From Butt to Booty

by Amber Kizer

Adam rolls his eyes. “Dude, it’s not the outfit.”

  Oh. How to proceed? Hmmm. I think it’s too late to leave and pretend I never got his message. “You don’t want to be a couple anymore?”

  “It’s not that. I think I’m falling for him.”

  “That’s big.” And the rest of us knew this months ago. Why are you only now getting the news?

  “Yeah.” He doesn’t sound pleased.

  There has to be more. “And?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “About falling for him?”

  “Yes and no.”

  I roll my eyes. He’s being all girly. It’s annoying. “Help me out here.”

  He wipes his eyes. “A pack of hyenas cornered me in the locker room the other day.”

  “Jocks cornered you and did what?” My heart speeds up.

  “They didn’t touch me, but they got in my face.”

  I swallow back the urge to go kick jock ass. “They threatened you? Why?”

  “The obvious. They’d seen Tim lean in and kiss my neck—it was a quick, thoughtless bit of affection between classes.”

  “Oh.” That’s all?

  “We’re so careful. I’m so careful and I let my guard down for a second and those goons, they said things.” Tears roll down his cheeks. “I shouldn’t have to be careful, Gertie, I shouldn’t have to watch where I kiss.”

  I hug him toward me and hold him.

  “It’s not fair.” He cries into my shoulder.

  “No. No, it’s not.” My own tears streak my face. “You deserve to go anywhere you want with anyone you love.”

  “That’s a joke.” He stumbles over the words, trying to speak, breathe and cry all at the same time.

  “Did you tell Tim?”

  “Tell him what? His boyfriend is scared of some jocks?” He chokes out a snorty laugh.

  I shrug. “For starters. Personally, I think it proves your intelligence that you’re scared.”

  “Right.” He’s not convinced.

  “Adam, those goons are dangerous in large groups. Their already minuscule”—I pause for effect—“brains shrink in proximity to each other.”

  We sit on his bed with our arms around each other until the tears slow. “You have to tell him the truth.”

  “I know.”

  “And you have to decide if you want to take on the idiots.”

  “It’s not fair. I don’t want to be a hero. I just want to go to a dance with my boyfriend.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” And I am. So very sorry. What’s my excuse, huh? Hearing a boy say no? That’s not much of an argument, is it?

  I work and work and work up the nerve to ask Lucas. If Adam has to decide whether or not going to the Saint Patrick’s Day GAGD is worth getting the crap kicked out of him, then I really have no excuse not to ask a guy, right? I mean, it’s not like anyone is going to beat me; Lucas will just say no and how bad can that be?

  I know he’ll say he can’t go because he already has a date. Which is exactly like asking your long-term boyfriend to go because you know he’ll say yes. Hear me? So asking a guy who you know will say no is almost like asking a guy who will say yes. (That sounded much better in my head. Sounds kinda pathetic now.) So I’m going to ask Lucas knowing he’s taking Aubrey, Amanda, Wellesey or Laura. It’s all good.

  Clarice and Maggie think I’m insane. They don’t follow my splendiferous logic. But when I see him, my mouth goes from wet and wild to dry and desolate in a tenth of a second. My palms itch and my feet freeze up, so walking forward is like walking on two clubs. Weird and highly unattractive.

  Twenty feet and closer. Look at that hair. Those lips.

  A leggy brunette walks up to him and wraps herself around him. My steps falter. She plants a kiss and walks away doing that highly Giggle wave of several fingers. I can read her lips: “Ta-ta for now.”

  I push the toxic carbon dioxide from my lungs in a huff. I can hear the clock ticking down. I have only about a minute or so before the class bell rings. I force my legs forward.

  Ten feet and closer.

  Five feet.

  “Hi,” I say, from about four feet away, because I don’t want to sneak up on him. He’s the lion in the grasslands and I’m the antelope. He would eat me using that analogy and I really don’t think we’re going to be getting oral at this point in our relationship. He’s either ignoring me, or he didn’t hear me.

  Could be because the hello came out in a croak. Very unattractive.

  “Hi,” I say a little louder and right behind him.

  He jumps. I think my voice was more in the decibel range of “Fire!” than in the close-promixity-conversation place.

  “Oh. Gert. Hey.” Lucas slams his locker door and turns around.

  “Hi,” I say, but I can’t quite get the words out of my mouth. They’re stuck there like Mom’s meat loaf. All scratchy and looming and breath-stopping.

  “Hi,” he repeats. He’s expecting me to say something else and I’m trying. Really trying, but I just can’t.

  The bell rings.

  “See you round?” He takes off without a backward glance.

  “Right,” I say to his back. Maybe I’m not supposed to ask Lucas to GAGD. I think the Goddess wants me to start smaller than a definite no. The mystery is good, right?

  Clarice and Maggie grab me after our next class.

  “I’m telling you, you have to start with guys who are sure to say yes and work your way up.” Clarice is in instructor mode.

  “Really.” I’m dubious.

  “I’m serious. You have to start on the training wheels before you get to off-road in the Hummer.”

  Bad, bad word picture. “So I shouldn’t ask Lucas. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Well, yeah. What’s the point?”

  Maggie jumps in. “It’s not like you don’t know he has a date. And he’s so not dumping her for you. No offense, but she’s so, so …”

  “I know I’m not sooo.” I try to not be offended by my friends’ assessment of my lack of sooo-ness. But I get it. “Who should I start with? If you were me.” I put that caveat in there because I’m not after the same type of guy as Clarice.

  “Ryan,” Maggie says with a nod.

  “Sean,” Clarice says. “Or David. Or even Bob.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Bob?” Maggie asks.

  I’m not sure if Maggie thinks I’m out of Bob’s league or he’s out of mine. “Should I be insulted?”

  “The kid wears Star Wars pajama bottoms to school.” Maggie shrugs. “And he’s not a challenged kid, either.”

  As if it would be much more believable for me to ask out a guy who is special ed and wears Star Wars pajamas. Not that I wouldn’t ask out a special ed guy if he was—Oh, forget it.

  “Okay, so not Bob.”

  They can’t come to a consensus. My mind wanders and I try to make my own decision.

  I decide to ask Lance. Lance is a total geek, but he’s about my height and very nice.

  “No way does he already have a date,” Clarice confirms.

  “Good choice.” Maggie approves.

  “Who are you asking?” I’m sure that my friends are going to be inspired by my example.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Maggie turns red at the thought.

  “Oh.” I turn to Clarice. “Spenser coming?”

  “I think so.” Clarice doesn’t look very enthusiastic. I’m going to have to plumb those depths later and see what she’s not telling.

  “Here goes.” I spot Lance across the cafeteria and all but run up to him. I must really look scary because the expression on his face is utter terror; he kinda scuttles like a rodent. I’m not sure if that’s a trait I could come to like. It’s a little creepy. But I must go through with my plan. To stop now would be silly and, well, wussy.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He gulps.

  I have to wonder if I have food on my mouth or a stray boob hanging out.

  “Want to go to GAGD with
me?” I ask.

  “What?” His face turns a purple shade I didn’t think possible in nature.

  “Do you want to go to the dance?” I have a really bad feeling in my stomach. I think I’ll have to puke if he doesn’t answer soon. This is terrible. This is awful. How do guys do this on a regular basis? I really think our species should have died out ages ago if it all comes down to asking the other sex out.

  “No,” he blurts.

  I blanch. “No?”

  “No.” He scrambles away without even saying thank you or coming up with a lame excuse to make me feel better.

  I close my mouth and swallow.

  Clarice and Maggie can clearly understand the outcome of the exchange because even from across the room they’re all sympatheticy and suitably upset.

  I really need to crawl into a hole.

  “Hey, Gert, did you want something earlier?” Lucas taps me on the shoulder. “Sorry I had to run on you, but I had a big test. Did Lance turn you down?”

  “Oh. No.” I try to smile through the tears threatening to humiliate me further. I can’t bring myself to say anything else. Obviously, Lucas witnessed that debacle.

  “Okay.” He shrugs and moves by me. “Later.”

  I lift my hand and limp-wristedly wave at him.

  I can die now.

  Really. Anytime.

  A lightning bolt would be lovely.

  Right. Now.

  I have a zit the general size and shape of Ohio on my chin. That’s right, there’s very little of my chin showing around the pimple. I’m trying not to pick it. I really am trying. But it’s throbbing like Ms. Whoptommy’s mole and frankly, I don’t want to have skin anomalies in common with that horrid woman. I’d rather not even use the same type of toilet paper she does. Of course, I don’t know what brand she uses, but you get the idea.

  Why does concealer always match in the store and never at home? I now have a patch the shape of Ohio a shade or two darker than my cheeks. I don’t know what the point is of concealer. So people can guess at the enormity of disgustingness lurking below the surface? I could sell tickets to how much pus we could get out. Put myself through college selling tickets to the grand-prize pimple exhibition.

  I try really hard not to pick it. I try.

  I can’t. The temptation is overwhelming.

  I’m only human.

  Saint Patrick’s Day starts in a big way with a very informative announcement from Princi-Pal Jenkins.

  “The following statement is from our school board and this school’s administrative team. It has come to our attention that Saint Patrick’s Day brings with it several traditions that are illegal and immoral. The tradition of pinching anyone not wearing green will not be tolerated. This constitutes sexual harassment and will not be allowed in the school environs.

  “If a student is caught pinching another student or faculty member”—lots of groaning and comments about the idea of touching a teacher like that. Yuck—“the offending student will be disciplined accordingly and the police will be notified of said behavior.

  “Signs for the dance that have a leprechaun and say ‘Get Lucky for GAGD’ must be removed from all school walls. They are inappropriate, and any student caught hanging the posters will be disciplined.

  “No green Silly String. No confetti. And this year we will not have the annual special green lunch from our cafeteria’s food team. Thank you. Please have a good learning day.”

  Absurd, anyone? I mean, sure, no one likes to have their butt manhandled. That’s why I’m wearing a kelly green shirt today. It hasn’t stopped the pinching, though.

  Seriously, I think the only part of that whole announcement that made any sense to us is students who get caught getting punished. The moral—don’t get caught. Lots of pinching fingers will be hidden behind backpacks and books.

  A stupid person is so going to report a pinch, though. There’s a pool going to see who will report and if they’ll file charges at the local police station. Can you say “scapegoat”? A freshman geek is so going to be expelled trying to impress the upperclassmen. It’s inevitable.

  Other than the fingers, it’s a scurry-and-hide kind of day. Only girls with the best dates, or people totally hooked on each other, are making conversation today. The rest of us are living in fear that someone is going to ask if we’re going to the dance. And then we have to mutter and mumble, or act all singular and proud or, even worse, pull the fire alarm or call in a bomb scare, just so there’s a new topic of conversation.

  Here I am in history class with a whole period of library for our rights assignment and I’m spending the whole time avoiding Stevie and Jenny because that’s so vomilicious. I swear Jenny can astrally project herself right into my line of vision.

  They can’t keep their hands off each other. They seem to think the tables have an invisibility force field allowing hands to wander and rub ad nauseam without anyone watching. Of course, I’m down on the floor behind the nine-one-something decimals, peering over the tops of books. But still. The nerve.

  I’m almost jealous. Almost. And then I reign myself in and remind myself in a loud whisper that he was a terrible kisser.

  “Really?” The librarian’s substitute reshelves a book above my head and walks away.

  I should have checked my personal space before speaking. Must remember that.

  Please make the rest of the day zoom. Please. I don’t ask too much, do I?

  Everyone in the world is at the dance but me. I look at the clock and three minutes have ticked by since the last time I stared at it.

  To be honest, none of us from the group are there. Tim and Adam have made up a little but are taking a break this weekend. I don’t think it’s a good thing when couples need a break. Doesn’t that just mean they’re trying on being single again? And if you think you want to be single again, even for just a moment, isn’t that a bad sign?

  Tangent: sorry.

  Maggie has the stomach flu, though I think maybe the idea of going with Jesse was just too much for her. But she says it’s a virus so I’m letting her believe that.

  Clarice decided not to ask Spenser since he doesn’t want to be her boyfriend. She’s hoping he’ll have regrets about not going to the dance and want something more with her on Monday. I didn’t point out that I’m fairly certain no straight man has ever felt regret about not going to a high school dance. They’re not exactly boy-friendly functions, are they? Need I repeat the erection slow dance of last semester?

  And I’m here. Alone. Lonely and pathetic. Boring. I hear a parakeet calling my name. On my navy-puke comforter. I decide to sort and throw away the Mount Catalog of college brochures that is the corner of my room. It was the size of a hill; then it became a mountain with a bunny run for skiers; now it’s close to making the Seven Wonders list of natural amazingness. I’m almost overwhelmed by the size of the pile, but hell, I have nothing better to do while the rest of the world is dressed up and dancing and making out.

  I have three piles on the floor. The throw-away-because-I’d-rather-waitress-than-attend pile, the maybe-backup tier of places and the consider-applying-here pile. Pretty much, I’m screwed with my current PSAT score. Really screwed.

  The statistics are staggering. Every single applicant to the Ivy League was valedictorian last year. Not just the two percent they admitted, but all the applicants.

  You know the bottom-of-the-pile person, the person that is worse than everyone else? The person no one wants to be, but someone has to? That person was valedictorian, scored a perfect on the SAT and donated a kidney to an orphan in Zimbabwe. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.

  If that’s the bottom person, I need to reality-check myself. I think my reality check bounced.

  I toss Bryn Mawr, Scripps, University of Texas. Good schools, maybe, but not me. I close my eyes and randomly pick ten to put in the maybe pile, just to make sure I’m not limiting myself because of natural or taught biases.

  I pick up an extra-thick booklet. It�
�s the one Princi-Pal Jenkins gave me after the Brangate controversy. I guess I tossed it out of my bag when I got home and never looked at it again. It feels like the Toys “R” Us wish book. Not that I know how that feels since I haven’t read one since I was … oh, it’s been so long I can’t remember that the Barbie stuff starts on page 42.

  Anyway, this wish book has pictures from all over the world, not the toy catalog, this catalog. It’s called the Passport Program for High School Students. It’s a semester long. You visit six to eight countries. The list of cities is impressive. Rome, Oslo, Tokyo, Paris, Hong Kong, Amsterdam, London, Cairo, Lima—and those are just the ones I can pronounce without spitting on myself. I’m intrigued. It’s salvation. I can hear angels singing. I must fill out the application. I bet they don’t have school dances. I bet they don’t have Things, Giggles and Oscars in France. Europe is too sophisticated for that stuff.

  Because let’s face it: unless I join the cheerleading squad, I’m so going to have another terrible year.

  I dump another blue Pixy Stix into my mouth and make that inevitable sour face before flipping the page and reading on. Students are assigned to families or schools for three weeks in each place. You do schoolwork with the help of an online tutor and spend most of your time seeing the sights and meeting the peoples. You do day trips in each country with other Passport students who are there from different schools, so you get to meet people from here, too.

  Look at their shiny, happy faces. They’re zitless, their teeth sparkle, even their outfits have the international flair of sophistication.

  The catalog headline reads: “Do you seek adventure? Tired of the same old high school experience? Feel like there must be more to life than school dances and football games? Apply today to broaden your horizons and change your world view.”

  You know that movie preview announcer? I feel like he’s in the room reading this to me. All boomy and authoritative. My heart races.

  I’ve never really thought about leaving the country. I mean, I’ve joked about it, but could I? Meet people I haven’t known since before I had my adult teeth? People who don’t think the world revolves around our school campus? People who don’t care if our football team has a losing season, or if the track team makes it to state finals? Do such people exist?