Hello Groin

by Beth Goobie

  “You thirsty, Dyl?” he grinned. “Want to stop for a Coke?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “And a large pack of Doritos. It’s only nine and I don’t have to be in until eleven.”

  “You bet,” he winked, and pulled into a 7-Eleven that was located two blocks from the Dief. A typical high school hangout, the parking lot was crowded with cars and lounging kids. Everyone came here to show off their weekend dates or just hang around. The other major hangout for Dief kids was a pool hall three blocks west, but that place didn’t start happening until the weather got colder.

  “Cam, buddy!” shouted someone.

  All over the lot, car horns started honking. Cam’s car was an old blue Firebird that he’d painted with curling orangey red flames. While his artwork would never be confused with Michelangelo’s, the car was immediately recognizable from several blocks away. Steering carefully into a parking space, Cam turned off the ignition, and I climbed over the gearbox and squeezed onto his seat in front of him. Then I leaned out the window and waved to Deirdre Buffone and some girls from the soccer team. They’d been giving me a rough time about not coming out for the team this fall, but when I reminded them of the warmth, softness and general all-around coziness of a 7:00 AM bed, they just groaned and gave up.

  Cam was rumbling contentedly in his chest, so I leaned against him while Deirdre and I called a few comments back and forth. Just a few, though—it wasn’t easy to concentrate on what she was saying with Cam nuzzling away at my hair.

  “Hey,” I said, turning around. “You looking for some attention?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m lonely. Why don’t we forget the Cokes and head off by ourselves?”

  “For two hours?” I demanded. “You looking for a shotgun wedding?”

  “I’ve got protection,” he said quickly. “I know how to use it, Dyllie.”

  “I know you do,” I said, and he grunted softly, a sign that he was pulling back, biding his time until things were right. That was how he’d fixed it in his head—with a girl like Dylan Kowolski, you had to find the right time and place. The issue wasn’t whether it would happen, it was having the patience and observing the social niceties until the right time—the absolutely right time—created itself. Because that was what an absolutely right time did—it created itself, out of patience and conversations, and the kind of caring Cam handed out to the people who were important to him.

  Opening the door, I got out, and Cam followed. The weight of eyes that descended upon us then was tangible, and it didn’t take a massive intellect to figure out what everyone was thinking: Are they doing it? How are they doing it? How often are they doing it? Have they done it yet tonight? For the next few minutes, Cam and I had center stage in that secret sex video teenagers are constantly running inside their heads, and we played it up, holding hands as we walked through the crowd, then stopped to talk to Deirdre by the store door. Two girls from the soccer team came over and asked me about the movie we’d just seen. Still holding hands, Cam and I played with each other’s fingers while we held separate conversations.

  Suddenly an ear-splitting roar cut through the air. A whoop went up from a group of kids on the sidewalk, and everyone turned to watch as a rusty derelict Honda came tearing down the street and veered into the parking lot. Kids scattered in every direction as the car made an abrupt left turn and squealed out of the lot’s other entrance. Halfway across the street, it braked, then backed into the parking lot, engine revving loudly. Swerving crosswise into a parking space, it revved a few more times and went quiet. The driver’s door burst open, and a tall, lanky, dark-haired guy leapt out and began pounding on the car roof. Throwing back his head, he roared loudly.

  Dikker, I thought in disgust. What a way to kill the ambience. My eyes narrowed to slits and I almost hissed. Beside me, Cam went stiff, and several of his friends snorted.

  “Six pack,” grunted someone.

  “Twelve pack,” someone else grunted back.

  “Hey,” Cam said easily, his hand tightening on mine. “Who would you rather feel like right now—him or you?”

  An appreciative snort ran around the group, and I squeezed Cam’s hand gratefully. Cam was like that, always defending other kids—not that Dikker happened to deserve it. Keeping my face blank, I watched Joc get out of her side of the car. The gods be praised, she wasn’t swaying; in fact, she managed a rather athletic vault onto the car hood before climbing onto the roof. Still, I couldn’t help the scowl that came stomping across my face. They were at it again—the two of them could never seem to stop putting on a public display. Okay, so maybe Cam and I were guilty of it too, but at least we didn’t go around begging for an audience.

  Scooting across the roof, Joc came to a halt with her legs dangling on either side of Dikker’s shoulders. Even from the other side of the parking lot, I could see the calculating grins on their faces. Joc was wearing a mini-skirt. Everyone was watching, the air had a razor edge. If someone didn’t intervene soon, things were going to get obscene.

  “Hey, Joc!” I shouted, and as she glanced toward me the tension broke. Pulling my hand free of Cam’s, I started across the parking lot. As I approached, Dikker laid his head in Joc’s lap and gave me a slow grin. He was drunk and probably stoned. Joc looked about a two-beer happy. I wanted to slug them both.

  “What happened to the car rally?” I asked. Joc’s original plan for tonight had involved watching Dikker’s older brother compete in a smash’m up car race.

  “Car broke down,” said Joc, playing with Dikker’s hair.

  “It sounds alive,” I said and kicked the Honda’s rusty front fender.

  “Not this priceless piece of shit,” said Dikker, giving me another dozy smile. He was definitely stoned. “My brother’s goddamn wreck.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. If there was just...something I liked about this guy. But nothing—no matter how I wracked my brains, I couldn’t come up with a single positive attribute.

  “So,” I said, glancing up at Joc. “You planning on descending to planet Earth for a Coke any time soon?”

  “Not Joc,” said Dikker, with a hiccuping snort. “She’s flying.”

  This sent Joc into a flurry of giggles, but she stopped as Dikker abruptly doubled over and grabbed at his crotch.

  “Shit,” he groaned. “Do I have to piss.”

  “Mind your manners,” Joc said sternly. Leaning down, she swatted the back of his head. “This is Queen Dylan you’re talking to here, not street trash. Go do your stuff behind the store where she can’t see you.”

  “Yes, boss,” grunted Dikker. Pulling himself upright, he tiptoed an exaggerated arc around me, then meandered across the parking lot, waving amiably at the comments being tossed in his direction. Joc watched his progress without comment, an odd smile on her mouth.

  “What was that all about?” I demanded as Dikker’s worthless butt swaggered around the back of the store.

  “What was what all about?” asked Joc, keeping her eyes on the place he’d disappeared.

  “Queen Dylan,” I snapped, fighting the hiss in my throat.

  “Oh, you know how Dikker gets when he’s drunk,” said Joc, sliding her eyes lazily over me. “I was just reining him in a bit, so you wouldn’t be shocked.”

  I don’t know what it was—the way Joc was looking down at me, so cool and distant, almost as if we weren’t friends...best friends... or the fact she was so obviously enjoying Dikker’s company. I mean, couldn’t she see what an absolute MORON he was?

  “Oh really?” I said hotly. “Well, for your information, most of us normal people can’t tell the difference between Dikker drunk and Dikker sober.”

  I was so mad, I was shaking—colossal, earth-shattering trembles. Without another word, I turned and headed across the parking lot. A mad chaos had erupted in my head, morphing the 7-Eleven into a confused blur of colors and voices. As I reached the store’s right front corner, the lounging crowd of kids petered out and I was alone, storming down the side
wall. From behind the store I could hear Dikker clearly, singing away at the top of his lungs—a completely tuneless version of “You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman.” Needless to say, this did nothing to improve my state of mind. But then, I’m not sure you could call what I was in a state of “mind.” It was definitely closer to a state of “no mind,” as in rabid, crazed, insane. I mean, I wanted to do heinous things to Dikker Preddy, unmentionable unbelievable things.

  Fortunately, before I reached the store’s back corner, I got a basic grip. Collapsing against the wall, I closed my eyes and made a massive effort to calm down. What in the world did I think I was doing back here? What in the world had I been about to do? There were definitely better ways to communicate frustration, disagreement, even fuck you, weren’t there? I mean, legal ways?

  From the back of the store came a few more bellowed-out notes and the sound of a fly being zipped up. Abruptly it hit me—Dikker was about to walk around the corner and find me standing here, doing exactly...what? Frantically I turned and started back the way I’d come, just as Cam walked around the store’s front corner.

  “Dyllie?” he asked, looking concerned. “You all right?”

  On his heels was Joc, but the expression on her face was not exactly what I would call concerned. At that moment a loud belch sounded behind the store, and we all turned to see Dikker swagger slowly into view. His eyes met mine, and for one brief terrifying moment all I could do was pray that he hadn’t heard me around the corner, experiencing my hopefully temporary nervous breakdown.

  “Yeah, Cam, I’m fine,” I managed. “Just fine.”

  Giving Dikker my back, I grabbed Cam’s hand and started hauling him toward the front of the store. “C’mon,” I said. “Let’s go get those Cokes.”

  “What’s the matter, Dyllie?” asked Cam. “You mad at me or something? Tell me what I did and I’ll make it up to you. I’ll do anything you want, I swear.”

  He paused, his face in my neck, waiting for a response. Inside my shirt, his hand slowly stroked my bra. Parked behind an office building on the east side of town, we were in the Firebird’s back-seat, doing the usual Saturday night thing. Normally I got something off this—a soft gentle heat that let me at least pretend I was turning on. But tonight, no matter what Cam said or did, I felt nothing. I mean, I could have been made of rubber. An absolute funk had dropped on me after the thing with Dikker at the 7-Eleven—a cold rubbery nothingness that wouldn’t go away.

  All I could think about was the way I’d gone storming back there to find him. What in the world had gotten into me? A sudden inkling to stare at his privates? Uh-uh. Very little could have interested me less. Still, it didn’t take a genius to figure out in advance what I would find back there, so I must have gone looking for it. But why? If Dikker Preddy was the way Joc wanted to spend her time, what did I care? It wasn’t as if she and I were going to get together, not the way I wanted, anyway. We would never...

  Halfway through this last thought, a massive wave of fear reared up inside me and I shoved the forbidden thought back down deep, where it belonged. Cam, I told myself furiously. I was here with Cam, parked behind Reiniger and Sons on a Saturday night, and we were making out and I liked it. I liked it.

  Nuzzling his hair, I said, “I’m not mad at you. You’re the last person I’d be mad at.”

  “Then what is it?” he asked quickly. “It’s like you’re on another planet tonight. I feel like I’m kissing a doorknob here.”

  I winced. Something had to change, and fast. “It was something Joc said, I guess,” I admitted reluctantly. “She called me a queen, as if I was some kind of snot who thought I was above her and Dikker, y’know? It pissed me off.”

  “Is that why you went after him?” Cam asked slowly.

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I think maybe I wanted to kill him, actually.”

  Cam laughed low in his throat. “You wouldn’t be the first person,” he said.

  “No,” I agreed, some of the coldness leaving my body. If Cam believed this, maybe it was true. Maybe then I could too. “My head went kind of crazy there for a bit,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking about what he was doing, I guess.”

  “So you found out how he got his nickname?” asked Cam, his voice going husky.

  “Well,” I said, “I stopped myself before I reached the back corner, so I didn’t actually see anything. You got there right after that.”

  Cam sighed, then muttered, “The day he was born, the angels must’ve had a lot of extra stock lying around. That guy definitely got more than his share.” Taking his hand out of my shirt, he lifted it to my mouth and traced my lips. Then he started kissing me softly, again and again. And this time it was working, I could feel a gentle heat start up all over me.

  “You want to see mine?” he whispered. “It’s not as big as Dikker’s, but it’s eager and it’s all yours, Dyl. It’s begging for you. Can you hear it calling your name? Dyllie,” he singsonged into my ear. “Dyllie, Dyllie.”

  That made me laugh. “Shh,” I said. “Don’t talk. Just don’t talk.”

  So we went at it for a while, kissing and kissing, and it was still working—I could feel the heat building, heartbeat by heartbeat.

  “You are a queen,” Cam whispered. “Joc was just telling the truth. You’re way above her, Dyllie. I don’t see why you hang out with her. You should join the volleyball team and get to know Deirdre better, or Julie and Rachel. They’re more your type.” Slowly his fingers traced my jeans zipper. “Dyllie,” he whispered. “I’m calling to you. Dyllie, Dyllie.”

  And I went stone cold. It happened the second his fingers touched my zipper. No, just before that—when he’d made the comment about my being above Joc. Suddenly I’d felt distant, as if Cam and I really were on different planets. I mean, why would he criticize my being friends with Joc, as if there was something...wrong with it? There was nothing wrong with it. We’d been friends for years, we had tons in common.

  Except Dikker Preddy, that is.

  “Shit,” sighed Cam. Taking his hand off my zipper, he burrowed his face in my neck and just sat there. I could feel the disappointment coming off him in waves. It was thick in me too, a sickness pulling at my gut.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I guess I’m kind of weird tonight.” Then we just sat there like that for a while—silent, him breathing, me staring out the window, blinking back tears.

  “Just tell me what it is, Dyllie,” Cam said finally, without lifting his head. “I want you to be happy, I want you to like it.

  Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”

  But that was the one thing I couldn’t tell him, I couldn’t even tell myself. So after a while I buttoned up my shirt, we climbed into the front of the car, and he drove me home.

  Chapter Five

  The main question here, I suppose, would be, What was the big deal? Most people didn’t go into a major funk over sexual orientation anymore—a lot of lesbians and gays were out these days. TV sitcoms were full of gay characters, and the Internet had loads of chat sites for teenagers who wanted to talk about the issue. There were even five girls who were officially out at the Dief, and as far as I could see they weren’t given a rough time—as long as they stayed away from the senior girls volleyball team, that is. If they had been guys, it would have been different, but most straight guys who got uptight about gays thought lesbianism was sexy. So as the Dief’s five official lesbians, they got some stares and the odd dimwit comment, but they weren’t harassed or shunned in any obvious way. They all had friends—homo and hetero, though admittedly none from the phone patrol.

  No loss there, of course, but it was also true that I wasn’t friends with any of them. It wasn’t that I went into a massive panic attack whenever I saw one of them, though sometimes I wondered if they had a way of reading other girls, if they could tell about me. No, it was more that I just didn’t click with them. They were all really different than me—besides our hormones, we had nothing in common. I g
uess what it came down to was that their scene didn’t feel real to me. They didn’t feel real, I suppose, because they didn’t feel like me. So they weren’t really real, y’know?

  The people who are really real in your life are the people you’re close to. The rest are just a dream you wish you weren’t having. And the people I was close to were my family, who reeked heterosexuality, and Cam, who reeked the same very straight vibes, and Joc, who was dating a guy whose vibes were so massively hetero, they were almost solid. That was what I was surrounded by, that was what was real to me. The rest, like I said, was just a virtual reality game I wished I wasn’t playing.

  It wasn’t that I thought my family would reject me if I told them I was lesbian. I knew their love was deeper than that. But there were assumptions that ran through everything we said and did together, never spoken aloud but still there, part of every family gathering and the frequent jokes my parents made about the grandchildren they would someday have. These assumptions were like an invisible web of warmth and light that connected all of us, the understanding that some day the love we felt for each other would be carried on into the next generation. Coming out as a lesbian meant that wouldn’t happen.

  Well okay, I suppose there was the option of a reproduction clinic, sperm donors and all that. But it was kind of impersonal compared to the husband-and-wife thing. And besides, how would you know for sure what you were getting? I mean, really? I mean, NOT!

  And NOT meant, of course, no next generation coming out of Dylan Kowolski’s womb. No next-generation Dylans would mean massive disappointment for my family—not just my parents, but my grandparents, aunts and uncles, brother and sister and cousins, everyone. More importantly, it would mean massive disappointment for me. Because I wanted to fit into that web of warmth and light. I wanted to have children, a husband and a happy home. If I was hetero, I figured it was pretty much guaranteed. If I was hetero, I would be happy.