clause. A criminal complaint was never filed nor a report made to the state board of education (of course, to avoid the publicity and the embarrassment for Trinity).
    Gordon and his mother were called to Mr. Smith’s office, where the principal apologized profusely for Ms. Yancey’s having “taken advantage” of Gordon. Mr. Smith pleaded with them (for Gordon’s sake) not to seek litigation or in any way go public with the incident. Coincidentally, they were told, Gordon had just recently been chosen as the recipient of the newly instituted Novitiate Scholarship to be given annually to the most promising transfer student of the year. It would cover full tuition and fees for the entire duration of the recipient’s years at Trinity.
    Mrs. Byron hemmed, hawed, and made a good show of righteous indignation, but in the end, she more than gladly took the scholarship and ran.

7
    “Nice ride,” Gordon said, checking out the red interior of the Trans Am. I wasn’t sure if he was being sincere or sarcastic. With Gordon, it could be nearly impossible to tell.
    “You know, I never would have guessed,” he said.
    “It’s not mine. It was my dad’s car. I think he loved it more than me.” I should have known my whining would fall on unsympathetic ears.
    “I don’t mean about the car. I never understood why Shelly liked you, but I’m starting to get it. You’re all right, Keats. Nowhere near as much of a loser as I thought.”
    “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
    “It is.”
    “Then, thanks.”
    “Put the disc in,” Gordon said.
    I laughed and pointed to the dash, where the original eight-track player mocked us.
    “You’ve got to be shitting me,” he said. “What is that?”
    “An eight-track player. The car’s more than thirty years old. What’d you expect? Look in the glove compartment.”
    Gordon reached inside and pulled out a handful of eight-track tapes, holding them as if he were handling recently unearthed dinosaur bones.
    “Got them five for a dollar at a garage sale. Put one in.”
    “Which one?” Gordon asked. He read the titles: “Foghat? REO Speedwagon? Styx? Lynyrd Skynyrd? Or Journey? Dude, I know Journey.”
    “Put it in.”
    “How?” He took a few stabs and flipped the case over a few times before it took.
    “ ‘Just a small-town girl,’ ” the song began, and we joined in singing what may be the most cheesy yet somehow poignant song ever written, yelling as much as we were singing—“ ‘living in a lonely world’ ”—while bobbing our heads in rhythm. I couldn’t help but think of Shelly as that lonely small-town girl, and I wondered what, if anything, I could have done differently.
    The song played through. The lyrics’ incongruous mixture of despair and hopefulness washed over and soaked us through in one of those moments that two people share, each knowing that he is experiencing the same thing as the other guy without having to say a word.
    As I turned left onto Sand Road, aptly named for the fine layer of the stuff that perpetually coats it, and the small dunes that form sporadically along it, we entered the Strand. I pretended to be transfixed by the bay waters on my side, which lay as flat as I’d ever seen them, but I was actually hiding myreddened eyes and muffling occasional sniffles that, thankfully, were drowned out by the nervous drumming of Gordon’s fingers on the passenger side of the dashboard.
    Finally, I decided to break the tension. “What’s your favorite Shelly story?”
    “Oh, man.” A smile broke across Gordon’s face. “There are so many.” He hesitated. I