by Gordon Jack
“This is totally going to work,” Eddie said, folding our brainstorming napkin and tucking it in his back pocket.
“Totally.”
The plan was this. We needed a way to keep Eddie’s identity a secret while he was performing as the Viking. If he disappeared from the cheerleading squad on the same day the mascot reappeared, everyone would assume he was the man behind the mask. To throw suspicion off him, I volunteered to be the Viking at the next game, which was tomorrow. When people saw Eddie and the mascot together, they’d reach the logical conclusion that they were not the same person and Eddie could take over the role for the rest of the season.
“Have you thought about how you’ll transition from team mascot to Dawn’s date?” I asked. “The homecoming dance is only two weeks away.”
“I have an idea for that,” Eddie said. “I’ve got, like, two volumes of poetry I’ve written about Dawn at home. Every night, I’ll go to her house and recite one in the Viking costume.”
“Won’t that be a little creepy?”
“Trust me, these poems are good. On the day of the homecoming game, I’m going to reveal my true identity after I’ve saved her life.”
“How are you going to do that?”
Eddie grabbed another napkin out of the dispenser and started diagramming his plan. “Near the end of the third quarter, the cheerleaders make their human pyramid. Dawn is always on top. I’m always on bottom.”
I couldn’t help but snicker. Eddie slapped me in the face, for either disparaging Dawn or the classic cheerleading routine or both, and then went on with his plan.
“With me gone, they’ll probably put Susie McGannon at the base. She’s built like a wrestler, but her hands are freakishly small compared to the rest of her body. All it will take is for some clueless yearbook photographer”—here he pointed at me, indicating my role in the plan—“to step on her dainty fingers for the whole structure to collapse, sending Dawn tumbling into the arms of the waiting mascot. After I save Dawn’s life and reveal my true identity, I’ll ask her to homecoming in front of everyone. There’s no way she can say no.”
“Unless Jerry Tortelli breaks both your legs for stealing his girlfriend.”
“They’re broken up, remember?”
“Maybe we should run this by Spencer? See what he thinks?”
“Why? It’s perfect. Besides, the less people who know about this, the better. I don’t see what could go wrong.”
In my head, I fast-forwarded to a scene in which my decapitated head was paraded around the field by the drum major, but kept my pessimism to myself. Eddie must have seen the look of distress on my face though, because he asked, “How’s the detox going?”
In the past few weeks, Eddie had become my de-facto sponsor. He was the only one I could confide in about my withdrawal symptoms, and he had been super supportive. “Caffeine helps the depression, but fuels the anxiety,” I said.
“I was doing some research online and one site said hot, soothing baths help.”
“I’ll try that.”
“Maybe next time, get only two shots in your caramel macchiato. Or try decaf.”
“Good idea.”
“I think it’s great that you’ve lasted this long. You’ve got real willpower.”
I felt my eyes welling with tears. No one had ever recognized this quality in me before. “Does any of your research say that sobriety makes you gay? ’Cause I totally want to hug you right now.”
“Maybe you used drugs to cope with your gayness.”
“Okay, now I want to punch you in the face.”
“So, we’re good?”
“Yeah, thanks for the pep talk.”
And with that, I was ready to don any costume and enter any arena to help my friend win the girl of his dreams. At least now I would be making an ass of myself for a worthy cause.
TEN
The following morning I met Spencer for our usual mentor breakfast. I wanted to run Eddie’s plan by him, to see if he could identify any flaws that could get me kicked out of school. I hoped our mascot stunt wasn’t crossing some rule hidden in the fine print of the student manual. However, the success of our plot depended on the kind of secrecy required for CIA assassinations or Apple product launches. So instead, I talked about homecoming week, which is something they don’t have in Norway.
“Homecoming is when the school unites around the most popular students in the senior class. There are six boys and six girls on homecoming court. The school votes for two of them to serve as king and queen. Personally, I’d prefer it if they competed in some kind of Hunger Games fight to the death, but I’m not the school principal.”
Spencer nodded sagely, which is how he always nods. Sometimes, I get the feeling he isn’t interested in my tutoring. Take now, for instance. Rather than pepper me with inquiries about the students most likely to win homecoming king and queen, he removed some sheet music from his overstuffed backpack and started tapping out a song with one of his black loafers.
“The floats,” I went on, ignoring the metronomic beat of his toe against the sticky linoleum floor, “are built in secret locations by the different classes. Each class has a different take on the theme. You know this year’s theme is ‘Fairy Tales,’ right?”
Spencer nodded again; this time his head followed the beat he tapped out with his shoe.
“Kinda lame, I know. I think the school got a lot of heat for last year’s ‘Zombie Apocalypse’ concept and swung too far in the other direction. I’m sure Dawn Bronson was in charge of picking the theme so she could dress up as Cinderella and wave from a glass carriage or something.”
Spencer just stared at me. “Hey!” I snapped my fingers in front of his face to interrupt whatever math calculation he was doing in his head. “Are you listening?”
“Sorry,” he said.
“Dawn will be homecoming queen, without a doubt. Whether or not Jerry can intimidate enough voters to choose him as king is the big question.”
“I have a question,” Spencer said.
“Really?”
“It’s about the dance.”
“Yes?”
“Is it a formal affair?”
“You mean do people wear tuxes and gowns?”
“Yes.”
“It’s semiformal, which means you dress like you’re going to your court hearing.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Like you’re going to a wedding.”
“I see.”
“Why? Are you thinking about going?”
“It’s complicated, but there is this girl . . .”
Our conversation was interrupted by the booming voice of Chester McFarlane, a douchy friend of Will’s who hijacked your food by licking it. “Wassup, bro?” he screamed, slapping me on the back of the head. I turned and saw him straddle the chair next to me. “Missed you at Kevin’s party last weekend. It was epic.”
I nearly choked on my Pop-Tart. Kevin had a party last weekend? Congressman Finley’s son, Kevin? Why hadn’t I heard about it? Those things were usually tweeted, especially if they were, to use Chester’s word, epic. It didn’t make sense that Chester would be invited and I wouldn’t. Just last month, he was the social pariah after he told his father we used a thousand-dollar bottle of wine to make sangria popsicles.
I tried to maintain a calm exterior, but inside my whole sense of self was dissolving like the Pop-Tart in my mouth. “I was busy,” I finally managed to say.
“I’d show you pictures, but Kevin confiscated everyone’s phones at the door. I guess his dad’s running for reelection and he didn’t want any evidence leaked to the press.”
That explained the social media blackout. I wondered if Kevin cared as much about collecting people’s car keys as he did their camera phones.
“This your little brother?” Chester said, turning and nodding at Spencer.
“No,” I said. There were two things wrong with this question. First off, Spencer and I were total opposites. If the story of our l
ives were made into a movie, I would be played by a young Brad Pitt and Spencer would be played by some actor who had emigrated from Eastern Europe circa 1930. Second, I had known Chester since the eighth grade. The fact that he didn’t know I was an only child was kinda surprising, even for an idiot like him.
“Chester, this is Spencer. He’s . . .” Again, I didn’t know how to introduce Spencer. If I said “protégé,” Chester would probably punch me. “He’s new to the school.”
“Well then, beat it, shrimp.”
Spencer started packing up his stuff. If he was hurt or offended by Chester’s command, he didn’t show it. I swear, it would be easier to defend the little guy if he showed an emotion once in a while.
“You can stay, Spencer,” I said.
“Seriously, bro?” Chester said, his freckled face screwing up like he’d just tasted the cafeteria’s veggie scramble.
“That’s okay,” Spencer said, gathering his things. “I need to practice the Brook Green Suite ‘Prelude’ before class.”
“Yeah, you do that,” Chester snorted. He snatched the remainder of Spencer’s dehydrated apricots and shoved them in his mouth. After giving them a few chews, he spit them out on the floor. “Ugh. What are those?”
I wanted to douse the dicktard’s red hair with the remains of my latte.
Spencer walked off, dragging his suitcase behind him, leaving me alone with Chester, who gossiped about the party I hadn’t been invited to. The event sounded fairly typical, with beer pong tournaments, surprising hookups (one between two people everyone assumed were cousins), and scavenger hunts in the absent parents’ bedroom. It didn’t sound like I’d missed anything epic, but that wasn’t the point. The point was, no one told me about the event prior to it taking place. Was this my punishment for hanging out with Eddie and Spencer? In my desire to stay sober, I hadn’t actually made myself available to my friends, but that was only because they didn’t do anything without getting high first. Maybe I should organize some activity we could all do together that didn’t require artificial stimulants. Something like bungee jumping or hang-gliding or deep sea exploring. The point was, if I didn’t balance my time better, I’d lose membership in this more important social circle. I couldn’t ignore the cool people in order to help those in need of coolness. Even Mother Teresa took a break from the lepers every once in a while, right?
The rest of the day passed slowly. I had a harder than usual time concentrating on my classes. With each bell, I became increasingly anxious about performing in front of a stadium crowd. (Okay, there are usually only thirty people in the stands at our football games—we’re in Silicon Valley after all, not Texas—but in my imagination that number had grown exponentially to Super Bowl–size attendance.) What does a mascot do, exactly? Was I supposed to work in sync with the cheerleaders? Rouse the fans with some crazy Viking dance? Should I know something about football rules? Because I didn’t. Despite my dad’s best efforts, I had never taken an interest in football, basketball, baseball, golf, or tennis. I felt like I was in one of those dreams where I show up to a final after skipping the class all semester. Actually, that wasn’t a dream. That was freshman year.
By the time Yearbook class rolled around, I was in a full-stage panic attack. I was desperate for something to take the edge off. One bite of a pot brownie would do the trick nicely, and satisfy the sweet tooth I’d developed since going sober. Marijuana wasn’t supposed to be addictive. At least, that’s what my dealer always told me.
“Live strong,” my squirrel spirit guide told me. I heard his voice the same way Luke Skywalker hears Obi-Wan Kenobi during peak moments of stress.
“That’s Lance Armstrong’s slogan,” I replied.
“He stole it from the squirrels,” my spirit guide said. “That guy was a real asshole.”
“You okay, dude?” Eddie said, passing me a bottle of cranberry juice and a banana.
“What are these?”
“Cranberry juice helps purify the body and the banana gives you the potassium you might have lost through . . . excessive sweating.”
I checked my T-shirt and saw two large pit stains darkening the fabric. I did a quick smell test and was relieved to find the moldy cheese odor was no longer there. Still, I must look pretty bad if Eddie was administering this kind of first aid.
Eddie repositioned the pillowcase he had wrapped around his left arm. This was supposed to be the sling his doctor gave him for his “injury”? This plan was never going to work. We should have brought Spencer in to help us with the details.
“Relax, dude,” Eddie said, walking me over to the far corner of the classroom. “I texted the squad to let them know I was injured and that Coach Harkness was bringing back the mascot. I told them he was keeping the mascot’s identity a secret to build interest in the game, since the players aren’t generating much fan enthusiasm on their own. The girls are psyched.”
“I’m not going to get in trouble, am I? Stone will use any excuse to transfer me to Quiet Haven.”
“You’re not breaking any rule,” he said, then added under his breath, “that I know of.”
“So, what do I do, exactly?”
Eddie walked me through a couple of easy dance moves. As we were practicing the Vibrating Thumper, Crystal swooped down on us from her perch at the editor’s desk. “What are you two doing?” she asked. Her oversize round glasses magnified her suspicious gaze and made you feel guilty even when you weren’t doing anything wrong.
“What does it look like we’re doing?” Eddie said.
“It looks like you’re having a seizure.”
“We’re practicing dance moves,” I said.
“You taking Eddie to homecoming?”
“What if he was?” Eddie asked.
“Then I would applaud your courage for finally embracing your sexual orientation.”
“Eddie’s going with Dawn,” I said, too eager, probably, to reorient our sexual preferences.
Eddie punched me in the shoulder. Crystal laughed out loud.
“Right,” she said. “And I’m going with Jerry Tortelli.”
“You like Jerry Tortelli?” I asked.
“What? No. Who told you that?”
“Uh, you just did,” I said.
Crystal blushed a deep red and then stormed off without giving us any orders to get back to work.
“Whoa, looks like you hit a nerve,” Eddie said.
“No wonder she wigged out when we tried to slander him the other day,” I said.
The bell rang. Eddie gave me one final, encouraging chest bump. “Break a leg,” he said.
“Break an arm,” I said.
Eddie lifted his injured arm in mock salute and we parted.
ELEVEN
I parked my car next to the football field and watched the junior varsity game from the comfort of my BMW. I didn’t see the point of suiting up and performing for our frosh-soph team, as their fans consisted of stay-at-home moms and supportive girlfriends with their noses stuck in romance novels. The opposing team had an even weaker fan base. Their mascot, a lobster with a pirate’s hat, sat in the stands texting—not an easy task when you’re wearing large claws over your hands.
The sun and heat were strong for this time of day. I opened the windows to let a weak breeze cool the interior of my car and hydrated myself with Eddie’s cranberry juice. There was no way I was going to wear jeans under the Viking costume. I was already sweating like a pig, which is something I’ve never seen a pig do, by the way. If I didn’t want to become one of Spencer’s dehydrated fruits by halftime, I’d have to perform in nothing but this cotton suit and polyfoam mask.
My phone buzzed with another survey question from my mom. I rolled my eyes. This one asked, Do you dwell on dark mental images? I clicked the “no” option and stepped out of the car to retrieve my costume. As I unlocked my trunk, suddenly the world turned an ashen gray. Thick storm clouds blanketed the sky, obliterating the light and heat from the sun. A cold wind whipped through the
parking lot, reanimating the lifeless trash that littered the area. I had to shield my face from the grit and dust that swirled around me. When the wind died down, I saw Zoe Cosmos standing in front of me, stroking the white fur of a lab rat. “Hello, Lawrence.”
“Zoe,” I managed. My throat was suddenly dry and hoarse.
“Here to support the team?”
“Yup.”
“I, too, have school spirit.”
“You do?”
“His name’s Jason. He died on the football field twenty-six years ago.”
“How?”
“Freak lightning strike.”
“That sucks.”
“It’s why our team is cursed.”
“Is Jason with us now?”
“If he were here, you’d feel it in your nether region.”
“Okay, well, I gotta be going. See ya.”
I ran inside to the nearest bathroom and hid in one of the stalls until light returned to the world. Once I sensed my goose bumps vanishing, I peeked outside and saw the sun quietly reasserting itself in the sky. Birds emerged from hiding and cautiously chirped an “all’s clear” to the other living creatures. Before Zoe returned, I retrieved the costume from my car and hustled back to the bathroom to change.
On my way, I waved to the security cameras stationed on top of the lamppost near the entrance to the parking lot. The surveillance system was Stone’s brilliant idea to catch a student who had been sneaking onto campus at night and painting caricatures of some of the older and angrier staff members. When kids started getting busted for making out in their cars at lunch, we knew Stone had become drunk with power. With the help of some hippie parents and the ACLU, the students sued, and now Stone is only allowed to film campus activity at night. I had a good three hours before the cameras would be turned on. I could make it back to my car and change before then.
The Viking costume was better suited for sensory-deprivation torture than for rallying support for a losing team. The outfit consisted of large, cumbersome boots, a dress with serrated sleeves and hem, two mittens, an oversize belt, and the polyfoam head. Imagine setting your feet in shoe boxes, wrapping your hands in gauze, and placing a paper grocery bag over your head with tiny holes cut out for seeing, and you get an idea of what it felt like to be our school’s mascot. If real Vikings dressed like this, it’s no wonder they became extinct.
