All characters in this story are 18 years of age or older.
*
Eighteen-year-old Allison Katz closed her eyes and blew the last run of Artie Shaw's
Etude No. 3
. The hard tip of the clarinet curved warmly in her mouth. She sucked off a drop of saliva and pulled the instrument away from her lips. Ah! It was her senior year in high school. Only music had brought her moments of bliss.
The final bell had rung forty-five minutes ago. Mr. Olaffsen didn't mind if Allison stayed late in the music room to practice. He was pleased as hell that any student gave a damn. Besides, in this case extra practice was especially important: he and Allison were half of a quartet that would soon perform in a concert. Along with Allison's father, Jacob Olaffsen had been encouraging the girl's musical development for several years.
Now the young clarinetist carefully disjointed and cleaned her instrument. Allison never rushed this step; the stick had been her mother's. Allison's mother had died in a car accident over a decade ago. Memories of the woman were few, and fuzzy, but they were happy ones.
Her thoughts continued to wander as she applied a tiny amount of grease to the cork. Her mother probably wouldn't have approved of what she had done with the clarinet last night. But after quite a bit of pondering, the clarinet seemed like the best choice. The mouthpiece was hard, approximately the right shape (minus the ligature, of course), and carried no social consequences.
Was this what sex would be like? Allison probed the tip of the mouthpiece between her thighs. She would have been mortified to buy condoms, but of course she wanted to protect the instrument from moisture, so she used a small plastic bag. The sensations were interesting and faintly suggestive of pleasure. Undoubtedly a boy would be different. After a few minutes of gentle prodding, she made a fist and curled her bicep in the mirror. With her other hand she felt the muscle. Would a man's hard muscle feel about like this?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices drifting in through the open windows. The music room was on the second floor; whoever it was, was standing directly below.
The words made her hands go still and her eyes go wide.
"This meeting of the Cherry Poppers Club will officially come to order."
The voice belonged to Craig Stewart, football star and heart's desire of pretty much every female in school. Craig was possessed of sexy blue eyes and wavy hair the color of a tortoiseshell kitten's fur. His square-cut jaw was perpetually peppered with stubble and his broad shoulders were balanced by narrow hips. Once, Allison had seen him playing volleyball with his shirt off. Her cheeks had flamed a 70's retro hot pink. What a god!
But in the space of an instant, the heart throb illusion collapsed. Allison felt nauseous as the conversation continued:
"Jeff, how'd you do with Raven?" Craig was addressing Jeff Mullins, South Carolina farm boy and new kid in school.
"Gave it up on the thi'd date," drawled Mullins. "They always fall for Southe'n cha'm."
Poor Raven! True, the girl had always been an unbearable snob to Allison. Raven often bragged about her (alleged) Cherokee blood, and was one of the most popular girls in school, along with—
"Hillary Fairchild." Craig was apparently asking the next man to report in.
"I'm making her wait." Hank Jones, the third boy, exhaled cigarette smoke. The stink wafted up through the window. "Two weeks from now, I guarantee she'll be on her knees and begging for it."
Allison nearly wept. There was no love lost between her and Hillary, either, but it sickened her to hear these women degraded. Then Allison had a selfish moment: at least she, unpopular Allison Katz, was not the subject of this sordid conversation. She wasn't overly beautiful, and playing the clarinet did not exactly generate the buzz of athletic accomplishment. She was safe.
Hank continued: "What about you, Craig-o?"
"Hm, I'm in the mood for someone different. Someone who won't give it up too easy."
The boys swatted around names of their female classmates. Then Hank snapped his fingers. "I know. Allison Katz."
"The band kid?? Don't make me laugh."
"She's kind of cute, really," pondered Jeff.
"What's the matter? Think you can't take her?" Hank sneered at Craig.
Craig snorted. "She'd give it up for me in a heartbeat. No challenge there."
"Don't be so shu' about that. I'd peg huh as one of the good gi'ls." Jeff sounded thoughtful. Then he said: "Race ya."
"You're on." There was a slapping sound as the two clasped hands.
Allison's disgust turned to rage. How
dare
they! As if she were some, some
thing
available for purchase, — some whore with no will of her own! Her fingers shook as she put away her clarinet.
As she pulled on her jacket and reached for the light, she stopped. Would they notice the light flicking off, and realize someone might have overheard? Then her lips flinched back in an angry smile. Let them! She gave the switch a sharp smack.
"Hey. Did that light just go off?" Jeff pointed up toward the music room.
"Probably just old man Olaffsen. What's he gonna do?"
It was true that the music teacher's face was lined and his crew cut was iron grey. But his posture was ramrod straight; he never hunched or slouched, even when seated behind his drums. Despite the years, his demeanor still held a devildog snap. The boys would never dare to jeer to his face.
* * *
Allison jumped on her bike and sped toward the warm yellow lights of home. Her dad would be cooking, and after that, her friend David Hemingway was coming over and the three of them would practice for the fall concert. The normal events sounded rushingly good right now.
She clattered into the kitchen and was instantly greeted by the rich scent of beef stroganoff.
"Hiya, Punkin." Her dad looked up with his lopsided grin. He doused the bubbling sauce with red wine straight from the bottle. As he stirred, he added, "Go wash your hands. Dinner's about ready."
"Thanks, Dad." Allison put her backpack on the sofa and was headed toward the little half-bath when someone knocked on the front door. It was David.
"Sorry I'm early," he began, then saw the plates on the table. The scent of the food socked him in the nose. He shifted on his feet.
"Oh. I can come back later."
"That's all right, Dave, come on in," called Stan Katz. "There's plenty for everybody." The high school senior's face relaxed into a smile. "Great."
David and Allison had known each other since grade school. She was ignorant of his crush. Allison's dad looked on with faint amusement, even as he felt sorry for the boy. A young girl like his daughter could break a young man's heart without even knowing what she was doing.
It was David who had suggested a concert of swing music to coincide with homecoming. Stan knew exactly why: numerous rehearsals would be necessary. Allison had recently become fascinated with the genre. David thus contrived to spend several hours with the young lady, without the risk of asking her out and possibly being turned down.
The only problem was that, to Allison, David was an ordinary feature in the landscape. They had suffered through music lessons in grade school, and as their skills improved, enjoyed orchestra in middle school and high school together.
Their advanced study had been due to luck and property taxes: program cuts had left the musical instruments programs intact. The choir had not been so lucky, despite Mr. Olaffsen's argument that "the voice is also an instrument!" He had not been successful in keeping all of the programs alive.
But David's world did not include administrative politics. Of greater concern was his failure to resemble Mr. Universe. His frame was wiry rather than jock-like, and his hands were more like those of a pianist, which he was, than a boxer, which he certainly was not.
