Hello Groin

by Beth Goobie

  “If he did, they wouldn’t be funny,” grumbled Joc. “And no one would be able to understand them. Why does everyone in his plays talk so weird?”

  “That’s the way they talked back then, I guess,” I shrugged.

  “In rhyme?” she demanded, staring at me. “I don’t think so. Anyway, I don’t see why we have to study one of his plays every year. At least someone could translate them into normal English, so you can understand it. I have to look up every other word in a dictionary, and even when I know what all the words mean, the characters still sound weird. And Dikker is starting to talk just like them.”

  “Dikker,” I said emphatically, “always talked weird.”

  “Maybe,” said Joc, “but this is Shakespeare-weird. Like, he doesn’t say hello anymore, it’s ‘holla.’ And if he wants my opinion on something, he says, ‘Stand and unfold yourself.’ Then if he’s giving his opinion, he says, ‘In the gros and scope of my opinion.’ I mean, really, Dyl—’in the gros and scope’?” She sighed heavily. “Last night when we were saying goodbye on the phone, he told me, ‘Get thee to a nunnery!’ He was just joking, but...I dunno, d’you think maybe he’s losing his mind?”

  What could I say? I had no gros or scope of an opinion on that whatsoever. At least nothing I could say out loud. With another emphatic sigh, Joc wandered off to the main study area, looking for someone else to gripe with about Shakespeare, and I got back to the fiction filing cart. I had just finished alphabetizing all of the authors up to the letter J, when I heard a shuffling sound behind me and turned to see a short skinny minor niner standing at the check-out desk. Eyes glued to the book she’d just placed on the counter, she looked distinctly nervous. A lot of kids got nervous when they saw me at the check-out desk, even kids from the upper grades. I guess they expected to see an academic type, or someone from the library club. Not a member of the jock set, even a fringe member, and certainly not Cam Zeleny’s girlfriend.

  Sometimes this nervousness got to me and I would play with it, to see how a kid reacted. Because it bugged me, I guess, when someone morphed into an uptight state around me. I mean, why would anyone do that? Because I was Cam’s girlfriend? Because it looked like I was in tight with the phone patrol?

  Picking up the girl’s book, I read the title and said, “The Small Words In My Body. Cool title. What’s it about?”

  “It’s poetry,” the minor niner mumbled, so quietly I could barely hear her. Ducking her head farther, she stared intently at her hands.

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “Poetry about what?”

  And then I stood there, just looking at her—not demagnetizing the book and not scanning her student card to complete the sign-out. Instead I waited for her answer, half because I did think the title was interesting and half because I knew it would send her deeper into her funk. Which it did immediately: a beet-colored flush crawling up her neck, then shooting up to her forehead. The kid was in utter misery, staring at her hands so hard she was almost bug-eyed. I mean, we’re practically talking a near-death experience here.

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled, rubbing a finger along the top of the check-out counter. “I haven’t read it yet. That’s why I’m signing it out.”

  And still I stood there just looking at her, even though I knew what a power blush felt like and what it could do to you. It was something about myself that I hadn’t figured out yet, why I got like this sometimes—I mean, mean. Not as in bitchy, the way I was with Dikker; I mean pure snake head, hissing its venomous little tongue.

  “Poetry,” I said coolly, keeping my eyes fixed on the minor niner’s beet-red face. “Why do you read poetry? Do you like everything to rhyme?”

  The poor kid didn’t respond, just stood there, staring down at her hands.

  “Double Bubble,” I said, kind of singsongy. “Juicy Fruicy. Shy fly. Me oh my.”

  The girl’s hand made an agonized jerk, as if she wanted to grab her student card and take off but didn’t have the guts. And instead of showing sympathy, my venomous little snake-head self opened its mouth again, ready to hiss out a few more rhymes. But at that moment a loud “Oof!” came from the library’s main study area, followed by the sound of a chair being pushed back. Turning to check out what was going on, I saw Geoff Simone, one of the Dief’s grade-ten low levels, half-sprawled over Diane du Bois, a grade twelve student who was seated at the closest work table. Right behind Geoff were two of his friends, more low levels. From what I could see, it looked as if one of them had shoved Geoff from behind as he was passing Diane, and he’d ended up in her lap.

  Normally this wouldn’t have been a big deal. It was just the way these guys’ minds worked—kind of dumb, yuk yuk, guffaws from the gutter. But Diane happened to be one of the Dief’s five official lesbians, and her lap was, technically speaking, not the kind of turf Geoff dreamed of diving into. With an agonized yelp, he leapt to his feet and danced melodramatically backward.

  “Dyke germs!” he shrieked, waving his hands frantically in the air. “I’ve been contaminated. I’m going to turn into a queer!”

  Raucous guffaws erupted from his buddies. Turning, Geoff gave one of them a shove, and his buddy shoved back. Lewd comments started pouring out of them—I mean dumb, stupid, absolute gutter. While they yukked it up, Diane sat leaned back in her chair, silently watching, her face in neutral. Neither of her friends, who were seated across from her, said anything either. Generally speaking, no one said much to Geoff Simone. He’d been suspended twice last year for coming to school drunk and had also managed to score several trips to Youth Court.

  All across the library kids had gone quiet and were watching, like I was. I mean, it was difficult to figure out the best thing to do. No one liked what was happening to Diane, but at the same time Geoff wasn’t the kind of guy you normally took on, even when he was in a quasi-civilized mood. And even if you were crazy enough to speak up, how did you go about communicating the obvious to him—Like, you’re being a moron here. He probably already heard that ten times a day.

  “Dyke warts!” howled Geoff, shoving both his friends. “That’s what you just made me catch. Or dyke gonorrhea. Eeeeeeeuw!”

  My jaw dropped. I mean, I’d heard some nasty things in my day, but nothing quite like this, broadcast at full volume in the library. Some of the watching kids gasped, and an angry-looking Diane started to stand up. But as she did, Joc suddenly appeared out of the study carrel area at the back of the library and made a beeline toward the work tables.

  “Excuse me,” she said, cutting in front of Geoff, her voice so loud it carried to every corner of the room. “Mind if I join you, Diane?”

  Without waiting for a response, she pushed Diane gently back into her chair, then plunked her butt onto Diane’s lap and put an arm around her shoulder. “What’re you studying?” she grinned at her. “If it isn’t Shakespeare, I’ll give you a big fat kiss.”

  For a moment Diane just stared at her, then let out a short angry laugh. “You’re on,” she said, “it’s algebra,” and without hesitating, Joc smacked her on the cheek.

  A relieved snicker ran through the watching kids, and Geoff stepped back with a high-pitched shriek. Then, waving his hands as if warding off the Black Plague, he and his friends beat a hasty retreat to the study carrels. Ignoring them, Joc remained sitting on Diane’s lap, probably bitching about Shakespeare as the surrounding kids went back to their interrupted conversations.

  All I could do was stand there and stare. I mean, as far as I knew, Joc didn’t know Diane. She’d never even talked to her. It was brilliant, what she’d just done. How had she ever gotten the guts?

  Turning back to the check-out counter, I saw the minor niner still standing across from me and staring down at her hands. And it hit me then, what I’d been doing—little snake-head me, bitchy little queen snake.

  “Uh, sorry about bugging you about your poetry,” I said, glancing at the name on her student card. Tracey Stillman—even in her ID photo, she was looking down. “I’m in kind of
a weird mood today,” I added, completing the sign-out and handing back her book and student card. “Nominate me for the Geoff Simone Award, eh?”

  Another flush hit Tracey. Grabbing her book and card, she mumbled, “I’m not a dyke,” and took off for the exit.

  Stunned, I watched her go. How in the world had she gotten the idea that I thought she was lesbian? For a long moment I stood there trying to work that one out, then gave up and went back to organizing the fiction filing cart. My volunteer shift was almost over. A few more kids passed through the turnstile, checking out books. I’d just demagnetized a copy of Dune, one of my all-time faves, and was handing it back to another skinny minor niner, when Ms. Fowler entered the library, returning from her lunch break. But instead of heading into her office the way she normally did, she stopped in front of a large display case that was mounted on the wall directly across from the check-out desk, and stood staring at it bleakly.

  “Hello, Ms. Fowler,” I said. “Planning October’s display?”

  “I’m afraid I’m rather behind schedule,” she replied, her eyes still fixed on last month’s display—a picture of a school entranceway that was being swarmed by a crowd of students. A banner over the doorway proclaimed: WALK INTO A GOOD BOOK. Definitely dullsville, something to fill up space. Grimacing slightly, Ms. Fowler glanced at her watch. “It’s already October third,” she sighed, “and I haven’t come up with an idea for this month. October’s only the second month of the year. I’ve got eight more to go.”

  Leaving the check-out desk, I went over to stand beside her. “What about that globe in your office?” I asked. “You could make a large planet Earth with different books for the countries. Or just do Canada, with a different book for each province and territory.”

  A smile snuck into a corner of Ms. Fowler’s mouth. “That’s interesting,” she said quietly.

  “Or...,” I said, then paused, my heart skipping slightly as I thought of Tracey Stillman and her book of poetry. “What about a girl and a guy,” I said, my words stumbling eagerly over each other, “and their bodies are made up of a bunch of books? The parts of their bodies could each have a different book title.”

  Ms. Fowler blinked rapidly several times and her shoulders straightened. “Now that is really an excellent idea,” she said, still not looking at me. “Yes, I like that one very much.”

  A brilliant cosmic kind of grin hit me, and I almost gave one of Keelie’s enthusiastic little skips. Already I could see Ms. Fowler perched on a stepladder in front of the display case, staple-gunning various book titles into the silhouettes of a girl and a guy. Over the next month, hundreds of students would read the titles in those silhouettes, and they would be looking at an idea that had come out of my head. Wonders never ceased. The next time I saw Tracey Stillman in the hall, I was going to have to tell her what she’d inspired. It would probably send her into another near-death experience, but what the hell.

  Still grinning, I started back to the check-out desk, but was stopped by Ms. Fowler’s voice. “How would you like to do the display, Dylan?” she asked.

  “Me?” I demanded. Stunned, I turned to look at her. “But I’m not an art student,” I stammered. “I’m not even good at English.”

  “That’s not what Mr. Cronk tells me,” said Ms. Fowler, smiling slightly. “Besides, it is your idea. I’d like to see what you can do with it. How about it? Would you like to do the display?”

  For a long moment I just stood there, gaping at the display case. Me, organize something that would be seen by every student and teacher in the school for an entire month? It was sure to be a flop, an utter failure. I mean, I was half-decent at kicking a ball around a soccer field, but artistic I was not.

  On the other hand, what could be worse than what was up there now?

  “Okay,” I stammered as book titles began swarming my mind. Foxfire, In Cold Blood, The Small Words In My Body. “Yeah okay, I’ll do it. Thanks.”

  “Thank you,” said Ms. Fowler, turning toward her office with a look of relief. “You have no idea how much I hate doing display cases. Just let me know what supplies you’ll need, and I’ll get them from the Arts Room.”

  Chapter Ten

  Immediately I started scavenging everyone’s mind for their favorite book. From my afternoon classes, I got a long list that included Beloved, The God of Small Things, Hate You, Confessions of a Remorseless Teenager and Hamlet (I bumped into Dikker in the hall between classes). Then, after school I waylaid Cam and his buddies outside the guys locker room on their way into football practice, and got another barrage: Superman, Batman, The Hardy Boys, The Cat in the Hat and Playboy. Reading was obviously not these guys’ favorite activity.

  “Hey, put me down for War and Peace,” added Len Schroeder, puffing out his chest and giving it a dramatic thump. “I read it for a book review I had to do in grade seven.”

  Dubious groans erupted from the group.

  “Yeah right,” said Gary Pankratz, punching his shoulder. “The Coles Notes version, maybe. That kind of stuff is for fags, anyway.” Dangling a wrist, he lisped, “Ulysses. That’s what I read before I go to sleep. A page a night for the past ten years.”

  A guffaw rocked the group, and in spite of what had happened earlier that day with Diane and Geoff, I have to admit I laughed along with them. Not at the fag joke, but the idea of Gary Pankratz actually reading an entire page every night.

  “What d’you want this for, Dyl?” asked Cam when the laughter had died down. As I explained about the library display, a broad grin took over Len’s face.

  “Ditch War and Peace,” he said, “and change it to Treasure Island. And make sure you put it right across the guy’s dick in your display.”

  Once again the group dissolved into laughter, taking me with them. These guys could occasionally be funny, even if they were illiterate. “Maybe I’ll use it for the girl,” I said, writing Treasure Island on my list.

  “Uh-uh,” Len said quickly. “The girl’s would be Sweet Valley High.”

  My mouth just dropped. I mean, I’d heard drug jokes about the series’ title, but never any sexual ones. “Okay,” I said, after everyone had calmed down. “What’s your favorite book, Cam?”

  The other guys glanced at him, waiting for his reply, but Cam just stood there, staring at the floor.

  “C’mon, Cam,” I said, elbowing him gently. “What’s the big secret?”

  Reluctantly he glanced at me, his eyes kind of startled, almost frightened. For a second he reminded me of Tracey Stillman.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said tersely, then turned to the group and said, “C’mon, we’ve got to get moving or Coach Gonie’ll be on our asses. See you later, Dyl.”

  Then he was gone, the locker room door swinging shut behind him, while I stood staring at it. That hadn’t been like Cam. I’d never seen him freeze on an answer before—he was always ready with a quick reply. Something had to be bugging him. I’d get it out of him later on the phone.

  Filing the incident at the back of my mind, I headed to the auditorium where I found Joc sprawled against the back wall behind a crowd of Shakespeare groupies while Mr. Tyrrell gave some feedback to several actors standing on the stage. An expression of infinite boredom on her face, she was reading a copy of Hamlet.

  Dropping down beside her, I said, “Hey, I’m taking a survey of everyone’s favorite book. Shall I write you down for Hamlet?”

  “Uh-uh,” she said emphatically. “Diane du Bois said she liked it, so I decided to try reading it. But so far the story sucks. It’s about some loser who spends all his time wandering around telling everyone else off. His dad is the king, and Hamlet thinks he’s the greatest. But then his dad gets murdered and comes back as a ghost, and tells Hamlet to kill his murderer. What kind of dad tells his son to go kill someone? Hamlet’s so screwed up, he can’t even get it on with his girlfriend. No wonder he couldn’t decide whether to be or not to be. I don’t get what Dikker sees in this stuff.”

  “Maybe he
’s decided to improve his mind,” I said, sucking back a grin.

  “Yeah, well I think it’s screwing up his mind,” Joc grumbled. “He’s even started quoting entire speeches from other characters. Why should I have to listen to gobbledygook that isn’t even from his character?”

  I gave up and let loose with a big grin. “C’mon, it is a step up from In Cold Blood,” I said. “You’ve got to admit that.”

  “At least then I could tell what he was talking about,” Joc snorted. She darted me a suspicious glance. “Do you like Hamlet?”

  “I’m with you,” I assured her. “I think he needed a good kick in the butt.”

  “A definite kick in the butt,” agreed Joc, tossing the book to the floor in disgust. “Y’know, Dikker hardly even wants to make out anymore. He just sits there reciting lines and making me read along to make sure he’s got them right. He’s obsessed. I think he’s decided to memorize the entire play. This afternoon he told me he wants to become an actor.” She looked at me in horror. “He could be like this for the rest of his life.”

  I tried very hard not to bust a gut laughing but was not what you would call successful. “You mean ten years from now I’m going to see him on TV doing used car commercials?” I wheezed.

  “Oh, don’t,” moaned Joc. Collapsing against me, she buried her face in my shoulder. “Just don’t, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling a flutter pass through my heart. A quiet thud-thud, thud-thud started up in my body—warm, soft and everywhere.

  “Hey, Joc,” said a girl from the groupie crowd in front of us. “Dikker’s on.”

  “Oh yeah,” Joc said disinterestedly, her face still buried in my shoulder.

  Another girl turned around. “But it’s his big scene,” she said. “He doesn’t have a big scene,” Joc said glumly. “He comes on, farts, and goes off again.”

  The groupies observed her in shock for a moment, then shrugged and turned back to the stage.

  “Dikker’s going to hear about this,” I hissed at Joc. “The Shakespeare grapevine will be sure to get it to him.”