Sons of Fortune Read online

  As the game began, Nat had continued to stare as Diane climbed back into the bleachers. He wondered how he could possibly meet her. It wouldn’t be easy. Dan Coulter was a god. How could a new boy possibly hope to scale Olympus?

  “Good run,” hollered Tom.

  “Who?” said Nat.

  “Coulter, of course. He’s just picked up the first down.”

  “Coulter?”

  “Don’t tell me you were still staring at his sister when the Kissies fumbled?”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Then you’ll be able to tell me how many yards we gained,” Tom said, looking at his friend. He paused. “I thought so, you weren’t even watching.” He let out an exaggerated sigh, “I do believe that the time has come to put you out of your misery.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I shall have to arrange a meeting.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Sure, her father’s a local auto dealer, and we always buy our cars from him, so you’ll just have to come and stay with me during the holidays.”

  Tom didn’t hear if his friend accepted the invitation, because his reply was drowned by another roar from the Taft supporters as the Bearcats intercepted.

  When the whistle blew at the end of the first quarter, Nat let out the biggest cheer, having forgotten that his team was trailing. He remained standing in the hope that the girl with the head of curly fair hair and the most captivating smile might just notice him. But how could she, as she leaped energetically up and down, encouraging the Taft supporters to cheer even louder.

  The whistle for the start of the second quarter came all too quickly, and when A disappeared back in the bleachers to be replaced by thirty muscle-bound heavies, Nat reluctantly resumed his place and pretended to concentrate on the game.

  After gaining painful yard upon painful yard, Taft finally crossed the line and took the lead. Dutifully Diane reappeared on the sidelines to perform her energetic routine.

  “You’ve got it bad,” said Tom, “I guess I’m going to have to introduce you.”

  “You really know her?” said Nat in disbelief.

  “Sure do,” said Tom. “We’ve been going to the same parties since the age of two.”

  “I wonder if she has a boyfriend,” said Nat.

  “How should I know? Why don’t you come and spend a week with us during vacation, and then you can leave the rest to me.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “It’ll cost you.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Make sure you finish the holiday assignments before you turn up—then I won’t have to bother double-checking all the facts.”

  “It’s a deal,” said Nat.

  After the game, on the other side of the stadium, Nat and Tom stood outside the locker rooms, along with a multitude of Taft supporters who, with one exception, were waiting to greet their heroes. Nat nudged his friend in the ribs as she came out. Tom stepped quickly forward. “Hi, Diane,” he said and, not waiting for a reply, added, “I want you to meet my friend Nat. Actually, the truth is he wanted to meet you.” Nat blushed, and not just because he thought Diane was even prettier than her photo. “Nat lives in Cromwell,” added Tom helpfully, “but he’s coming to spend a few days with us after Christmas, so you can get to know him better then.”

  Nat only felt confident of one thing; Tom’s chosen career wasn’t destined to be in the diplomatic corps.

  8

  Nat sat at his desk, trying to concentrate on the Great Depression. He managed about half a page, but he found his mind kept wandering. He went over the short meeting he’d had with Diane, again and again. This didn’t take long because she’d hardly said a word before his father had joined them and suggested they ought to be leaving.

  Nat had cut out her picture from the football program, and carried it around with him wherever he went. He was beginning to wish he’d picked up at least three programs, because the little photo was becoming so worn. He’d rung Tom the following morning on the pretense of discussing the Wall Street crash, and then casually threw in, “Did Diane say anything about me after I’d left?”

  “She thought you were very nice.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “What else could she say? You only had about two minutes together before your father dragged you off.”

  “Did she like me?”

  “She thought you were very nice, and if I remember correctly, she said something about James Dean.”

  “No, she didn’t—did she?”

  “No, you’re right—she didn’t.”

  “You’re a rat.”

  “True, but a rat with a telephone number.”

  “You have her telephone number?” said Nat in disbelief.

  “You catch on quickly.”

  “What is it?”

  “Have you completed that essay on the Great Depression?”

  “Not quite, but I’ll have it finished by the weekend, so hold on while I get a pencil.” Nat wrote the number down on the back of Diane’s photograph. “Do you think she’ll be surprised if I give her a call?”

  “I think she’ll be surprised if you don’t.”

  “Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright. I don’t suppose you remember me.”

  “No, I don’t. Who are you?”

  “I’m the one you met after the Hotchkiss game and thought looked like James Dean.”

  Nat glanced in the mirror. He’d never thought about his looks before. Did he really look like James Dean?

  It took another couple of days, and several more rehearsals, before Nat had the courage to dial her number. Once he’d completed his essay on the Great Depression he prepared a list of questions, which varied according to who picked up the phone. If it was her father, he would say, “Good morning, sir, my name is Nat Cartwright. May I please speak to your daughter,” if it was her mother he would say, “Good morning, Mrs. Coulter, my name is Nat Cartwright. May I please speak to your daughter.” If Diane answered the phone, he had prepared ten questions, in a logical order. He placed three sheets of paper on the table in front of him, took a deep breath, and carefully dialed the digits. He was greeted by a busy signal. Perhaps she was talking to another boy. Had she already held his hand, even kissed him? Was he her regular date? Fifteen minutes later he phoned again. Still busy. Had another suitor called in between? This time he only waited ten minutes before he tried again. The moment he heard the ringing tone he felt his heart thumping in his chest, and wanted to put the phone right back down. He stared at his list of questions. The ringing stopped. Someone picked up the phone.

  “Hello,” said a deep voice. He didn’t need to be told it was Dan Coulter.

  Nat dropped the phone on the floor. Surely gods don’t answer phones, and in any case, he hadn’t prepared any questions for Diane’s brother. Hastily he picked the receiver up off the floor and placed it back on the phone.

  Nat read through his essay before he dialed a fourth time. At last a girl’s voice answered.

  “Diane?”

  “No, it’s her sister Tricia,” said a voice that sounded older, “Diane’s out at the moment, but I’m expecting her back in about an hour. Who shall I say called?”

  “Nat,” he replied, “would you tell her I’ll phone again in about an hour?”

  “Sure,” said the older voice.

  “Thank you,” said Nat and put the receiver down. He hadn’t any questions or answers prepared for an older sister.

  Nat must have looked at his watch sixty times during the next hour, but he still added another fifteen minutes before he redialed the number. He’d read in Teen magazine that if you like a girl, don’t appear too keen, it puts them off. The phone was eventually picked up.

  “Hello,” said a younger voice. Nat glanced down at his script. “Hello, can I speak to Diane?”

  “Hi, Nat, it’s Diane. Tricia told me you’d called, how are you?”

  How are you wasn’t in the script. “I’m fine,” he eventual