Bama Boy (2 page)

Jimbo’s grin broadened as he climbed back into his truck. “Hey, from where I stand right now, Elmore’s lookin’ better all the time!”

As he drove away, I caught a glimpse of an Alabama license plate bearing the letters J-I-M-B-O. I was a little surprised, because I knew from experience that vanity license plates were expensive. When I’d wanted one for my car last year, Dad had vetoed the idea as a waste of money. I wouldn’t have thought Jimbo had that kind of money to waste. Oh well, I shrugged, following Richie back into the house, with the kind of life he’d lived, Jimbo deserved a few luxuries. The poor guy.

Maybe it was because poor Jimbo provided such a contrast, but when I met Anthony at the door the following night, it was as if I was seeing him for the very first time. He might as well have had “Most Likely to Succeed” stamped on his forehead. He was nearly as tall as Jimbo, but unlike Richie’s hero, his hair was neatly combed. His clothes were just as immaculate—his pants pressed, his oxford shirt starched, and his collar buttoned down. Anthony wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing a sweaty T-shirt and a CAT hat.

“Is something wrong?” Anthony asked, sensing my appraisal.

“No, I would say everything is just right,” I answered.

We went to a movie first, and then to the local burger joint. Over a cheeseburger and fries, I brought up the subject of my meeting with Jimbo.

“Anthony, do you remember me telling you about Elmore’s new quarterback, Jimbo Maxwell?”

“The guy who’s leading your brother into a life of crime? I’ll say I remember! My ears are still burning.”

I had to smile a little. When I had mentioned Jimbo before, I hadn’t been exactly complimentary. “I guess he isn’t so bad, after all. I know I blamed him for Richie’s running away, but I met him yesterday, and I think I may have misjudged him.”

“Don’t ask me; I never met the guy. From what I hear, he’s a good ol’ boy from Mississippi, and he’s got grits where his brains should be.”

“He’s not from Mississippi; he’s from Alabama. And his grades might not be so hot, but I don’t think he’s at all stupid. He just needs—polish.” A brilliant idea began to dawn. “Anthony, that’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“Jimbo doesn’t know it yet, but he’s in for a severe case of culture shock when school starts next week. But look at you! You belong to all the right clubs, you know all the right people, you wear all the right clothes. Maybe you could—”

Anthony held up a restraining hand. “You can forget it!”

“You didn’t let me finish,” I protested. “Jimbo needs help with his grades, and the right tutor could serve as a sort of role model for him. Who knows? You might even be able to get rid of that awful drawl of his!”

“Tell me something, Tracy,” Anthony said, toying with his straw. “Why are you so concerned about this guy? Is he another one of your charitable projects, or have you fallen for our unwashed hero?”

“Of course not!” I said impatiently. “I just feel sorry for him, that’s all. I thought maybe I could help him in some way.”

“Fine. Help him all you want, but leave me out of it.”

“I don’t tutor anymore, and you know why!”

“Smart move,” Anthony said, nodding his approval. “Every time you tutor, it leads to disaster.”

As much as I hated to admit it, he had a valid point. Last fall I had tutored Patricia Martin, and I had been thrilled for her when she’d made the A/B Honor Roll. Unfortunately, she’d quit school two weeks later and run off with some guy to get married. And then in the spring there had been Russ Johnson, who had made a pass at me in the middle of his fourth session. Luckily, Dad had been upstairs, and he threw Russ out on his ear, along with a few well-chosen words and a mean left hook.

“But neither of those things was my fault,” I told Anthony. “I didn’t tell Patricia to elope, and I never encouraged Russ Johnson! I did my best to help them. Don’t you ever want to help people less fortunate than yourself?”

“When you’re on one of your missions of mercy, I can’t
think
of anyone less fortunate than myself—unless, of course, it’s your intended victim. Tracy, when are you going to learn that you can’t just go through life picking up strays?”

“Jimbo isn’t a stray! He’s a poor, unfortunate boy who’s had a miserable life. Would you believe, he’d never even lived in a house with indoor plumbing until he moved to Elmore.”

“Cry me a river,” muttered Anthony, unimpressed.

“Look, maybe you were right about Patricia and Russ, but Jimbo is different. I just know he is! A person doesn’t endure that kind of hardship without having—” I paused, searching for the right word. “—Character.”

“He sounds like a character, all right!”

“I’m not asking you to turn him into a rocket scientist,” I coaxed. “He just needs to keep up a ‘C’ average in all his classes. Is that too much to ask?”

“Yes, it is,” he answered firmly. “Look, Tracy, can’t we talk about something else? This is getting us nowhere.”

I let the subject drop, but I wasn’t through with Anthony yet. Jimbo was a nice guy who deserved a fighting chance, and I was going to do my best to see to it that he got one. Later, when Anthony walked me to my front door and took me in his arms, I knew it was time to play my trump card.

“Anthony, won’t you at least
think
about helping poor Jimbo?” I pleaded
.

“Tracy, I don’t have to think about it. My answer is still ‘no.’ ”

“All right, then,
be
that way!” I said irritably. “If you won’t tutor him, I’ll do it myself. And when report cards come out in six weeks, he’ll have
at least
a ‘C’ in every class!”

“If you can do that, I’ll take you to that new French restaurant for dinner,” Anthony promised.

“You mean Chez Bienville?” I asked, my eyes wide with surprise. “Are you sure you can afford it?”

“I don’t think that will ever be an issue,” Anthony said with a smirk.

“All right, then, it’s a bet!” I retorted, stung by his superior attitude.

“Now, do I get a goodnight kiss or not?”

I took Anthony’s right hand and gave it a firm shake. “Just be sure to brush up on your French, buster!”

But after my initial anger had cooled, I wondered if I had been a bit rash in accepting Anthony’s bet. What did I really know about Jimbo, anyway? Surely the whole football team wouldn’t be worried about his grades unless he’d given them good reason to be concerned. I had a sudden premonition that I might live to regret taking Anthony up on that bet.

When I saw Jimbo in the hall on the first day of school, I almost walked right by without recognizing him.

“Hi, Tracy Brock,” he called when we passed each other in the hall. “Remember me?”

I remembered him, all right. I just couldn’t believe my eyes. He was clean, for one thing, and the improvement it made in his appearance was remarkable. No girl who had ever seen Anthony could call Jimbo handsome, but his face had an open, friendly quality that I found appealing. His clothes would never start any fashion trends, but at least they were respectable.

“I remember you,” I said, “but you look—different.”

Jimbo laughed at that, and I discovered I hadn’t been mistaken about his dimples, or about the twinkle in his blue eyes. “Amazin’ what a little soap and water can do, isn’t it?”

“How are you doing? Have you had any trouble finding your way around school?”

“I’m doin’ okay. Right now I’m lookin’ for room B-107. Got any idea where it is?”

“Not really,” I confessed. “But I think we can find it.”

We found it, all right. I studied the number over the door, then turned to Jimbo. “Are you sure this is the right room?”

“That’s what it says,” he said, glancing down at his schedule. “B-107.”

“Jimbo, this is Mr. Donovan’s physics class!”

“Is that bad?”

“It is for a guy who’s got to keep up a ‘C’ average. Physics is a tough class! And Mr. Donovan is a good teacher, but nobody ever claimed his class was easy. Whatever possessed you to sign up for it?”

Jimbo shrugged. “I guess I must’ve misunderstood. I thought I was signin’ up for phys ed. What have you got this period?”

I consulted my schedule. “Physics. Room B-107. I’m in here with you.”

I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. At least I would be close by, so I could help Jimbo if and when he needed me; on the other hand, the carnage might be painful to watch. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, Anthony walked into the room. I groaned inwardly. When he found out Jimbo was in our physics class, he’d never let me hear the end of it.

“Hi, Tracy,” he said, putting his books on the desk in front of mine.

“Hello, Anthony,” I answered in a chilly voice designed to keep him at arm’s length.

“Hey, what’s wrong? You’re not still sore about—”

“Anthony, have you met Jimbo Maxwell?” I interrupted, giving him a look that dared him to say a word. “Jimbo, this is Anthony Pierce.”

For once in his life, Anthony was speechless. Well, almost. “
You’re
Jimbo Maxwell? And you’re in this class?”

“I was last time I checked,” said Jimbo, looking at his schedule again. “Why does everybody keep askin’ that?”

A wicked smile curled Anthony’s lips. “Am I glad to meet you!” he said with relish.

“Anthony—” I began.

“Ah, Tracy,
ma belle
, we have so much to discuss.” He took my hand and raised it to his lips with an exaggerated gallantry that made me itch to slap him.

The late bell rang and I sat down at my desk, with Anthony seated in front of me and Jimbo behind.

“What’s wrong with that guy?” Jimbo murmured, indicating the back of Anthony’s head.

“Are you kidding?” I sighed. “Right now, that’s the happiest man on earth.”

Anthony’s behavior was infuriating, but my mind was made up. I was going to offer Jimbo my services as a tutor, and he was going to make a “C” in physics if I had to tie him to a chair and make him study all night! As soon as the bell rang, I promptly turned to Jimbo and made my offer. He accepted gratefully, I thought, and we worked out the details while Anthony stood by impatiently waiting to walk me to my next class. The three of us walked together as far as the door, where I gave Jimbo brief directions to his next class before we parted.

“Well, Tracy, I’ll say this for you: you’re a brave little soul,” Anthony said once we were alone. “But just to be fair, I’ll make things easier for you. We won’t even count his other classes. If he makes a ‘C’ on his first physics test, you win the bet.”

“Just wait. You’ll see,” I said with a lot more confidence than I felt.

“By the way, I noticed you’re only charging two-fifty an hour. Russ Johnson paid you twice that. But then, he got the deluxe package, didn’t he?”

“I’m only charging Jimbo half because he probably can’t afford five dollars an hour. And as for Russ, if I’d known how he was going to act, I would have charged him ten!”

“Maybe you should charge Jimbo ten,” Anthony suggested. “At two-fifty an hour, it’s going to take a lot of tutoring to buy dinner for two at Chez Bienville.”

“Then maybe you’d better start doing some tutoring yourself,” I said, giving him my sweetest smile. “Because when Jimbo makes a ‘C’ in physics, I’m going to order the most expensive thing on the menu.”

An hour later, I stood at the cafeteria door and scanned the crowded room for a glimpse of my best friend. Maggie’s red hair made her easy to spot in a crowd, and soon I made my way past the bustling cafeteria tables and plopped down onto the vacant chair beside her.

“Mags, I’ve got problems,” I said. “I’ve been fighting with Anthony all weekend.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. What are you fighting about?”

“Jimbo Maxwell. I asked Anthony if he would tutor him.”

“What did he say?”

“He accused me of picking up strays and trying to reform them.”

“As much as it galls me to agree with Anthony, I have to admit he’s right. When you were thirteen, it was animals. Then you got older and started adopting people.”

“I can’t help it! I told Anthony that if he wouldn’t help Jimbo, I’d do it myself. And before I knew it, we’d made a bet that if Jimbo made all ‘C’s or better on his first report card, Anthony would take me out to dinner at Chez Bienville.”

“Way to go, Tracy! What kind of classes does Jimbo have?”

I sighed. “That’s where things start getting ugly. He’s got physics.”

Maggie let out a long whistle.

“My sentiments exactly,” I said.

“Tracy! Maggie!”

My bet with Anthony was temporarily forgotten as Maggie and I turned at the sound of our names. There stood Tiffany Tyler, looking as if she’d just stepped out of the pages of
Vogue
, and tossing a mane of black curls that should have been illegal on anyone under twenty-one years of age.

“Hello, Tiffany,” I said without enthusiasm.

“I just had to ask if you two have met the new boy yet,” Tiffany said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. She crossed one long leg over the other, and her black leather miniskirt slid up her long legs. “Have you seen him?”

“He’s in my homeroom, but I haven’t really met him,” Maggie answered. “Brian has told me a lot about him, though.”

“Oh, football stuff
.
” Tiffany dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “Have you met him, Tracy?”

“Yeah, a couple of times,” I said. “I’m going to be tutoring him.”

“Oh, Tracy, you poor thing! You’re going to have your work cut out for you,” Tiffany laughed, turning back to Maggie. “He’s what they call ‘poor white trash’ down South. I’ll admit, I had high hopes when I heard we were getting a Southerner. I was looking for Rhett Butler, and instead we’ve got Li’l Abner! I’m talking
major
disappointment! Oh, there goes Sarah. Sarah! Wait up!”

“I can’t stand her,” muttered Maggie, watching Tiffany sashay out the door.

“Join the club.” I frowned at her retreating form. “I don’t know what all the boys see in her.”