Fast Times at Ridgemont High by Cameron Crowe Read Free Book Online Page B

Camaro, others went straight for a Datsun or Toyota. Brad liked to drive to work at Carl’s in a nice big clean American machine, even if the car ate up most of his fast-food money. It was a small price to pay for style, as far as he was concerned.
    “So how do you like high school?” asked Brad.
    “Some pretty strange teachers,” said Stacy.
    “You’ll get used to it.”
    Stacy stood there for a moment, watching Brad lovingly polishing the windows of his car.
    “Brad,” said Stacy, “how come I never see you with Lisa anymore?”
    “Jesus,” said Brad. He threw a chamois rag onto his windshield. “Everybody wants to know about Lisa. Everybody is such big friends with Lisa . . .”
    “Sorry I asked.”
    “You got some flowers,” said Brad. “They’re right inside the door.”
    Stacy went inside. There, sitting on the living room coffee table, their fragrance cascading throughout the Hamilton home, was a summer floral arrangement. Stacy read the attached note, marked “personal”: Memories of You, Ron Johnson.
    Stacy’s heart quickened. This was a perilous situation, one that set off all her inner alarms. This involved her mother, the notorious Evelyn. For Mrs. H., the word strict was weak. First she had refused Stacy a bra, then, two years later, she wouldn’t let Stacy out of the house without one. She banned any mention of alcohol or drugs in the house. Allowing rock music in the Hamilton home was enough of a battle. Once Evelyn threw away a copy of AC/DC’s If You Want Blood album because there was blood gushing from the lead guitarist’s mouth and chest on the cover. She wouldn’t even consider discussing the subject of dating until Stacy had reached the age of sixteen.
    Evelyn also had a nose like a foxhound. Once, when Stacy had come home from her first concert (a major fight), her mother even sniffed her clothes.
    “I smell marijuana smoke! I smell it all over you!”
    “No you don’t, mother. You’re crazy.”
    “Don’t call me crazy, young lady! And don’t you ever come home smelling like a marijuana factory again. Do you hear me?”
    “Yes, mother. But there was no marijuana smoke around me. You’re wrong this time.”
    But, of course, Evelyn was right. Marijuana had been all around her, all night long. Stacy did not relish the act of lying to her mother, that much she knew. In fact, she had made a private pact with her conscience that called for a moratorium after her sixteenth birthday on white lies and sneaking out. Until then, however, it was a matter of survival.
    Stacy gathered up the floral arrangement and headed back outside to her brother. She fanned the door a few times. “Brad! Have Mom or Dad seen this?”
    Brad was concentrating on his chrome job. “Not home yet.”
    “Brad,” said Stacy, “what would you say if I asked you to just put these flowers in the trunk of the LTD and get rid of them at work?”
    “I’d say,” responded Brad, “who the hell is Ron Johnson?”
    Stacy had expected her brother to give her a lot more trouble about their both attending the same high school. But Brad had been supportive, almost helpful. Brad, his little sister had decided, was in the “I’m an adult” phase.
    Growing up, they had argued a lot. Almost every fight had been over The Phone. When Brad wanted to use The Phone, he wanted to use The Phone. He would make Stacy give up the line by the crudest of methods—by listening in on her conversation. Stacy would yell, threaten to go to Mom and Dad. Then Brad would sing into the extension, hum, laugh, anything to destroy the conversation entirely. When Stacy ran to complain to their parents, Brad would simply use the phone, just like he wanted to, while everyone else fought.
    Evelyn and Frank Hamilton were easy on Brad, the oldest child. It had been their philosophy that the male should be fully prepared to go out into the world and provide for a family. How this had translated into the family chores, Stacy was not sure. Brad