Part 4 (1/2)
”But . . .” Rick searched for words that wouldn't come.
Ann pressed her finger to his lips again. ”Remember all the good times. Go on now, write your stories and make me proud so I can brag about how I knew you back when.”
A soft embrace sealed with a light brush of her lips on his cheek, and she was gone.
Ann ran, sobbing hysterically, and collapsed onto her bed. When she tried to wipe her tears, she discovered Rick's gift still tightly clutched in her fist. Hands shaking, she slowly opened the tiny box. Pain shot through her body with the force of lightning when she read the inscription, I will love you forever, engraved inside the silver friends.h.i.+p ring.
”It's not fair!” she cried out. She loved him more than anything in this world and couldn't let him know how she felt because of that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Tank Johnson.
Ann made a silent vow to herself. She'd get even with him, someday. With the box pressed against her chest, she lay across her bed, sobbing for her lost love and the life she so desperately wanted.
The 1947 Fleetline Chevrolet rolled to a stop in front of the Barnes' house and sat for hours. The aroma of burned leaves still hung heavy in the night air. Thankful everyone was already in bed, Rick sat motionless in the car. He gripped the steering wheel, trying to make his head stop spinning.
How could he explain what just happened to his mother? He wanted to unload his burden, hoping for a miracle answer.
Christmas Day 1955 had scarred his soul and would remain a confused blur in his memory that wouldn't become clear for years.
The bell echoed in Rick's ears as he trudged down the hall on the first day back at school after the holidays. He didn't speak or look at anyone for fear he would see Ann and lose what little composure he'd mustered that morning.
”Hey, little man, did your girlfriend dump you?” Tank chided from behind.
Rick whirled around to face Tank. ”How would you know about that?”
”Oh, the Tank knows everything that goes on in this town, little man. Maybe you didn't know her as well as you thought, or maybe you just aren't man enough to satisfy her.”
”You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” Rick drove his fist into Tank's nose, taking him down in one quick motion. Rick pounced on top of him, punching his face before Tank could react to Rick's unexpectedly bold response.
”Get off me, you little s.h.i.+t, before I hurt you!” Tank rolled them over and pinned Rick's arms with his 220-pound body straddling his chest.
Rick couldn't move.
”You bloodied my nose, a.s.shole,” Tank said. ”I ought to pound your face into the back of your head.” Tank drew his fist back, ready to punch Rick when Princ.i.p.al Stillman grabbed his arm.
”That will do, boys. I want to see both of you in my office, right now.”
The office was small with only enough room for two chairs with faded upholstery and an oscillating fan in front of the window. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the two sidewalls. On a hook on the corner of his desk hung the infamous paddle everyone called ”The Enforcer,” which put fear into the hearts of the elementary grade boys. Mr. Stillman's heavyset, six-foot-six size instilled respect in the high school students. He was a no-nonsense, disciplinarian princ.i.p.al. Students avoided being sent to his office for any reason.
Rick and Tank sat in the two chairs in front of Mr. Stillman's desk, which he sat on the edge facing the boys.
”Okay, what's the problem here? Who wants to go first?” Princ.i.p.al Stillman asked, staring at the two combatants over wire-rim gla.s.ses on the end of his nose.
Tank spoke first. ”I don't know, sir. He just blindsided me with a cheap shot. I think he's jealous. We've had words about his poor coverage of our games this season. And his girlfriend liked hanging around, talking to me after the games. I can't help it if she liked my company better than his. But honestly, I never said a word to him.”
”Is that true, Mr. Barnes? Did you start the fight?”
Rick clenched his jaw tight enough to crack his teeth. His body trembled so violently he could barely speak. ”Yes sir, I hit him first.”
Princ.i.p.al Stillman walked around behind his desk and leaned back in the creaky, high-back chair. ”Would you like to explain why you started a fight with someone nearly twice your size?”
”No sir, I wouldn't. That's personal.”
Mr. Stillman didn't intimidate Rick when he stood up and stared menacingly at the two boys.
”I see,” he said. ”Well, maybe you can come down to my office every day after school until you feel like telling me what this was all about. In the meantime, you will receive a zero grade for your first period cla.s.s. This won't happen again. Do you understand, gentlemen? Now get back to cla.s.s.” Princ.i.p.al Stillman handed them each an excused pa.s.s for being late.
The boys responded, ”Yes, sir,” in unison and headed for the door.
”Don't forget, Mr. Barnes, 3:15 after sixth period. I'll be waiting on your answer. Tank, go by First Aid on your way to cla.s.s and let Mrs. Honeycutt take care of your b.l.o.o.d.y nose.”
Chapter 9.
”Coastline transported more freight and pa.s.sengers up and down the East Coast and across the South than any other line in the country.”
Awards Day 1956 Rick kept with his normal routine the last week of school, which he'd done since Ann left. As much as he hated Tank, his soul-searching grief gave him clarity in his thoughts. He finally admitted that Tank really was a great football player and his refusal to write glowing accounts of his exploits was jealousy and poor journalism ethics, even for a small school newspaper like the Railroader.
As a concession to his guilt, Rick responded truthfully, listing all of Tank's record-breaking statistics in a questionnaire sent by Parade Magazine for its High School All-American issue. Rick was surprised and honored Parade Magazine would even consider his input. He was just the editor of a small school newspaper. Down deep, Rick hoped Tank would make the Parade All-American team. He would be the first selection ever to come from the Piedmont section of North Carolina.
At the annual awards a.s.sembly, Princ.i.p.al Stillman stood center stage behind a podium, impatiently waiting for the last students to take their seats. Faculty presenters seated behind him chatted among themselves and s.h.i.+fted in their chairs, anxious to get the long program started.
”All rise and give the pledge of allegiance to our flag,” Princ.i.p.al Stillman instructed as he turned to face the American flag that always graced the left side of the stage. A veteran of World War II, Princ.i.p.al Stillman firmly placed his hand over his heart. He led the student body in the pledge the same way he led the singing of the Star Spangled Banner before every home football game, with pride and love for his country.
”Please be seated. The Senior Awards Day a.s.sembly always gives me great pleasure. It is an opportunity to recognize those students whose efforts have allowed them to achieve higher goals. I am proud to announce we have more graduates this year than ever before earning scholars.h.i.+ps and going to college.”
Rick's thoughts drifted away from the speech to Ann, who wouldn't receive the scholars.h.i.+p she worked so hard for. Where was she and what was she doing now? Was she happy? It pained him to not know, but he knew he had to forget her and move on with his life. He hadn't found the strength yet to write that experience off in his private journal as just another pothole on life's highway.
His speech finished, Mr. Stillman handed Senior Academic Advisor, Mrs. Hosecloth a stack of certificates to be given out. ”Mrs. Hosecloth, if you please.”
”These students are being recognized for the dedication and excellence in their pursuit of higher education,” Mrs. Hosecloth said. ”We are proud of all of them. Please give them the applause they so richly deserve.
”I would like to start with the Lions Club's Good Citizen scholars.h.i.+p of two-hundred dollars, which goes to Sally Jefferies.”
The a.s.sembly dragged on and on as Mrs. Hosecloth made a lengthy speech about each of the twenty-five award recipients. It was a waste of time as far as the students were concerned. They'd all gone to school together since first grade and knew more about the winners than Mrs. Hosecloth. The parents, however, sat beaming and hung onto every word about their son or daughter. Finally, she had handed out all but one certificate.
”And last, but certainly not least . . .” Mrs. Hosecloth said. You could hear the sigh of relief and rustling of the students roll across the auditorium. ”It should come as no surprise. The Bankstowne Journal scholars.h.i.+p this year goes to Rick Barnes.” Seconds that seemed like minutes pa.s.sed. ”Rick Barnes,” Mrs. Hosecloth repeated emphatically.
Roger Arnold, sitting next to Rick, poked him in the ribs. ”Hey, man, she's calling your name. Better get up there.”
Shaking his head to chase away the memories of Ann, Rick popped up from his seat and bounced up the steps to accept his award. He scanned the audience, hoping by some miracle Ann had showed up for his scholars.h.i.+p award.
”Stand over here please.” Mrs. Hosecloth pointed to an X marked on the floor with tape. ”We have a special presenter for this award today. Please welcome Mr. Carl Billings, Editor of The Bankstowne Journal, who will present the Journalism award in person.”
Mr. Billings emerged from behind the curtain on the left side of the stage with a confident stride. He was short with a s.h.i.+ny bald head and a protruding paunch that wouldn't let him b.u.t.ton his brown suite coat. When the scattered applause stopped, he shook Rick's hand and leaned into the microphone.
”Rick, it gives me great pleasure to award this Journalism scholars.h.i.+p to you. I've followed your work this year as editor of your school paper and was favorably impressed. You've shown a talent for reporting objectively. The coverage of your undefeated football team showed pride in a season that was the result of a team effort boosted by the talented Tank Johnson. Your work demonstrated what good journalism is all about.”