Wait a Minute!

Chapter 01 – The School

In May of 2002 the central hallway of Gettrick High, lined with battered dark-green metal lockers, echoed to generally pointless conversation as students wasted the few minutes until first bell. Before one of the lockers stood Francesca Trask and her closest confidant, Ashley Sewick, engaged in the most popular subject of recent days, the upcoming Promenade.

The girls were something of a contrast. Frankie resembled her mother, though taller and slimmer—dark-haired, blue-eyed, medium-complected. Ashley, a cheerleader, was shorter, pinker and quite trim, with a long blond mane contrasting to dark eyes and brows.

Ashley said, So who's the lucky guy?

Frankie laughed. Caleb, at this point.

C'mon!

The only candidate.

Ashley dropped her voice. Such a dork!

We beggars can't be choosers—and he's nice.

Yeah? Well I know what the problem is. She darted a look thirty feet down the hall, where on the opposite side a small group of young men gathered, isolated in the midst of the crowd.

You gotta do something 'bout that, gal.

Frankie displayed a frown. She felt the problem more intimately than Ashley.

The group of five boys centered on Ryan Porras. Inches over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, Porras was all-county halfback for the Gettrick Gorgons football team, second-string in basketball and starting outfielder in baseball.

He was in the process of intimidating one of his satellites—or so it might appear to a silent movie fan. Porras scowled, leaning over the other, his blunt face and muscled stature enforcing an apparent threat. The victim took a half step backwards, flapping his hands. Two other boys grinned like sycophants.

Now Porras fiercely turned toward Chris Jakobsson, the final member of the bunch, a less tall but sturdy lad who refused to quail. They mouthed and gestured at one another, Porras gradually calming while throwing a couple of looks at Frankie. One more look in her direction and they shook hands, Porras slipping something from a pocket to Jakobsson.

* * *

In 1995 the Gettrick Regional School System had gained state school-board permission to create Volson Upshaw Memorial Middle School, taking seventh and eighth grades from Gettrick High School, and the sixth grades from four elementary schools. Upshaw—a renowned local basketball player who had become a state all-star and was nearly drafted into professional ranks—could not dedicate the school in person due to premature demise while operating a motor vehicle under influence of a controlled substance.

Although the system received generous state funding to build the middle school, it had the misfortune of failing to be eligible for a replacement high school. Nor were citizens of the Region eager to increase real estate taxes.

Thus Francesca Trask spent her final four years of public education in the century-old school on Madison Street, suffering varied ranges of temperature from an ancient steam-heating system and poorly-balanced—albeit newer—air conditioning plant.

Deficiencies included squeaky wooden floors, stair treads worn swayback by countless feet, dark oaken trim, Vista Green hallways, meager lighting from fixtures hung on high ceilings, and lab benches stained and scarred by the misguided experiments of several generations of budding scientists.

Gettrick High School was built of old-fashioned red brick—two lofty stories plus a half-sunken basement and an attic originally slate-roofed until covered with green metal of a hue to match the Gettrick Gorgons' and Lady Gorgons'—previously known as the Gorgonettes—green and white uniforms. Perhaps the roof had been painted in sympathy with the athletic teams' colors, perhaps green as a school color was chosen to match the roof's predominant shade. History gives conflicting versions.

No one but a few academic martinets ever worried that the mythological Gorgons were female demons, thereby theoretically making the name Lady Gorgons redundant.

A simplified gray sandstone entablature surmounted the four sides of the building, continuing across a two-story half-round portico which, supported by four Doric columns, shaded the top step of the main entrance. The entrance steps, and the lintels and sills of windows and doors were of the same sandstone. All in all it was a tribute to neoclassical American architecture, and therefore despised by most community leaders, who much admired the one-story-on-grade Volson Upshaw Middle School design of undecorated yellow tile walls—inside and out—small apron-style windows and flat roof.

A later attachment to the original Gettrick High was the gymnasium, site of the upcoming Junior Promenade. Loosely styled in sympathy with the main building, the gymnasium's brick mis-matched in shade and finish, the entablature degenerated to a mere band of gray concrete, and the piercings showed no relationship.

Every two or three years the gym's flat roof was re-coated, and re-roofed every decade in a vain attempt to prevent leaks from warping the hard-maple gym floor. The gym's old-fashioned dimensions and erratic floorboards gave a slight home-court advantage to the Gorgon/Lady Gorgon basketball teams, and was therefore appreciated. But the flaws made running, dribbling and dancing an adventure regardless of the amount of wax applied.

The school had its legends, of which the portico took pride of place. It was believed—the reader may judge how seriously—that each succeeding principal had fallen victim to crumbling fragments of cornice striking him squarely on the head—thus accounting, from time to time, for seemingly deranged educational or disciplinary edicts. This story dated from the class of 1938—retaining its vigor across wars, depressions in trade, natural disasters and variations of the social code.

Thus far Getttrick High had never had any but a male principal, leaving sex and sexual orientation examples to the future.

* * *

They're talking about you, Ashley said.

How wonderful. Frankie stood half turned away, giving only an occasional glance from the corner of an eye.Why you ever went out with him, Frankie, I don't know—he's not good looking.

Porras sported a broad dark snub-nosed face with a low forehead beneath his spiky black hair.

Who ever saw, Ashley continued, a teenaged kid with five o'clock shadow? And his ears stick out.

Frankie laughed. He's not Hollywood material…

Horror films, maybe.

…but he has a good build and an unusual way of looking at things. Not too stupid, either.

Eeww! was Ashley's response. I mean, I want to go to the Prom—who wouldn't? But I'd be afraid to latch onto somebody like him.

Don't worry—two dates was one too many. Frankie changed the subject, wishing to minimize her relationship with Porras. So it's Drake for you? What's Johnnie feel about that?

Ashley shrugged. "He's frosted, maybe, but it's the Prom, for gawdsake. I mean, you don't miss the Prom, do you? Thought maybe I'd be less excited than last year, but… Anyhow, he knows Drake is only my accessory."

You little cynic! Then it's off to the chapel and start poppin' out babies, huh?

I have summer work promised at Bullseye, and it's supposed to go permanent. Soon as Johnnie's job looks more secure we'll make things official, and maybe even look at houses.

"But if he's not secure?"

"His father wants him to go on the road in a second rig, but I hate that trucking life—out of town every week. What about you, though? You dumped softball, huh? How'd the Heifer take it?"

Lecture number five.

The bell rang, giving her no chance to expand. The girls went their separate ways—Ashley to Commercial English, Frankie to Physics. The aforementioned group of boys waited till the last minute, all of them closely observing Frankie as she strode away, not unaware of their attention.

§

Chapter 02 – The Home

Frankie arrived home earlier than anyone else, going around back to unlock. She poured an iced tea before lowering the thermostat four degrees prior to dragging herself upstairs, tossing skirt and blouse onto a chair, shoes under to the closet, and herself onto the bed. The idea of a nap appealed but she couldn't relax, too many thoughts vying for pole position in her head.

She rose, put on jeans and a tee-shirt, switched from her school sneakers to a grimy pair and went downstairs, sipping her drink while wandering from room to room. Her life was at a watershed, with no idea which side of the mountain to trickle down. At this point most of her fellow seniors had definite plans—jobs, college, a few to travel or join the military. Her own desires were inchoate, and despite the loyal friendship of Ashley she had no soul-mate with whom to discuss deep philosophical issues.

On a superficial but important plane, she had no man in her life—though it was Tuesday, with the Prom a mere week and a half away.

·

She rinsed her glass and left it in the sink then went out the back door, donning a broad straw hat to keep her nose from reddening. Around the house she went, admiring the foundation plantings in block-edged beds she'd helped build years back. Helped or hindered at that age? No matter—it had been fun, and the thought of soon leaving them gave a pleasantly bittersweet nostalgic feeling.

So much had changed over the ten years since her father—adopted father—had upset her childish world with his arrival. The dirt driveway had turned to stone, the house had lost its pseudo-brick siding, two young trees—a white pine and a tuliptree—added to the shade thrown by the old catalpa. A grassy lawn had displaced the weedy one of yesteryear, and the oak in the side yard sported a fine swing, safe to use after years of battle quelled the tree's poison ivy garlands.

Behind the house the garage was refurbished, and a two-story addition—favorite haunt of her young brothers—rose above its north side. Beyond loomed the beginnings of wooded fields.

A forest fit for the pioneers, if I can hold on for another thirty, was how Chuck—father Trask—put it.

·

She was on the swing—merely sitting—when he drove in, the boys leaping from the truck with glad cries.

Close the door! Chuck yelled before strolling over to the oak.

Hullo, girlie.

Hi, Dad.

He brushed her forehead with a finger. You're too young for wrinkles. What's up?

She shrugged. I feel kind of lost—don't know what to do.

Miss baseball?

Some, maybe, but the team isn't going anywhere this season, and there's a good soph to step in—get a game or two under her belt. They don't need me.

I can rig a third-base mockup—let the boys hit you a few scorchers.

She chuckled. They're not quite at the scorcher stage yet, I don't think. Thoughts of brothers reminded her of their after-school sitter. How's the Gresky homestead?

Well enough.

They communed with nature for a few moments before Chuck spoke again.

I recognize how you're feeling—a bit woozy at the idea of entering the wonderful world of work—but I doubt you'll be happy without using your mind, cuz it's a good one. So if you don't feel like helping liberate the Middle East, best think of school.

Frankie had been thinking plenty, yet sensed no excitement—felt disillusioned with schooling.

She countered, I probably ought to get supper started.

Didn't Mom put something in the crock-pot?

Frankie shrugged, miming ignorance.

Did you come straight out here when you got home?

Of course not, but… I dunno—I'm in a trance, I guess. Wait and I'll check.

Chuck gave a rueful smile as she left. He couldn't help feeling unease concerning her recent lack of purpose. She had a lot going for herself, not only in brainpower but personality and looks. She needs direction, he thought, but knew it had best come from inside.

Chuck observed the boys exiting at high speed, and made sure clothes and shoes had been properly changed. As they headed for the Fort—the garage addition—he entered the house through the back door.

What's on?

Pork steak and sauerkraut. Kinda heavy for a hot day, doncha think?

Make pasta salad.

Water was heating, celery and onion were on the cutting board in plain sight. Frankie gave him a droll look.

He added, Go with bacon steada tuna.

Seriously?

More flavor… and grease enhances any dish.

She eyed him. Oka-ayy.

He went upstairs to change, soon exiting via the front door.

·

Charly arrived an hour later, pulling in back and walking to the front where Chuck was at work.

Were you held up? he said in lieu of greeting.

Some. Whatcha doing?

Gonna add a band of crocus this fall, and put in alyssum for now. Saw some reddish purple ones in town—they made a real show.

In town?

Earlier—March or so. Only now getting around to it.

Ready for supper?

More importantly, is supper ready for me?

She rubbed his shoulder on her way into the house.

·

Halfway through her meal Charly tasted the pasta salad and looked at Frankie.

Wait a minute—what's in this?

Frankie rolled her eyes toward her father. Bacon.

What else?

Onion, celery.

"I can see all those. What else?"

Ranch dressing, garlic salt… nothing special.

Charly smiled. "Huh! It's good."

Chuck remained stoic, acknowledging award of the palm with a tight smile.

Charly took another fork-full. We need to experiment more.

Poppy seeds, he said. Sunflower, black olives, anchovies.

The boys began commenting—Carl having detected some of the byplay between the adults, and wanting to tease big sister.

That's enough, Charly said. You two play outside.

Punishment!

What about dessert? Carl whined.

Dizzert? Arthur echoed.

I'll call you. Go hop out of here.

Carl dawdled. What's it gonna be, Mom?

"Sauerkraut—you didn't finish yours, and it's good, too."

·

Later, with the boys theoretically sleeping and not too noisy, Charly and Chuck held inquisition on their daughter.

Chuck said, Made any decisions?

Charly said, I wish you hadn't quit the team.

Frankie shrugged, covering both questions.

You're good, kiddo, Chuck said. "Might have been all-league, but now…

"You will go to college won't you, Honey?"

Not sure, Mom.

Chemistry's a good field for a woman.

Frankie smiled, knowing her mother would have gone that way had she finished high school.

I imagine it is, Mom, but… I don't know.

Chuck said, The brain—use it or lose it.

Charly said, Your ACT… 33 is awfully high.

Almost as high as 34.

It's no joke, Frankie. And your grades are respectable. That translates into scholarship money.

I know, Mom—of course.

Say something, Chuck.

Okay, I will. Here are your choices, Frankie—college, the Marine Corps, brain rot. Which is it to be?

"I'm not going in the Marines!"

You have a point. Blue is a better color for you,, so Air Force. And there'll be fewer roughnecks than in the amphibious service.

Charly gave him a peeved look while Frankie threw back her head to more freely engage in eye rolling.

§

Chapter 03 – The Invitation

Between Wednesday morning classes Ashley and Frankie met briefly at their lockers, taking time for a few words while changing textbooks.

You never told me what the Heifer said.

Oh, the usual—no team spirit, might have picked up a scholarship, quitters never win, going to withhold my letter, blah-blah-blah.

Don't you have one for last year?

Frankie laughed. Yeah, but maybe she'll raid my bedroom closet.

Before Ashley could comment, Chelsea Willets barged in.

Hey Trask.

Hey, Willets.

We gotta talk.

Do we?

Chelsea, tall and mature-looking, had few friends among the girls but was popular with many of the males at school, including—if rumor could be trusted—at least one faculty member. She went heavy on makeup and tended to over-dress, often wearing heels, her tops low-cut and tight.

"Yeah, we do, Willets said, and you don't want to miss it—guaranteed. Catch you at lunch." She sketched a wave, flexed her lips at Ashley, and was gone as quickly as she had appeared.

The two girls stared at one another.

Ashley rolled her eyes. "What's that all about?"

Something to do with Ryan, I'll bet.

You think? Well sure—she's always hanging with that bunch. Whatcha gonna do?

Frankie shook her head. Not sure. The choices are to snub her or go along with her… or get sick and lie down in the nurse's office. Whadaya suggest?

"Ha-ha! The last one sounds good. But wait a minute—see if she goes over and reports to him."

They were disappointed. Porras wasn't approached by Chelsea, nor were he and today's followers as animated as previously. A few glances came in Frankie's direction, but nothing else. Chris Jakobsson wasn't to be seen.

Of course! Frankie thought, They'll have coordinated beforehand. Chelsea'll wait till she's got a reaction from me, then tattle to Ryan.

She planned to be good and ready for the confrontation.

·

In the cafeteria Frankie failed to finish her lunch, returning half a sandwich to her paper sack and stretching her neck to look for Chelsea.

"Aha!"

See her? Ashley whispered.

Yeah… Guess I'll walk out—see what she does.

Should I come?

Stay here, but keep an eye on the entrance. If nothing happens I'll give you the high sign.

Off Frankie went, strolling between tables and past the cashier, turning the corner after passing the open double-doors, then pausing to look back. She saw Chelsea moving toward her, so turned again, moving slowly away.

In a few seconds Chelsea breezed past, conspiratorially saying, Follow me, out of the corner of her mouth.

At an interval of twenty feet Frankie tailed down a stairway to the basement, past the woodshop and metalshop rooms, only to see Chelsea enter the furnace-room, domain of the custodians. Frankie stopped, hesitant to intrude and a bit fearful of who might be waiting inside.

C'mon, Chelsea gestured. Nobody's here. She threw the gray metal door wide and Frankie slowly entered, scanning the large room for lurkers.

This'll only take a… What're you doing?

Frankie was at a workbench that extended several feet next to the hall-side wall. Among other tools was a large chisel with a broad blade. She hefted it and turned to face Chelsea.

"What in hell, Trask? Nobody's gonna hurt you."

You're acting too mysterious for my taste, Willets. What's going on?

"I ain't gonna attack you, for gawdsake—I'm doin' you a favor."

Okay then, what's up?

"Like I'd go after someone as butch as you."

Thanks for the compliment, but let's hear it.

Chelsea hesitated a moment. Look… the boys—a dozen, maybe—have got a deal going about the Prom. You ain't got a date, right?

So?

So anyhow, they've set something up—Porras and his crew and others, maybe fifteen or maybe more… if some don't chicken out. It's like a pool. You know how that works?

Go on.

They each hafta put in twenty bucks, and the winners get to share the pot. To win… Chelsea paused, you gotta show a pair of panties Saturday after the Prom.

"Hah!" Frankie scoffed. Probably buy them at the dollar store.

They gotta be used… have some proof.

Steal 'em from their sisters' laundry.

I'm serious. There's sure to be a third degree—give time and place, make sure the braggers have proof.

Frankie gave a hard look. Assuming you're not BS-ing…

I'm serious as a judge, and you'd better be, too.

"If so, it's disgusting! I can't believe we have so many perverts in our class."

Some juniors, too, maybe.

Frankie's lip curled. "You're making this up. Why would they tell you of all people?"

"They didn't tell me, stupid! I'm puttin' two and two together. Overheard stuff, caught a few looks, some of the dorks brag to me… It all adds up, Trask."

So… If Chelsea had no scheme in mind—and she sounded in earnest—Frankie could believe this. Some of the boys were fairly rotten, and Ryan Porras being involved was only to be expected. Male teenage boasting, often mere talk, was sometimes backed by fact.

"Alright, Chelsea, let's say I believe you. Only why are you going out of your way to tell me your big secret, and why are we sneaking around like this?"

Do you think I'd want them to find out? Do I look nuts?

"But why me?"

By this time Chelsea was angry, as well she might be if in fact she was doing what in her own mind constituted a good deed.

"Well I'll tell you, Miss Priss—because Ryan told them he wants the rules changed. He said anyone who got himself a virgin should get double shares."

She stared hard at Frankie, whose complexion was in the process of turning red.

Several moments passed before Frankie said in a husky voice, How can you be sure it's me?

"Cuz I know he's gonna ask you, and he's waitin' till the last minute just to make you desperate—meanwhile lettin' out word that you're his target. How's that for you?"

Part of this Frankie knew or at least suspected, between rumors and the fact that only one boy—an unacceptable whom she had let down gently—had as yet approached her. She tried to breathe deeply, her head spinning.

I think I might owe you one, Chelsea.

'You bet your sweet fanny you do, Trask!"

At this the door opened, startling both. The head custodian blocked the entrance, staring at them.

What are you girls doing here?

Chelsea, rarely at a loss, grinned. Starting up a sorority, Burt, and it's real secret.

Git the heck outa here—both a you!

He glared as Frankie tossed her chisel at the bench, where it landed with a clang.

* * *

Frankie's afternoon classes were a chore, her head full of what she'd heard and not willing to discuss it. She put Ashley off, promising to fill her in Thursday morning.

To believe or not believe? That was the question, more or less per Shakespeare.

Recollecting her two dates with Ryan Porras eventually convinced her most of what Chelsea had told her could be trusted. The aspect of Porras which had first fascinated then repelled her was his single controlling ethic—that an alpha guy, as he referred to himself, existed in a continual struggle for dominance, and should in the final analysis consider his own needs before—far before—those of any and all others.

She was sure bragging rights among the more daring souls of Gettrick High—those often admired as bad boys—would by him be considered a vital need.

And when the scandal spread, inevitable in the school's free-swinging social environment, she could picture herself as the object of all eyes—student and faculty both—her name on every tongue, her motives suspect even if nothing serious were to occur.

She became hot with anger and frustration. What should she do to counter this unwanted attention—this insult? Indeed, what could she do other than wait it out—content with the knowledge that school would forever end in two weeks.

Yet those could be the longest two weeks of her life, and who could say whether or not she might suffer consequences even after school let out? She damned Ryan Porras to the deepest circle of hell.

·

Outside after school, waiting for bus six to return from its Middle School run, Frankie felt she'd had an exceedingly full and frustrating day. Yet even at three-thirty of a warm breezy afternoon the day's stresses weren't over.

Frankie—take a short walk with me.

Jakobsson! What the devil did he want?

"What are you after, Chris?"

Only a little talk… Please?

She was deeply suspicious. Might he be approaching her as a hanger-on of Ryan Porras or as part of a conspiracy with Chelsea? One was worse than the other. But on the other hand, intelligence about the enemy's operations could be gained. So with lagging footsteps she followed him away from the sidewalk, past the flagpole thronged with potential listeners and over to a clear space next to the school wall—a nearby honeylocust offering light shade.

They eyed one other, each hesitating to speak first.

Well, Chris?

Uh… you're looking for a summer job, I suppose.

So?

Er, have you found one yet?

What's it to you?

He grinned uneasily, showing a different side of his usually cool demeanor.

You're kinda tough to talk to, Frankie, but here's the deal—I know of something you can get, and it's pretty decent. You interested?

She gave him a level look, refusing to answer.

It's with Coburn's.

She continued her look.

Home furnishings and major appliances.

Coburn's was the last department store in Gettrick still standing after the invasion of national chains and big-box stores. It was respectable employment, regardless of which department.

Probably minimum to start, but if they like you… He tried a compliment. "Most people do like you, Frankie, and it could lead to a training program, maybe."

She wasn't friendly with him—distrusted him as one of Porras' satellites. Job or no job, she wasn't going to bite.

What's the catch?

His grin widened, though a blush lingered.

"That's the trouble with smart girls—they always look for a catch. But before you say anything… Yeah, there is a catch—I want you to go to the Prom with me."

Wait a minute! Is this some sort of…?

Don't get hot! The job's yours either way. That is, I told my father about you—he manages the department—and I think he's interested. I mean, it's not exactly a guarantee, but you can check it out right away.

"Am I supposed to believe I'll get the job instead of you? Or are you going to be there too? Level with me, Chris—what's the deal?"

I took a temp spot with the state highway department—more my style. But let's get back to the Prom. Whadaya say?

Frankie took her time replying. "What do I say? Let me give it to you straight, Chris. You're not bad looking, and you probably clean