Murders at Westfield High

This tale of the unrelenting love between two teens under difficult circumstances takes place in a politically incorrect time when there were no personal computers, no Internet, no cell phones and not many other things we take for granted today. Some of the descriptions of events and practices will seem odd and even unbelievable, but they do represent the craziness that existed then. Some things that people did then would be crimes by today’s standards, but they weren’t back then. The names of both people and places are fictional and no offense to anyone is implied or intended.

The main character, Jay Larson Kramer, is a 17 year old just beginning his senior year. Jay has a James Dean face and hair to match only cut shorter. A four-inch long knife scar on his right cheek mars his good looks. He’s of average height and slim but with a sculptured muscular torso so admired at that time.

Chapter 1

I dread this day. It’s my first day at a new high school and I know how badly that can go because I’ve transferred before. The locals don’t like outsiders, and I’m certain to be ostracized and even despised. Actually, I don’t mind that. I’m not really a social animal.

A late summer day with a lazy sun and a gentle breeze made an appropriate backdrop for my introduction to Westfield High. The large two-story neo-classical building was built in the thirties when the government was throwing money at cities and towns during the depression. I didn’t care. I only had one more year before I was out of the educational rat race and believe me, I can’t wait.

I was dressed in the usual tan shirt, Khaki pants and a pair of loafers. I prefer jeans, but most school systems don’t allow them. They probably don’t go for a turned up collar, but it was my trademark.

I walked up five steps to the front door, a typical steel door painted battleship gray. A girl dressed in a blouse, skirt and penny loafers was seated near the entrance acting as a hall monitor. She was a brunette with a pimply face.

“It’s my first day,” I told her. “Where’s the admin office?”

“Down the hall and to the right,” she told me in a higher than anticipated voice and a goofy smirk.

I walked down the worn asphalt-tiled hall to the administration office and went up to the counter.

“I’m Jay Kramer. I’m being transferred from Kensington High.”

The clerk, a woman in her forties with an up-do and thin-rimmed glasses looked at papers on a clipboard. “Ah yes, Mr. Kramer. You’re assigned to homeroom in 320.” She pointed. “It’s down the hall to the left and around the corner.”

“Thank you,” I said and went on my way. There were a few kids hurrying to their respective homeroom before the bell, which was imminent. Being a newbie, I figured that they would give me some slack if I were late.

The kids in room 320 looked me over when I walked in, and I returned the compliment. They were the usual group of high school seniors. Most of them looked bored as hell. Like me they were in their last year and just wanted to get out and go on with life.

I took a seat near the back. The kid in front of me turned around and said something, which is really odd because most kids won’t do that to a newbie.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?”

The kid wore horn-rimmed glasses and had a nerdy look, especially with a face full of pimples. I was fortunate to not have any. I guess it was just the luck of the genetic draw.

“Yeah. Jay Kramer.”

“Neil Kemper,” he said.

We didn’t shake hands. I suppose that’s part of the culture here, not because people were concerned with disease, but rather because it just wasn’t cool. Only adults shake hands.

“What kind of ride do you have?” he asked.

“I’ve got a 55 Crown Vic with Stratocaster blue trim.”

His eyes grew larger and he gave me a toothy grin. “Hey, that’s a cool machine. I have a 54 Olds that I’ve tricked out. I full raced the engine. It’ll do 9.2 in the quarter.”

“I don’t race my car. I depend on it to get to school and go to work in the evenings.”

“That’s okay. I only do it once in a while. My dad owns a repair shop so I have access to plenty of tools and equipment. Where do you work?”

“I stock groceries at the A&P on Second Street. It’s only for three nights a week, but it gives me gas money.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I do odd jobs at my father’s shop, mostly break jobs and tune ups.”

“I do my own work, too. Have to; it costs too much to have a mechanic do it.”

“It’s not all that hard. I like to work on cars.”

“Me, too. We’ll have to get together some time and compare rides.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I would like that.”

The bell sounded, indicating that Homeroom was in session. We stood with our right hand on over our heart, faced a flag on a pole in front of the room and recited the Pledge of Allegiance, and then someone read a bible passage. Mr. Stanton our homeroom teacher gave us the usual pep talk at the beginning of the school year. Most of the kids didn’t give a shit. They were anxious to get the day over with.

After I stopped at the Administration office to get my locker assignment, I went down the hall to Locker 205 and stuck a combination lock on it. A girl showed up at locker 207, which was right next to mine.

“Hello,” I greeted her, adding a subtle smile.

She had short curly blond hair and a clear complexion. Her soft blue eyes had mesmerizing translucent irises that caught my attention. “Hi.” She said it softly and with just a hint of a playful smile.

“I’m Jay Kramer. Are you a senior?”

“I’m Julia Adler, and yes, I’m a senior.”

I looked at my schedule. “I have English in 307.”

She smiled more enthusiastically. “That’s interesting. I do too.”

How convenient. Was it fate or just an accident for me to hook up with someone this quickly?

We walked together immersed in the mad rush between periods. Students moved in packs down the hallway like groups of cars on a busy highway. Conversations didn’t get out of hand, which surprised me. Usually, you have a few idiots shouting or whistling. They must keep things under control here, or was it just the first day jitters?

We arrived at Mrs. Wilson’s English classroom and sat next to each other. I was surprised that some girl would become attached to me so easily. I assumed that my scar would turn off the fair sex.

I guess I was wrong.