The song waits in my memory. It filled April of my junior year during second-hour gym class. About the same time the year before, we had started our softball unit. Instead, we were indoors on one side of the basketball court in our gym shorts and t-shirts. The girl’s second-hour gym class was on the other side. This was the new dancing unit. Some genius thought that with the prom coming up in May, everybody would be happy to work on their dancing. Probably the same genius who thought it was a good idea for teenage boys essentially wearing their underwear to be in close proximity with teenage girls. Of course, the girls got to wear their regular shorts and tops from home.
I could look across and see Becky Phillips. Becky was one of the leaders among the cool kids. She was pretty and tall and athletic, the one cheerleader who did flips. Mrs. Carroll in English composition wanted us to expand our vocabularies. I had decided that Becky was “vivacious,” not that I would ever say that to her. Besides, “vivacious” seemed too “pretentious.” There were other words that I really did want to speak to her, like asking her out. I wasn’t thinking of the prom, maybe just a movie or a malt. I knew I’d never have the nerve to say anything.
I stared at the other side of the gym wondering who would dance with me as Miss Snyder spoke the dreaded words, “Everybody find a partner.” I tried to blend into the milling mass of teenage bodies, but Becky walked straight toward me. “Would you like to dance, Rob?” The trial of puberty was a thing of the past, but my “yes” squeaked out, anyway. I couldn’t believe she’d ask the skinny guy with glasses who was barely taller than her to dance.
Miss Snyder said some words that didn’t register with me at all, and Mr. Garmen dropped a 45 on the record player plugged in at one corner of the gym. Hang On Sloopy filled the air. Becky started to dance. This was one where we didn’t have to touch. I tried to imitate her steps. She didn’t have her usual smile, but at least she didn’t laugh at me. Class continued and Miss Snyder told us about more dance steps that nobody paid any attention to. Each time, Mr. Garmen dropped the 45 again. That seemed to be his only job. Every time, the song was Hang On Sloopy. That seemed to be their only record.
The next day, Becky sought me out again. Miss Snyder talked and Mr. Garmen played Hang On Sloopy. Eventually, Becky said, “Do you think this is the only record the school owns?” She didn’t sound right, not like she was mad or joking around, either one. “Yeah, kinda stupid,” was all I could say.
At the end of class, all the boys filed into their locker room to shower just like it was the basketball or wrestling unit. My locker was next to Jake Porter, a mediocre linebacker on the football team. His pal Gary was there, too. Jake got in my face. “Hey dork, I seen you dancing with Becky. Don’t get any ideas. I’m asking her to the prom.” Like always, Gary followed Jake’s lead. “Yeah, she didn’t look too happy dancing with you, anyway.” Jake had to have the last word. “She’s probably on the rag.”
Without thinking, I shoved Jake as hard as I could and yelled, “Shut up.” He looked shocked as his back banged against a locker. I couldn’t figure out the rest of his expression. He looked almost scared like I was. He didn’t move toward me, but he had an answer “I wouldn’t give you the sweat off my butt, so I sure ain’t gonna work up a sweat beatin’ the shit out of you.” I sat on the bench, put my head down, and untied my shoes.
By the third day, the words to Hang On Sloopy were burned into our brains. Miss Snyder said we were going to learn some more “traditional steps.” That meant I was going to have my arm around Becky even if that stupid record was the only music they had. As Miss Snyder slowly supervised getting couples into what she called “appropriate postures,” Becky came close. “Rob, I need to tell you something.” I thought maybe my deodorant didn’t work or I had stared at her too much. She got close enough to whisper. “I want to say something but I’m scared.” I had a fleeting hope that Becky wanted to go for a malt or a movie but was afraid like me to say it. That didn’t seem possible.
The music started, and I put my arm around Becky’s waist. She found her words. “I went to the doctor, Rob. I know you’re a nice guy. I trust you.” Our feet shuffled. I could feel Becky’s breath against my cheek as she spoke. “I have leukemia. I had to tell somebody. Please don’t tell anyone else. I don’t want everybody to know.” Becky put her head on my shoulder. I could tell she was struggling the same way I was to hold in tears as we slow-danced to Hang On Sloopy.
I never told anyone about the leukemia, but it raced through Becky’s body. By the end of the school year, everybody did know. Becky didn’t make it to her senior year.
Once a year in April, I take flowers to Becky’s grave. Our old hometown is only two hours from where I live now. I never tell my wife where I’m going. Becky’s parents died years ago. She never had brothers or sisters. My life is well past half over. I can see the horizon where there may not be anyone to put flowers on Becky’s grave. I never forget to go to the cemetery, but I wish I didn’t remember even a word of Hang On Sloopy.
Tom McKay is a historian and museum consultant. Outside of his career, he has been writing fiction for twenty years. His short stories have appeared in several journals and magazines including the Wapsipincon Almanac, Vermont Ink, Downstate Story, and So It Goes, the literary journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library. He is the author of two novels: West Fork (Augustana College, 2014) and Another Life (918studio press, 2016). His new novel, The Old Guard, is forthcoming from the Midwest Writing Center Press. Tom lives in his hometown of Hampton, Illinois.
Photo courtesy Stocksnap.
