Free King Dork by Frank Portman Page B

“looking good!” I just couldn’t face it.
    So I said I was going over to Sam Hellerman’s house to
    play D and D. There hadn’t been a late-night D and D ses-
    sion in my world for some time, but they had no way of
    knowing that. Carol and LBT were watching a pledge drive
    on PBS anyway and had no idea something out of the ordi-
    nary was going on. Amanda knew, but she wouldn’t tell be-
    cause there were things she didn’t want me to tell about that she was intending to do. She had teased me almost as relentlessly as I had feared my mom would, but in the end we had worked it all out.
    “Call if you need a ride home,” said Little Big Tom. “I’ve got a set of wheels!”
    It only took around thirty-five minutes to walk to the
    party, but once you get to Clearview Heights it feels like a different world. It looks pretty much the same as Hillmont, but somehow you get the feeling that there’s an invisible wall between the two towns and that you’re on the good side of it all of a sudden. There was a good chance that no one would 65
    have any idea who I was over there. I was the teen without a face. There are worse feelings.
    We got to the door of the party house and just walked
    straight in. No one tried to kick us out. Outstanding.
    There were a lot of normal people there. But quite a few
    of the ones other than them seemed to be CHS drama peo-
    ple, which was good.
    Normal people freak me out, but I’m not scared of drama
    people. There are some at Hillmont, of course. They’re all right, but they tend to be a bit faux hippie and into “jam bands” and the Grateful Dead and Neil Young, so they remind me of my folks a little too much, and they always seem to be trying too hard to be wacky. The real reason I don’t like them, though, is that I know they will never let me into their club. I wouldn’t particularly like to be a fourteen-year-old hippie re-vivalist with embroidered jeans listening to the Dead and
    playing Man in Auditorium in Our Town by Thornton Wilder.
    But the fact that they wouldn’t accept me even if I did want to be a f.-y.-o. h. r. with e. j. listening to the D. and playing M. i. A.
    in O. T. by T. W. rubs me the wrong way.
    There is, however, one thing I can guarantee: no drama
    person has ever beaten anyone up.
    The CHS drama people seemed similar to their Hillmont
    counterparts, but they were faux mod rather than faux hippie, and that’s a vast, vast improvement. It seems to me if you are going to express your individuality by adopting the costumes and accessories of a long-vanished youth subculture, you’re better off with mod. At least you get some cool-looking boots and short skirts out of the deal, and the music is a whole lot better.
    Sam Hellerman stood in line for the keg, then came back
    and handed me this big red plastic cup of beer.
    66
    “What do we do now?” I asked.
    “Put cup to mouth at slight angle. Swallow contents.
    Repeat,” he said, demonstrating. But he knew what I meant. He recommended trying to “act normal” (yeah right) and mentioned that there was a TV room downstairs if all else failed.
    Then he went off to talk to some of those old friends
    who, for whatever reason, still felt they could afford to be seen talking to him.
    Clearview really was Freedom.
    The music on the stereo was all Small Faces and the Who
    and the Kinks and the Jam. Not too shabby. The mod thing
    was a bit much, though. There was a guy running around
    wearing a British flag as a cape, and several people were
    speaking in unconvincing English accents. They, and their hilarious asymmetrical haircuts, were trying too hard. But that’s the thing: trying at all is trying too hard. I granted them an indulgence on account of the fine, fine music and gave them absolution for their lapses in taste. I was in a generous mood.
    I slouched around quietly, checking everything out, try-
    ing to stay away from situations that might erupt into a sudden ridicule/torture session and blow my