others.”
Corky thought about it. “What the hell’s that mean?”
“Who knows?” Guy shrugged. “It didn’t make much sense when someone else said it a few minutes ago, either. “
“Do me a favor, kid. Leave the brain waves at home.”
“Will do.”
“I gotta get to practice. You be sure about this now. I don’t want what we talked about getting back to me. There’ll be hell to pay.”
“Don’t worry about me. I was glad to help. Honest!” Guy held up two scout fingers.
Corky looked down at his loyal fan. “You’re okay, you know that?”
“Thanks!”
“A little weird, but a sweet kid.”
Guy jiggled his eyebrows, a junior Groucho Marx.
“Someday I’ll do something for you, return the favor…”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
Corky snapped his fingers. “Maybe the fraternity. Sure. Why not? How’d you like to go to the Kappa Phi smoker a week from Friday?”
Guy looked up, overwhelmed.
“That’s what I’ll do, kid. Put your name on the invitation list.” And with that Corky tossed his cleats over his shoulder and bounded into the locker room. He felt bad knowing the kid didn’t stand a chance of making it as a pledge, but at least he’d know the honor of having been considered.
Guy stared at the swinging locker room door. Kappa Phi. The jock house. The best frat in Waterfield. In the world. He and Corky were going to be fraternity brothers!
Bursting with excitement, Guy went straight home and read the sports section of News day, word for word.
SIXTEEN
THEJ.V. WAS SCRIMMAGING early Saturday morning, so Butch, in training, chose not to attend his fraternity meeting the night before. And since he went to bed early, he had no way of knowing Corky had added Guy’s name to the list of candidates asked to their smoker.
When the invitation arrived in Wednesday’s mail, Guy had a hunch Butch still wasn’t aware of it, else the beast would surely have made known his fearsome displeasure. Afraid of his brother’s probable overreaction, Guy put off mentioning anything about it.
Butch would find out soon enough.
Front page articles in Thursday’s Eagler covered both the football win over Floral Park’s Sewanhaka and the Hawaiian Moon Ball. Accompanying pictures gave due credit—Photos: Guy Fowler.
Gallivanting into the office, Guy went directly to Amy. Atop a desk, knees pressed to her chest, she sipped a Coke.
“Hi!” He waved a spirited greeting. “How’d you like being on the front page?” “Eh.”
“No great shakes?”
“Naw. How bout you?”
“Lovedit. What acharge!”
“Calm down. Your enthusiasm’s bursting my soda bubbles. “
Clapping for attention, Leonard entered the office. “All right! This isn’t the Fourth of July! Someone declare a legal holiday? Let’s not rest on laurels, kiddies. We’ve got a next edition to get out. What goes?”
No one spoke. No one moved. All eyes on Leonard who, his eyes to the ceiling, intoned, “Why, God? Why can’t I have a staff that comprehends the meaning of the Christian work ethic?”
“Protestant…” Amy corrected under her breath.
“What was that, Miss Silverstein?”
“Nothing, lord and master, just Amy the pedant out of line again. Forgive me. …”
Leonard glared, kicked a desk, pulled at his hair and yelled, “I said I want to hear the happy sound of typewriters clicking and I mean nowll”
Groaning, giggling, everyone settled at desks.
Guy turned to Amy. “You got an assignment?”
“Natch. I’m covering rehearsals for the fall play. Arsenic and Old Lace . Real avant-garde!”
“Going to work on it now?”
“What? And give Leonard the satisfaction of getting something in on schedule? Never!” Amy rested her elbows on her knees. “I’m weary of this day, anyway.”
“What’ll you do?”
“Don’t know. Go home, I guess. Wanna come?”
Unaccustomed as he was to invitations from older women, Guy was intrigued. “What for?”
“Who knows? I can brew some tea. We’ll
Corky thought about it. “What the hell’s that mean?”
“Who knows?” Guy shrugged. “It didn’t make much sense when someone else said it a few minutes ago, either. “
“Do me a favor, kid. Leave the brain waves at home.”
“Will do.”
“I gotta get to practice. You be sure about this now. I don’t want what we talked about getting back to me. There’ll be hell to pay.”
“Don’t worry about me. I was glad to help. Honest!” Guy held up two scout fingers.
Corky looked down at his loyal fan. “You’re okay, you know that?”
“Thanks!”
“A little weird, but a sweet kid.”
Guy jiggled his eyebrows, a junior Groucho Marx.
“Someday I’ll do something for you, return the favor…”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
Corky snapped his fingers. “Maybe the fraternity. Sure. Why not? How’d you like to go to the Kappa Phi smoker a week from Friday?”
Guy looked up, overwhelmed.
“That’s what I’ll do, kid. Put your name on the invitation list.” And with that Corky tossed his cleats over his shoulder and bounded into the locker room. He felt bad knowing the kid didn’t stand a chance of making it as a pledge, but at least he’d know the honor of having been considered.
Guy stared at the swinging locker room door. Kappa Phi. The jock house. The best frat in Waterfield. In the world. He and Corky were going to be fraternity brothers!
Bursting with excitement, Guy went straight home and read the sports section of News day, word for word.
SIXTEEN
THEJ.V. WAS SCRIMMAGING early Saturday morning, so Butch, in training, chose not to attend his fraternity meeting the night before. And since he went to bed early, he had no way of knowing Corky had added Guy’s name to the list of candidates asked to their smoker.
When the invitation arrived in Wednesday’s mail, Guy had a hunch Butch still wasn’t aware of it, else the beast would surely have made known his fearsome displeasure. Afraid of his brother’s probable overreaction, Guy put off mentioning anything about it.
Butch would find out soon enough.
Front page articles in Thursday’s Eagler covered both the football win over Floral Park’s Sewanhaka and the Hawaiian Moon Ball. Accompanying pictures gave due credit—Photos: Guy Fowler.
Gallivanting into the office, Guy went directly to Amy. Atop a desk, knees pressed to her chest, she sipped a Coke.
“Hi!” He waved a spirited greeting. “How’d you like being on the front page?” “Eh.”
“No great shakes?”
“Naw. How bout you?”
“Lovedit. What acharge!”
“Calm down. Your enthusiasm’s bursting my soda bubbles. “
Clapping for attention, Leonard entered the office. “All right! This isn’t the Fourth of July! Someone declare a legal holiday? Let’s not rest on laurels, kiddies. We’ve got a next edition to get out. What goes?”
No one spoke. No one moved. All eyes on Leonard who, his eyes to the ceiling, intoned, “Why, God? Why can’t I have a staff that comprehends the meaning of the Christian work ethic?”
“Protestant…” Amy corrected under her breath.
“What was that, Miss Silverstein?”
“Nothing, lord and master, just Amy the pedant out of line again. Forgive me. …”
Leonard glared, kicked a desk, pulled at his hair and yelled, “I said I want to hear the happy sound of typewriters clicking and I mean nowll”
Groaning, giggling, everyone settled at desks.
Guy turned to Amy. “You got an assignment?”
“Natch. I’m covering rehearsals for the fall play. Arsenic and Old Lace . Real avant-garde!”
“Going to work on it now?”
“What? And give Leonard the satisfaction of getting something in on schedule? Never!” Amy rested her elbows on her knees. “I’m weary of this day, anyway.”
“What’ll you do?”
“Don’t know. Go home, I guess. Wanna come?”
Unaccustomed as he was to invitations from older women, Guy was intrigued. “What for?”
“Who knows? I can brew some tea. We’ll
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