That Lucky Old Sun 


THAT LUCKY OLD SUN 

Carla Hoffman 

She knew the bell was about to ring. One minute to go. The others 
shifted noisily at their desks stacking books in their arms, ready to escape. 
Five, four, three, two, one. At last the bell! She filtered into the herd, 
moved along by shoving hands and nudging shoulders, into the hall of 
grey lockers. She clung to the wall, supporting heavy books in her arms, 
waiting for him to come out. 

He was the last one out, balancing his one book on his head. The 
books were damp in her hands. Bobby Burke, she sighed inside her tight 
sweater. Heart-throb of the month, her desperate substitute for the real 
thing, which of course was Ricky Nelson. She followed him through the 
maze of bodies, fighting to keep up. Locker doors opened dramatically, 
the crowd parted for her. Bobby, she called silently, watching the black 
cotton jacket fade into the others. The name "Annette Funicello" was 
stenciled in bright yellow across his back. She hurried faster. 

"Bobby," she called, finally gathering courage to say The Name. He 
turned, looked at her casually. They were nearing the double doors, the 
crowd dispersing. He was tossing his book in the air, making it spin with 
admirable agility. He waited for her, impatiently, to catch up. 

"What do you want, creep?" he wanted to know. 
Panic. She had prepared no opening line. Her books were weighted 

like lead. His book spun in the air. He stared at her, bored as Ricky Nel-
son. She couldn't bear the sight of the sensuous lips, the half-closed eyes; 
she looked away. 

She saw him coming toward her then, her younger brother. He was 
only twelve years old, an insignificant junior high student and, she thought, 
a stupid little punk. She thrust her foam rubber breasts out threateningly; 
he must remember she had reached the sacred age of sixteen and was no 
longer approachable. But still he came toward her, white teeth flashing in 
a silly smile. 

"Hey, Wendy," he called and quickened his pace. 
"I don't know him," she told Bobby nervously, alternating between 

half-crazed glares at her brother and batting innocent eyes at Bobby. 
"Ain't he your brother?" 
"Are you kidding? That little creep?" 
She looked down at her saddle shoes with the plaid shoelaces, hoping 

they would reassure her that she had a touch of class in spite of her bro-
ther. "Yeah," she nodded. 

The punk had joined them, smiling from her to Bobby and back 
again. "Hey, Wendy, this the guy? The one you sing to when you play 
your records and cry?" In the midst of Bobby's laughter, she reached out 
and shoved her brother. 

"Get lost, icky!" 
"What else does she do?" Bobby wondered. 
"Swoons over Presley." 
"That's a lie! If you don't get lost, Jimmy, I'm gonna tell mom!" 
''I'll tell her you put rubber in your shirt." 
She felt her face color with red heat. It was impossible to even look 

9 



at Bobby's face; she knew the smirk would be there. Just as the smirk 
covered Jimmy's face, beneath the fringe of straw-colored hair. When she 
reached out, her books dropped to the linoleum, but she wrenched the 
boy's shirt in her hands, tore it in one quick jerk. The three of them 
stood, all eyes on the ripped shirt sleeve. 

"My favorite shirt," Jimmy said increduously. "The one you gave me 
for Christmas." 

The satisfaction she felt mingled with regret. She glanced around the 
hallway to be sure a crowd hadn't gathered to watch this domestic fight. 
There were kids going by, more or less interested; but not nearly as in-
terested as she imagined. The books rested on her saddle shoes, she 
couldn't see them anymore; her confidence was gone, what little she had 
possessed. Jimmy was crying. 

"You ruined my shirt, my favorite shirt!" 
"Shut up!" 
"I'm telling mommy!" 
"Shut up, shut up!" 
Bobby bent down and picked up her books, balancing his on his head 

again. When he got up and gave them to her, she took them but did not 
meet his eyes. 

"I hate you!" Jimmy shouted and punched her in the arm. 
Jimmy turned and ran toward the double doors; she hesitated only a 

moment before she ran after him. Down the walk they ran, the armload 
of books holding her back, Jimmy dashing in front of a car. A screech 
of tires on pavement. She followed him across, dodging parked cars, onto 
a green lawn. 

Two girls in big skirts with poodles printed on them, walking close 
together on the sidewalk, Jimmy crashing into them, scattering their books. 
She tossed her own books onto the lawn and dove at him. He fell back 
on the grass, she on top of him, punching, until she noticed the poodles 
looking at her. Looked up and saw the girls looking at her. She knew 
them. 

"Boy, you're nuts," one girl decided between smacks of gum. 
"Sorry," Wendy whispered, still crouched over a laughing, sobbing 

Jimmy. 
"Whatcha wanta beat up a kid for?" 
They turned in disgust and continued their concentrated walk, hips 

swaying the poodles dizzily. 
"Jimmy, cut it out!" she yelled at him. He brought his laughter to 

controlled sobbing and looked at her with a child's frightened wide eyes. 
'Tm gonna tell," he promised her, flinching at the slap he expected. 

But she was frozen with thought, a mixed-up feeling of having done this 
before. Beside the Christmas tree, beside red and green gift-wrapped pack-
ages. Crouching over her little brother, pounding him, yelling at him. 

"Tell me," she had cried. 
"No!'" 
"Tell me what's in it or I'll break your arm!" 
Through tears he had answered, "Lemme go, I'll tell, I'll tell." 
She had released him and when he told her, she wept. Wept for what 

she had done. Wept for a ruined surprise. Wept for a Cinderella book and 
Mickey Mouse watch he bought for her at the dime store with his own 
money. 

10 



She sprawled over him now, remembering, feeling sick. 'Tm sorry," 
she said, wondering what good it was to say it. 

"My shirt," he wailed. 
"I'll fix it, Jimmy, I'll sew it up myself. Really." She shook her 

head, rolled onto the grass. Miserable. "Why'd you do it, Jimmy? Why'd 
you tell Bobby those things?" 

"I dunno." He lay there, looking tearfully at the sky, his hair mussed 
boyishly. 

"Oh, Jimmy," she sighed. The rubber cones stood out of the sweater 
by themselves, empty inside. She touched the sweater over them and won-
dered why she was so icky. Why was Jimmy such a creep. Life seemed a 
confusion of fear, humiliation, and pimples. Breasts that didn't grow, boys 
who didn't call, girls in poodle skirts wearing class rings on chains. 

"Remember when we were gonna get rid of the dog?" Jimmy asked 
her. 

She thought back to summer, when they were left alone with the ob-
noxious collie licking their bare feet. "We could tie him up," Jimmy had 
suggested, "and throw him into the street!" 

"Yeah," she had agreed, inspired. "Then after a car hits him, we can 
untie him and tell the folks he was hit by a car." 

"We should've done it," she said confidentially, blinking at the sunny 
sky. 

"Yeah." 
"Crazy dog bugs me." 
"Me, too." 
"Jimmy, I'll fix your shirt." 
"Mom can do a better job." 
"Jimmy, don't ever say anything about my bra again. I've never told 

mom about the dog. So don't you go telling things." 
"That's bribery." 
"So are all those slips of 1.0.U.'s you made me sign. I'll be in debt 

to you ti! I die." 
She got up slowly and watched the others coming home from school: 

some running, others strolling, a boy and girl holding hands. "Oh, Bobby," 
she thought sadly. "It's all over for us. I can never face you again." Sup-
posing this was the plight of women, she gathered her books and her bro-
ther; they skipped along the sidewalk, avoiding the cracks. 

"Step on a crack you'll break yourmother'sback," she called to him. 
"Step on a space you'll slap your mother's face." 
They saw a colony of red ants milling around a sandy crack. In a 

jubilant dance, they stomped on them all. An old Studebaker crept slowly 
along, a boy with long bangs and sideburns hanging out the window. 

"Hey, baby, he called to her. 
She tried not to look, averted her eyes and nose, walked along the 

street with Jimmy at her heels. From the corner of her eye, she watched 
the car moving with them. He looked like Fabian, she decided. I wanta 
growl, wow! 

"I'll tell Bobby Burke," Jimmy yelled at the Studebaker. 
"Shut up!" It was a warning, the hiss of a snake. Jimmy stiffened, 

goose-stepping behind her as they walked home. Later, she decided. I'll 
cry about Bobby later. The spring sunlight felt warm on her neck; the 
world was so old and new it overwhelmed her, but the sun was always 
the same. 11