by Beth Goobie
For a second I hesitated. I mean, what would I rather have been doing? Besides, Julie and Rachel had a tendency to be acquisitional, as in they liked to acquire things and not always in the legal manner. As far as I was concerned, shoplifting was no thrill. I’d tried it several times in grade school, and the last time a hyperventilating store manager had come after me, screaming her head off as she chased me for several blocks. I’d gotten away but barely, and when the woman finally gave up, I realized that I’d been so scared, I’d peed my pants. I also realized that even if the store manager didn’t know my name, she would damn well recognize me if I walked into her shop again. There was no way I could ever go back there, even to spend my weekly allowance, and it was enough to convince me that a life of crime wasn’t my thing. Julie and Rachel, however, were still getting a rush off it, so whenever I went “shopping” with them, I stood as far away as possible in case they were caught.
Just after lunch Rachel picked me up in her car, and the three of us drove to the downtown mall. By mid-afternoon we’d cruised the Panhandler, the Gap and Mariposa, and were headed toward the Bay. Julie had managed to pocket a pair of earrings that had caught her fancy, but Rachel had been cheated out of a leather wallet by a sharp-eyed clerk. So as we made our way down the mall’s central corridor, she was on a royal bitch, her eyes on the prowl for a victim—someone, anyone she could verbally attack, maul and mutilate.
“Look at that wiener girl by the A&W,” she snapped, pointing at a girl standing on the other side of the food court. “I bet she hasn’t eaten in a month. Her bum’s flat as a paper napkin.”
I glanced at the girl standing in front of the A&W. She was thin, but not that thin. Rachel was obviously desperate to unload some venom.
“Anorexia,” singsonged Julie, rolling her eyes.
“Anorassia,” Rachel replied.
“Yeah,” snorted Julie. “Not like that girl at the Booster Juice. She’s a chug-and-chuck. Bulimic, obviously.”
Obediently I glanced in the direction of her pointing finger, then sucked in my breath as my eyes landed on a familiar face— hot lips Sheila, star of approximately forty-two nonstop hours of my private fantasies, sitting alone at a table in front of the Booster Juice. As luck would have it, the second my gaze landed on her, she happened to look up and see me. Her eyes widened, her mouth came open, and she shot out of her seat like a jack-in-the-box.
I took off. No way, no way, no way was I having a chit-chat with the passion of Confederation Collegiate while Julie and Rachel stood nearby, listening in. I could just imagine it.
How are you today, Sheila?
Oh, fine. How are you? Still thinking about that kiss I gave you Saturday night?
Mmm, I gave it the odd thought, when I wasn’t doing something important like washing the dishes.
I mean, even if Sheila didn’t mention the kiss directly, she would be looking at me with a desperate hungry look on her face. I give Julie and Rachel two seconds in her presence and they would know, they would just know. Hot lips Sheila needed a lesson in subtlety, and she needed it bad. So without giving it a second thought, I took off down the mall’s main corridor, in search of a place to hide. But as luck would have it again, there were only small stores in this area, every inch in them open to the most casual glance. It looked like I was going to have to leg it all the way across the mall to the Bay, where there was more floor space to lose myself in.
Why, oh why, did Sheila have to show up when I was putting in time with the phone patrol? After I’d taken off on her Saturday night, she’d left me alone, probably because she’d seen me head back to Cam. When she caught sight of me today, she must have thought we could talk because he wasn’t around. Well, we couldn’t. We couldn’t talk now, later, or ever. Sure, the kiss behind Confed had been a rush, but so what? I was drunk and obviously not thinking straight. You don’t turn your life upside-down over something you do when you’re sloshed stupid.
Frantically I ducked into the Bay and headed down a side aisle. To my left was the teen department—too obvious, the place I would be expected to hang out. And to my right was men’s socks. No camouflage there. So I headed farther into the store, searching for a department that sold king-sized beds, washing machines or cement trucks—something big enough to hide behind—but all I could see were slippers and perfume. About to start up the escalator, I glanced back at the entrance and saw Sheila enter the store. Just as I’d thought, a desperate hungry look was plastered all over her face. Ditching the escalator, I dived into the department to my left, and began pushing through racks of women’s lingerie. Camisoles, lace-edged bras and frilly satin panties—this was the last place to go if you were looking for decent cover.
Trying not to freak, I grabbed something from the nearest rack and headed for the change rooms. Fortunately a woman was just coming out of a cubicle, so I didn’t have to call a clerk to unlock one. Quickly I stepped inside, closed the door and leaned against the back wall, shutting my eyes. Within seconds, footsteps rushed through the change rooms’ entrance. My heart stopped then, I mean absolutely. No question, I was on the verge of an utter freak. What if Sheila glanced through the open space under the cubicle door and recognized my runners? Would it be smart to take them off? But what if she noticed me doing that? For sure it would look suspicious.
A new thought hit me, along with a fresh wave of panic. Horror of horrors—what if Sheila decided to get down on her hands and knees and look under each cubicle door to check who was inside? Should I put on the lingerie that I’d grabbed off the rack and stand with my back to the door? Would that be enough of a disguise?
Grabbing the lingerie from its hanger, I looked it over. Black and lacy, it was wired to push your boobs to your chin. The label on the back said “Spider Lingerie.”
Make that Black Widow Lingerie, I thought. All things considered, with the way I was acting, it would be no disguise at all.
But maybe I wouldn’t need one. Outside my cubicle, I could hear footsteps heading slowly toward the change rooms’ entrance. Next to my door, Sheila paused and gave a loud sigh. Then she walked out into the store. Still I held my breath, waiting.
Count to a hundred, I told myself. No, a thousand. A zillion.
After several more minutes, I opened my cubicle door and peeked out. No sign of anyone with a desperate hungry look in the immediate vicinity. Tiptoeing to the change rooms’ entrance, I scanned the store but didn’t see Sheila anywhere. If she was still around, perhaps I would be able to sneak past her without being spotted if I stuck to the outer wall.
The trick then would be finding Julie and Rachel and coming up with an explanation for my sudden disappearance. An atomic bladder? A teeny-tiny voice whispering “Bay Day” inside my head? But what if they’d noticed Sheila take off down the mall after me? Even worse—what if she’d stopped to ask Julie and Rachel where I’d gone?
Just thinking about the possibilities was sending me into another near-death experience. With a long slow breath, I got a grip and headed out into the store.
Chapter Thirteen
When I went to bed that night, I kept my hands above my waist and concentrated on thinking rationally. As far as I could tell, the afternoon’s catastrophe at the mall could now be downgraded to a semi-catastrophe. After leaving the Bay, I had tracked down Julie and Rachel stuffing their faces in the food court. To my surprise, they hadn’t noticed Sheila take off after me and completely bought my story that I’d had to suddenly disappear because I’d seen a girl who’d bullied me last year in my ice-skating classes. When I’d said I would rather not bump into her again, Rachel had driven me home. That seemed to have solved any possible problems with Julie and Rachel and just left hot lips Sheila. And since she didn’t know my name, there wasn’t any way she could contact me. Except hang out at malls, of course, and the library, and the movie theaters and cafés. Which meant I was going to have to keep my eyes peeled, as well as come up with a few tactics for our next encounter—I mean, something better th
an absolutely losing my mind.
I couldn’t get over how stupid I’d been. Why had I gone and kissed someone who was such an obvious problem—always alone like that and with massive emotional problems? I mean, most lesbians had friends they hung out with—other lesbians and straight kids—but Sheila was a reject. Why hadn’t I seen it on time?
Because, I realized, turning over with a groan, I was drunk. And also, I added, after a reluctant pause, because she shot me full of sparks. Which, unfortunately, continued to be true. Even after what had happened today at the mall, I still felt it when I thought about Sheila—a sparkly hum deep inside. Well, I was just going to have to ditch that sparkly hum. I couldn’t go around getting a lust on for someone with so many emotional problems. It wasn’t...well, it just wasn’t convenient.
With a sigh, I stared at the dark shadowy mound my body made under the blankets. There it was, the source of all my trouble. Softly, very softly, I muttered, “Hello, groin. You are a very confusing part of my body. If only you were more like my brain—y’know, reasonable, civilized. If only you wanted what the rest of me wanted, so the bottom half of my body was in sync with the top. Then everything wouldn’t be so fucked up. It’s your fault, y’know. It’s all your fault.”
Rolling over, I stared at nothing for what felt like hours until I finally fell asleep.
Tuesday morning I woke, still stuck in a funk, my homework not done, school two hours away and Keelie crouched over me whispering, “Good morning, Dylan. Mommy says we’re late and you have to get up quick.” For the first time in my life, instead of pulling her down for a hug, I almost pushed her away. But I managed to get a grip and fake enough big-sister-happy to convince her. Satisfied, she scampered out the door, and I headed downstairs for breakfast, where I piled about half a cup of sugar onto my oatmeal to get myself going.
Unfortunately, my sugar fix didn’t last long. As I biked over to Joc’s, the streets felt as if they were all uphill. The weather had once again turned colder, the trees had lost most of their leaves, and the sky looked like a dull gray headache. Steering my bike onto Joc’s street, I wondered how her weekend had gone. She’d been out of town, visiting relatives, and still hadn’t gotten back when I’d called last night. With everything that had happened since Friday, it felt like I hadn’t seen her for weeks.
Coasting into the curb in front of her house, I looked up to see the front door open and Joc come bursting out, a grin all over her face. The minute I saw her my tiredness vanished, and then suddenly, without warning, all the feelings that I’d experienced during the kiss with Sheila rushed over me again, just screaming with sweetness. I mean, it was agony. Here I’d been hoping the feelings I’d had for Joc would be gone now I’d kissed another girl—that they would have somehow transferred themselves to Sheila. Which meant, of course, that I wouldn’t have to deal with them anymore, since I was absolutely never going to speak to her again. But instead, the feelings that I’d experienced with Sheila seemed to have transferred themselves to Joc, and the rush that came with them was so strong, all I could do was duck my head and swear nonstop under my breath while she swung onto the seat behind me.
“Holla bolla, moron,” she said, bumping her forehead against my back.
“Get thee to a nunnery,” I mumbled, trying to ignore the warmth of her arms tightening around my waist.
“Thanks a lot,” she said as I pushed away from the curb. “I spent practically the entire weekend in one. I haven’t even talked to Dikker since Friday. Hey, did you get your display done?”
For a second I drew a complete blank. So much had happened since I’d put up the display Saturday morning that I’d completely forgotten about it.
“Oh yeah!” I said. “I met Ms. Fowler at the library on Saturday morning, and I finished it then. C’mon, I’ll show you.”
Putting on a burst of speed, I zoomed over the Dundurn Street bridge. When we got to the Dief, I locked my bike, and we headed indoors to check out the display. As I wove through the crowded halls, I was pumped, everything going by in a blur. With a grin, Joc swung open the library door, and we practically ran toward the check-out desk. There it was—my display in all its construction-paper glory: Absolutely Normal Chaos for the girl’s brain, Color of Absence for her throat, The Egyptian Boo—
My jaw dropped and I stood openmouthed, gaping at the display case. Foxfire—it was gone. The flaming orange, open-book shape that I’d stapled so carefully into position Saturday morning was now missing. In its place were three closed-book silhouettes, their titles written in precise block letters: To Kill a Mockingbird, Stranger in a Strange Land and The Farthest Shore. The handwriting was Ms. Fowler’s; I recognized it immediately. Glancing at the boy silhouette, I saw The Once and Future King had been replaced with A Separate Peace. T. H. Whyte’s book had been moved to the boy’s mouth, and The Joy of Sex was nowhere to be seen.
“Hey,” said Joc, her voice bewildered as she scanned the display. “Where’s The Joy of Sex? I thought—”
“You thought right,” I said grimly. Turning from the display case, I headed for Ms. Fowler’s office. As expected, I found her doing paperwork at her desk, her head framed by the large globe on the counter behind her.
“Ms. Fowler,” I croaked, coming to a halt in the doorway.
She looked up. “Dylan,” she said, her eyes flitting across my face. She looked pale, dark shadows smudging the underside of her eyes.
“The display,” I said, still croaking, half in shock. “Two books are gone, and one was moved. I—”
“It was Mr. Brennan,” she said, rising from her chair. “He saw it this morning and said they had to be changed.”
Mr. Brennan was the Dief’s principal.
“Why?” I blurted.
Ms. Fowler hesitated, as if sifting through possible explanations. “He felt they weren’t appropriate,” she said finally.
“Appropriate?” I repeated, staring at her. The word did not compute. What did appropriate have to do with the display I’d just poured an entire week into—my gut, my soul? Backing out of Ms. Fowler’s office, I took off for the library exit.
“Hey, Dyl, where are you going?” called Joc, but I kept going. I mean, I was pumped. By the time I reached the front office, I was verging on nuclear. Walking past the secretaries’ desks, I headed straight for Mr. Brennan’s office. The door was ajar, and as I approached I could see him through the gap, seated at his desk and talking on the phone. Without hesitating, I raised both hands and thumped them against the door, pushing it wide open. Then I stepped into his office.
Mr. Brennan looked up, raised his eyebrows and said, “I’m going to have to call you back. There’s a student here I need to talk to.” Setting down the phone, he motioned to a chair. “Dylan, sit down,” he said. “I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you.”
I did not sit. Sitting was not within the range of possible options, since every joint in my body had fused solid with rage. Instead I stood and glared while Mr. Brennan watched me carefully, trying to suss me out.
“Why?” I croaked finally.
“Sit down and I’ll tell you,” he said quietly. For a moment I hesitated, then forced myself into the nearest chair. A look of decided relief crossed Mr. Brennan’s face, and he cleared his throat.
“You’re here because of the display,” he said.
I continued to glare at him without speaking, and his expression of relief faded. With a slight frown, he cleared his throat a second time, slowly and delicately.
“First,” he said, leaning toward me, “let me tell you, Dylan, that I think your idea is wonderful, and the display itself is well done. It’s a great metaphor for the way our identities are composed of the ideas we assimilate. I agree with Ms. Fowler entirely on those points.”
Blah blah blah, I thought, slouching in my chair. This man had just gutted my soul. Trying to buy me off with compliments wasn’t going to work. Still, from the sounds of it, there had at least been a discussion before the damage was i
nflicted. And Ms. Fowler had tried to defend me against this...this mutilation. Gripping the arms of my chair, I continued to glare at Mr. Brennan, who was admittedly a fairly decent guy, even if inclined to verbiage.
Shifting uncomfortably, he cleared his throat again. “The problem, Dylan,” he said carefully, “is that we are a public institution. A public institution that serves fourteen- to eighteen-year-olds and their parents. This is a very diverse constituency, with a wide range of backgrounds. Whatever goes on display in this school has to take all of this into consideration.”
“We studied Foxfire in class,” I blurted.
“Yes, you did,” he nodded. “With Mr. Cronk, in a senior English class. I had no problem with that title appearing in your display. It was the position in which you placed it.”
“Why?” I spluttered. I mean, I was well past nuclear now. All across my brain, protons and neutrons were starting to fuse.
“It simply isn’t appropriate for a display in a public high school,” said Mr. Brennan. “For an art class assignment, yes. For an English essay, fine. But not in the library, where every student is going to see it.”
“But I was doing the human body,” I protested. “Why is it okay to have a book title for an arm or a leg, but not...”
