Free All-American by John R. Tunis

High he knew he would eventually accept and find normal. This, never.
    He lowered his head once more over a pile of books, his face crimson still. The boys and girls swept past and he hoped they wouldn’t look at him. He envied these boys their ability to talk to girls, to walk with girls, to stand around with girls naturally, never getting hot or red or embarrassed. At the Academy everyone got upset if they suddenly met a girl on Quad; everyone that is except the wolves. The wolves were on the lookout for girls all the time; they’d go downtown for a coke in the afternoon just to date the girls. Athletes weren’t wolves. If you played football you had no time for wolfing.
    There was a faint smell of scent; pleasant, soft. She was standing beside him. Nice eyes, blue, large. Quite tall, and he liked tall girls. He rose. As he did, the pile of books on his desk slipped off and fell to the floor. She laughed and he had to laugh also.
    “I’m Sandra Fuller. You don’t remember me, do you?”
    From the door Stacey was looking back, shouting something over his shoulder, something that fortunately was lost in the noise. He mumbled a few words because he really didn’t remember; except vaguely that her face was a face he had seen before.
    “I met you at the Junior Prom at the Academy last fall. Remember, I was with Eric Rodman.”
    Remember! Why, of course he remembered; he remembered all right; he remembered a vision of white, a girl who had seemed even taller than this but no more attractive; he remembered a wonderful dancer, and most of all he remembered Eric’s sour grin as he kept cutting in.
    “Sure, sure I remember. I mean I didn’t recognize you, but I remember you now all right.”
    They were moving out the door together, down the corridor, laughing. Really High School wasn’t so bad after all. It was grand to find a friend, especially this friend, someone beside Gordon Brewster. The black-haired boy had attached himself to Ronny and tagged around with him ever since his first days. Ronald felt happy at having someone beside Gordon as a friend.
    Her voice dropped but nevertheless he heard her distinctly. “...in that game... you were wonderful... I never thought... you’d win... definitely I never did....”
    He looked up quickly. She meant it. Yes, she certainly meant it. Did she know his part in the Goldman accident? No evidence of it, nothing in her look which said so. Then from the rear came that same voice, high-pitched, penetrating.
    “Oh... Pretty Boy... oh, Ronny...”
    He turned sharply. Usually he paid no attention; this time he was angry. Let me catch that guy and I’ll kill him. Let me get my hands on him and I’ll beat him up. I surely will. Standing on his toes and looking over the heads of the boys and girls in the rear, he attempted to glance back. Several of them around were laughing, for everyone had heard it, but there was no way of identifying the speaker or guessing whether he was the same one as before.
    Later that day he was upstairs after school in the long corridor on the third floor shutting his locker. Gordon Brewster, whose locker was nearby, came over.
    “Say! Know who’s riding you? I do.”
    “No! Do you really! Who is it... Wait a minute. Hold on now.” Maybe after all it was best not to know. To forget the whole thing. Often at the Academy he had seen this technique practiced, and there was only one way to beat it. Just pretend you never heard and keep on pretending. Give those birds the least satisfaction and they’d never let up. “Nope. No thanks, Gordon. I really don’t care to know.” He slammed his locker shut and started away down the corridor.
    For several days Gordon had either been near his locker or waiting after school at the head of the stairs as he came down to go home.
    “Ok, jess as you say, Ronald.” He panted along beside Ronny who was taking big steps, anxious to get out and away. Down the stairs, along the corridor to the main door. Outside the