High School Honey

by Bill Bowler

Chapter 6: After Detention

Big little Flea, the “mighty mite,” the small package of dynamite with arms of steel, went to the gym to lift weights. He changed in the locker room and walked into the weight room, where he was greeted by several of the varsity athletes who were working out.

Flea loosened up, stretched, and began his routine. He inhaled and exhaled rhythmically as he raised and lowered the barbell, watching himself in the mirror as his massive biceps expanded and contracted.

He moved next to the “lat” machine, where he pulled the bar down, raising the weights, grunting and sweating as his latissimus dorsi expanded, almost like wings, and his shape assumed a muscular “V” from his broad shoulders to his narrow hips. His legs seemed incongruously short for his muscular torso.

Flea was stretched out on a bench doing bench presses when Coach Rockoff, in a green and white sweat suit, Brookbank’s colors, walked into the weight room.

The varsity athletes were gathered around, watching Flea with amazement. He had loaded the barbell up with so much weight that the little bench swayed precariously beneath him, creaking ominously under the overload, as if about to give way and crash to the floor.

Flea’s face was beet-red, and the veins and tendons on his neck bulged out and looked like they might pop from the strain. With a roar, he pushed the barbell to full extension, locked his elbows, then dropped the weight back to the rack, and sat up sweating profusely. The varsity athletes muttered in admiration.

“Hello, Fleanor.”

Flea mopped the perspiration from his brow. “Hey, Coach,” he gasped, panting for air.

“Fleanor,” said Coach Rockoff, “why don’t you come out for track? We could use you. Brookbank could use you. You could be the best darn pole-vaulter in the county, maybe in the state. Why spend all your time in the gym here with no public recognition? If you come out for the team, the girls will notice you, heh heh, we’ll beat the heck out of Pasquanack, and it will strengthen your record when you apply for college.”

After a moment of silence, Flea shrugged. “Nah.”

* * *

Honey walked home after detention. Her mother was watching soap operas and talking on the phone in the TV room. A commercial came on, and her mother came into the kitchen and refilled her glass with ice and gin.

“Hello, dear. You’re home from school late today.”

“Yeah,” said Honey. “Mom, you know I need shoes. I’m going to the mall with Shirley because Shirley needs a blouse, and while I’m there I can pick up a pair of shoes, so can I borrow the charge card?”

“But dear, you have so many shoes already.”

“No I don’t. And the ones I have are old. Please, mom! It’s for the dance tonight.”

Honey’s mother stirred her drink with her finger. “My show’s coming back on. Get the card from my bag on the couch.”

Shirley swung by and the two girls drove to the shopping mall in Paramus. Shirley circled a few times but couldn’t find a space close to the entrance. She parked over near the movie theater and they crossed the lot, walked in through sliding doors and entered a glittering, mirrored, two-tiered carnival of storefronts beneath a high skylight. Muzak played in the background and a large fountain, surrounded by potted trees and greenery, spouted water in the main hallway intersection.

Honey and Shirley browsed through the racks in several smaller shops, working their way down towards the big department store at the end of the mall. Honey found a pair of black spike heels in a window and went into the store to try them on. She walked back and forth in front of the mirror, a little unsteady on the narrow spikes.

“Oh! Buy them!” Shirley exclaimed.

“You think so?”

“Yes, definitely. They make you look taller and thinner, plus your legs look great.”

“They do?”

“Trust me.”

Honey charged them and signed her mother’s name.

They stopped next in a boutique with posters of rock stars and a jukebox blaring pop music. A pale orange silk blouse caught Shirley’s eye. She held it up for Honey to see.

“I love it!” said Honey.

“Does it make my freckles look dark?”

“No, no. It brings out the highlights in your hair. It’s perfect.” Honey ran her hand along the satin smooth fabric and looked at the tag. “Uh-oh. $75. Never mind.”

Shirley sighed and pursed her lips. She laid the blouse and two other contenders across her arm and marched into a dressing room. A moment later, she came out, laid the blouses down on a counter for the saleswoman to re-hang, and said to Honey, “Let’s get going. I still have to wash my hair.”

They walked out into the parking lot. The sun had set, and the air was beginning to cool. Honey got into the car and put her package in the back seat.

“That orange silk was beautiful! You should have gotten it.”

“I’ll let you borrow it,” laughed Shirley. She unbuttoned her bottom button and showed Honey a glimpse of orange underneath.

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