Beatitude 4
Secret Code
CHAPTER FOUR
Northmont University. June, 1984.
I make my way to the student union with the contents of my mailbox and Nelson Algren's The Man With the Golden Arm. The library had three copies. I found the last one.
I’m so busy sorting through fast food flyers, I almost bump into, of all people, the cute girl repulsed by my pit stank in class this morning.
“Oop.” I step back. “Sorry.”
What’s that look she’s giving me? Pity? Or is she pissed that I noticed her camisole? It doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination, but I’m being respectful.
“I felt bad for you in class today,” she says.
Oh. Sure, let’s revisit my humiliation. I respond with a nod and a half-smile.
“Whitman’s nuts,” she adds. “He never takes off that hat.”
“Probably wears it in the shower.”
Her eyebrows jump. “In bed, for sure.”
What’s happening here? Is she being friendly or flirty? Even if she just wants to toy with me, test her feminine charms, I’m prepared. I don’t stink anymore. I changed my shirt. Shaved. Anyway, she approached me first. Sorta.
“I'm Jack.”
“I remember.”
Her golden tan, platinum blonde hair and super short raw hem cutoffs scream West Coast. So, maybe, if the long distance phone calls with her surfer boyfriend have slowed down, I might —
“C’mon, Charlene.” From out of nowhere, a sporty girl wearing a jersey, a ratty ball cap and Chuck Taylors appears. An aluminum baseball bat attached to her backpack. “I got your gear,” she says. “Let’s go.”
“You’re Charlene,” I say, smiling. “And you’re in a hurry.”
“This is Tracey.” Charlene jerks her thumb at the sporty girl. “She’s always in a hurry.”
Tracey glares at me as she offers Charlene a ball cap.
“Nice hat,” I say.
“Trace” — Charlene slyly grins, dons the cap — “show Jack the flyer thingie.”
Tracey lets go an exasperated sigh. “Then can we go?” She digs into her jeans pocket, pulls up a crumpled paper and hands it to Charlene. Charlene, in turn, hands it over to me.
It reads:
–W– Paint loss Pastel (4)“The letter at the beginning and the number in parenthesis” —Charlene moves closer—“what’s that about? Secret code?”
I slowly shake my head and deep dive into her green eyes.
“C’mon!” Once again, Tracey breaks my reverie.
Charlene scrunches her nose. “I’m late for practice.” She flicks the brim of her cap. “I’ve balls to whack and bases to steal.”
That shouldn’t have sounded sexy, but it did.
Charlene’s hand moves toward my face. I twitch involuntarily as she snatches the pen tucked behind my ear. Forgot it was there.
“May I?” she says, retrieving the paper.
I mumble, “sh-sure.”
“If you solve the puzzle,” Charlene writes something on the back of the paper, “call me.” She hands it back — a brain-teaser on one side, her phone number on the other. She can keep the pen.
“Bye,” she says.
I say, “bye.” But I don’t want her to go.
As they walk away, Charlene turns to see if I’m watching her leave.
Yes, Charlene, yes, I’m interested. I will call. We’ll solve the mystery together. You be my Nancy Drew, I’ll be your Hardy boy.
I turn my gaze from the denim fringe lightly brushing Charlene’s tan legs and notice the team name on Tracey’s jersey. “Sappho’s Sluggers?” Like — like the lady loving poet from Lesbos?
Could that mean…?
No.
Charlene bats for the other team?
No way.
Sappho and Erinna in a Garden at Mytilene (1864)
BEATITUDE © Mark Scott Ricketts
BEATITUDE Illustration by Jay Washer
This exchange felt so natural and real. Well done!