A Gay Polyester High School Romance Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  About S.W. Ballenger

  More from Deep Hearts YA

  Deep Hearts YA

  A Gay Polyester High School Romance

  S.W. Ballenger

  Copyright © 2020 by S.W. Ballenger

  Cover design copyright © 2020 by The Lion Fish Press

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published July 2020 by Deep Hearts YA, an imprint of Deep Desires Press and Story Perfect Inc.

  Deep Hearts YA

  PO Box 51053 Tyndall Park

  Winnipeg, Manitoba R2X 3B0

  Canada

  Visit http://www.deepheartsya.com for more great reads.

  Chapter One

  The smell of pencil shavings, cologne, and body odor filled the air as I walked down the halls of Derbyshire High School. My gaze drifted around the hallway watching my fellow students congregate in small cliques—the Nerds, the Hippies, the Greasers, and the Jocks. As I was checking out the tight, checkered polyester pants Tom Barker, our school quarterback, sported, an announcement blared over the loudspeaker.

  Principal Anderson’s voice echoed from the large speaker hanging from the ceiling at the end of the hall. “It’s October 15, 1973, and today’s birthday students include,” I waited for the sound of shuffling papers to stop, “Shawn Stuart. Hmm. I guess he’s the only one.” His voice remained even. “So, if you see Shawn, wish him a happy birthday.”

  I rolled my eyes. I hated school birthday announcements. While some people liked the attention of having their birthday announced to the whole school, I did not.

  Dreading the first “Happy birthday,” I lowered my head, hoping that I could sneak to my first class without anyone noticing me, then maybe by second period everyone would forget and I wouldn’t have to hear those two dreaded words.

  Stopping by my locker to grab my Government book, I heard the clomping sound of running sneakers come up behind me. As I opened my locker, I felt the familiar punch to my shoulder, the location and pressure revealing the identity of the person; the one person who wouldn’t forget my special day, my best friend Brad De Vries. “Happy birthday, dude! The big one-five.” Brad waited for me to turn.

  “Ouch, man.” I grimaced, rubbing my shoulder. “You punch too hard.”

  “Don’t be such a baby. Here.” Brad fumbled as he shoved a badly-wrapped record album covered in aluminum foil at me. Tears in the thin metallic material indicated it had not been handled with care. “Sorry, man.” He shrugged. “Mom didn’t have any wrapping paper, so I had to make do.”

  “No problem.” I clearly saw the name Pink Floyd under the torn edge as I took it from him. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” I lied. The idea of my best friend not getting me a birthday present was an unforgivable violation of the rules of the “Best Friend’s Contract.”

  “Dude. What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t get you something for your birthday?” Brad said, thankfully remembering his part of the agreement.

  I ripped the package open and pieces of foil fell to the floor. “Oh cool! Dark Side of the Moon. Thanks, man! I love it!” I flipped the album cover over to read the credits before checking out Brad’s long blond hair that hung just past his waist. At six foot two, Brad stood several inches taller than my five-eight frame. At one time, we were both the same height, but around seventh grade, Brad zoomed passed me. According to Brad, his great-grandparents migrated to the United States from the Netherlands. He definitely had a Dutch heritage: tall, blond hair, and blue eyes. As far as looks, the blue eyes were the only feature we had in common. The Stuarts were Scottish, although I never thought I looked Scottish with my black hair and dark complexion.

  “I almost got you Elton John’s Yellow Brick Road, but I know how you’re all into that space rock stuff.” He said with a smile.

  “I’ve got the forty-five of Money, but not the album. Thanks, dude.” I placed it gently between two books in my locker and grabbed the book for my first class. “You’re coming to my party tonight, I assume?”

  “I thought it was just your family?” Brad opened his locker next to mine and began digging through his collection of well-used spiral notebooks.

  “Man, what are you talking about? You are family!” I scowled at him; we repeated this conversation every single year, knowing both of us hadn’t missed one another’s parties from the first day we met at Mrs. Thompson’s Child Care when we were both three. Brad had been my best friend as far back as I could remember.

  “I know.” He shrugged as he struggled to loosen the stubborn notebook from its compacted prison. “I just had to ask, though. Mom says it’s polite to always ask.” He stumbled backward as the notebook came free.

  “It’s at six.”

  “Cool.”

  We began strolling down the hall side-by-side, occasionally bumping into other students as we tried to clear our own path through the jungle of warm bodies that smelled of perfume, hair spray, and cologne. At least before first period, the smells were pleasant; by fourth period, body odor would overpower the senses to the point that leisurely strolls became brisk walks, and classrooms became escapes from a foul odor onslaught.

  As Brad and I got into a discussion about the students in our respective classes that were always tardy to first period, no matter how many times they had gotten detention, I glanced ahead at a girl wearing a silky red blouse and bell-bottom blue jeans. With hair as red as fire that hung to her waist, her figure would put a model to shame. She giggled as she stood among her three friends happily chatting.

  I leaned over to Brad as the thoughts of Tabitha Fay’s body filled my brain. “She’s a fox.”

  Brad gave her a once-over and wrinkled his nose. “She’s okay, I guess.”

  “Come on, man. Check out those boobs.” I stared at her ample breasts that looked as though they were about to pop the button of her too-tight blouse.

  “They’re okay if you’re into boobs.” Brad shrugged and added. “I’m more of a butt man myself.”

  “Butts are nice, too!” I agreed, inadvertently catching a glimpse of Mike Townsend’s butt as he passed between me and Brad. The thought that Brad would look good in those tight green corduroys he wore ran through my mind.

  Passing Tabitha Fay’s locker, she turned, smiled, and shouted very enthusiastically, “Happy birthday, Shawn.”

  “Thanks, Tabitha,” I shouted back just as enthusiastically before turning to Brad.

  I gave him a confused look, swearing I caught him rolling his eyes. “What was that?”

  “What?”

  “You rolled your eyes.”

  “Nah, man. Why would I do that?” He gave me a look as if he thought it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Are you asking her to the Fall Dance?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I replied. “She’s pretty and I think she likes me.”

  “I think we should go stag so we can choose our dates from the lonely girls that mope around under the basket
ball nets. You know, the ones that are desperate and very thankful for any guy who shows them attention?” Brad suggested.

  I scowled. “I’m not that desperate, Brad, and neither are you.”

  “Just a thought.” He shrugged.

  “I gotta book it.” I stopped in front of Mr. Rumsford’s classroom as Brad continued down the hall.

  “Later, dude,” Brad said as he waved.

  • • •

  Mr. Rumsford stood in front of the classroom, erasing the board like a man obsessed with getting every molecule of chalk from its surface. As soon as everyone was seated and the bell rang, he slapped his hands together causing dust to fly forth in a cloud of choking particles.

  “Richard Millhouse Nixon,” he began as he turned toward the class and made his way to his usual perch on the top of his desk, “has been falsely accused by his political enemies of betraying the trust of this great country of ours.”

  I rolled my eyes, knowing the usual rhetoric that Rumsford preached at least once a week on the innocence of the president. Suzie Golden shot her eyes to me, followed by Darren Bowen, and most of my fellow classmates turned to look at me, waiting on my usual rebuttal.

  I raised my hand as per routine, and Mr. Rumsford lowered his eyebrows and glared at me. With reluctance, he pointed. “Yes, Mr. Stuart?”

  With absolutely no hesitation, I began. “Nixon was a crook. He lied to the American people repeatedly. He’s a paranoid shyster and the whole Watergate break-in was orchestrated by him because he was worried that McGovern was going to beat him in the ’72 election.”

  I watched as Mr. Rumsford’s face went from his normal splotchy red hue to a crimson red. He didn’t say a word, just pointed to the door.

  Grabbing my book, I slogged out the door, giving him my usual self-satisfying grin as I headed down to Principal Anderson’s office.

  • • •

  Peering around the door, I checked to make sure Principal Anderson was alone before I dragged myself to the chair in front of his desk and plopped down. A mix of Old Spice and cigarette smoke assaulted my nose as I glanced down at the lit Marlboro teetering on the edge of the metal ashtray. I focused on the black burn marks on the old oak desk from previously neglected cigarettes. I cleared my throat and waited for him to look up from the ledger he was examining.

  Several moments later, he lifted his eyes over his thick-rimmed glasses and crinkled his brow. “Nixon?” he asked, knowing the routine.

  “As usual.” I rubbed my hands against the torn vinyl that covered the arms of the heavy metal chair.

  He sighed. “Why do you insist on arguing with Mr. Rumsford?”

  “It’s not my fault he doesn’t like opposing viewpoints. I’ve said it many times before, he’s a pompous ass,” I said as I picked up the duck shaped paperweight from his desk and turned it upside down.

  “He’s a valued member of this staff,” he said as he took the duck from my hand and set it back down.

  I laughed out loud at the thought of that idiot being considered a role model for impressionable young minds. “I’m sure he is.”

  He pulled his glasses off for a moment. “I should give you detention.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I paused and looked up knowing they were empty threats. “How was Fiddler on the Roof?” I asked knowing Dad had given Principal Anderson some extra tickets he’d received from his boss.

  “Very entertaining.” He looked down again and went quiet.

  I knew it was wrong of me to use the fact that my father had money to get me out of trouble, but when it came to that idiot teacher Rumsford, I was willing to forgo my principles. Besides, Dad was president of the school board, and always made certain we have the nicest sports uniforms in the entire district through his generous monetary contributions to the school’s athletic program.

  Picking up my Government book and spiral notebook from the floor, I cracked them open and began working on my homework while I waited for the bell to ring for second period.

  “Happy birthday by the way,” Principal Anderson mumbled a few moments after returning to his ledger.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  • • •

  The final bell of the day had rung and Brad and I were untethering our bikes from the rack outside school. I glanced down at my new Schwinn bike and over at my old one I had given Brad last summer. Brad had wrapped the worn, cracked seat in duct tape to secure the foam that had begun falling out. At the time I received my new one, I debated on whether to offer my old one to Brad, but seeing as Brad’s old bike he got on his eleventh birthday was way too small for him, I decided to casually mention that Mom was going to donate it; but if he wanted it, he could have it. From the look on Brad’s face, you would have thought he had just won the lottery.

  Brad’s parents were divorced and his mom remarried a guy that had three daughters that were older than him. He didn’t care for his stepfather at all. They lived in the Stone Gate neighborhood in a tiny wood-framed house. While it was a decent neighborhood, the house was way too small for six people. His stepfather was an independent heating and air man, and his mom worked as a housekeeper. When we were younger, I never understood why Brad never received the kinds of Christmas presents I did. I was always getting new toys, shoes, clothes, and just about anything I wanted. Mom finally explained to me that Brad’s family didn’t have money like we did. After that, I felt bad for him and tried giving him all my toys and clothes. I mean, I was five years old and thought I was being a good friend. As we grew older, I learned to be subtle about it so as not to embarrass him.

  “You’ll be happy to know that Tabitha definitely likes you,” Brad stated as he put his book bag around his handlebars.

  I looked to Brad skeptically, never understanding how he always seemed to know what girls thought about me. “How do you know?”

  “I heard Penelope Crosley talking in English today.”

  My heart suddenly skipped a beat. “Really?” I pushed up my kickstand with my foot, feeling the excitement over this newfound fact.

  “Yeah, thought that would make your day,” Brad said with as much enthusiasm as being told he had a twenty-page essay due Friday.

  I frowned at my best friend’s lack of enthusiasm for my good fortune. “Dude, you’re so weird sometimes.” I hopped on my bike. “You should be happy for me.” I shook my head at him.

  “Oh, I am, but it’s just I don’t have anyone to go with if you ask Tabitha,” Brad replied in a voice that almost sounded rehearsed.

  My mind filled with thoughts of Brad standing under the home basketball net with the other lonely sophomore guys, drinking punch while hoping one of the few remaining single girls doing the same on the opposite side would make eye contact and rescue them from the loser’s line. I couldn’t bear the thought of my perfectly attractive best friend standing among those squares.

  I cocked my head to the side as I mentally laid out my plan to save Brad. “Maybe I’ll ask Tabitha if she has a friend that would go with you.”

  “Cool,” he replied dryly. “Can’t wait.”

  Monday, October 15, 1973

  Dear Journal,

  Mom and Dad threw me a small birthday party tonight with just family and Brad. She had a cake made from Nancy’s Bakery in the shape of Dr. Zanis from Planet of the Apes. It was very cool! I got a reel-to-reel tape deck and a new Pioneer receiver for my room. I think Dad was more excited about the reel-to-reel than I was. He kept going on about the sound quality from the tapes being superior to vinyl. I had to admit that when I listen to the Deodato album they bought me on tape, I almost agreed with him. I was just glad he was able to make it home from his business trip to San Francisco in time for my birthday. Next week he’s in Vancouver, and week after that he’s in Mexico City. I think he’s taking a break during Thanksgiving and we’re flying to our condo in Nassau for a week. I’m certainly hoping so.

  ~ Shawn

  • • •

  I made my way downstairs to the kitchen wearing
my new button-down paisley shirt and bell-bottom jeans that Aunt Margie had given me the previous evening for my birthday. I had to admit I rather liked the dark-purple shirt with swirls of red that gave it a sort of free-spirit vibe. Of course, Aunt Margie and Uncle Ed lived the hippy lifestyle, which only made sense. After their daughter Purple was born in the back of their Volkswagen Bus during Jimi Hendrix’s performance of Purple Haze at Woodstock, they were so enamored with the place they decided to buy an old farmhouse just down the road from the field where the festival occurred.

  Rounding the corner into the kitchen, I spotted Aunt Margie at the table wearing a long-flowing, flowery dress. The sound of my footsteps caught her attention.

  “Oh, Shawn!” she exclaimed. “You look so groovy in your new threads! Doesn’t he, Mary?” She sought reassurance from my mother, who sipped her morning cup of tea.

  “He looks very nice,” Mom answered flatly at my aunt’s use of the word “groovy”.

  I grinned and looked down at my new clothes. “Thanks, guys.”

  Aunt Margie looked at my chest. “You wearing the chain I gave you?”

  “Yes.” I pulled my collar down a moment to give her a better view of the gold chain.

  “You can’t see the peace sign,” she pointed out before standing up and starting toward me.

  I tried my best to disguise the fact the gold peace sign at the end of the chain looked better under my shirt than over it. “It’s here.” I pulled up on the chain, revealing the piece of gold jewelry at the end of it.

  Unsatisfied, she reached her hands out and started unbuttoning my shirt. I glanced down and watched as my bare chest became more and more exposed as she worked her way down, finally leaving only one remaining button fastened. She pushed my shirt apart, smoothed down my butterfly collar, and stood back.