by Beth Goobie
I faltered, and Mr. Brennan’s gaze wavered slightly.
“Well, for the groin?” I managed finally. “Not Foxfire,” Mr. Brennan said grimly. “And not The Once and Future King.”
“Have you read them?” I demanded.
“Yes, I have,” he said. “They’re both fine books. In fact, T. H. Whyte’s book was one of my favorites when I was a kid.”
“That was my boyfriend’s idea,” I said hotly. “The title and the position. He suggested it because of Lancelot’s miracle. And because Arthur is a king, but he’s so humble. Cam said that’s what a guy needs to be in that part of his body—humble, a servant-king.”
Shaking, I got to my feet, then added, “But don’t expect me to tell you why I picked Foxfire, Mr. Brennan. You know why? Because you haven’t asked me why I put it there. You judged my display and took down the most important parts without bothering to ask me what they meant. I’ve been in this room for five minutes now, and you still haven’t asked why I put them there.”
With that, I stormed out of his office. As I passed through the doorway, my hand knocked against the door, and without thinking I grabbed and slammed it. The sound of the crash tore through me, doubling my anger. Putting my face to the window in Mr. Brennan’s door, I yelled, “You can kiss off!”
Mr. Brennan sat frozen at his desk. As we stared at each other through the window, I was suddenly reminded of the time I’d seen Joc and Dikker kiss the library doors. While I wasn’t wearing scarlet lipstick like Joc had been, “Flaming Peach” was enough to leave a statement. Puckering my lips, I planted a kiss on the glass.
“Kiss off!” I yelled again, the words reverberating through me. “Just kiss off!”
Then I turned and stormed past the staring secretaries. As the outer office door swung closed behind me, I came to a halt in the hall and stood staring back into the room. Anger was still pounding through me. I mean, it was pounding.
“Hey, Dylan,” called a girl standing nearby. “What’s going on?”
It was Britney Sauder, a member of the senior soccer team. She looked slightly bug-eyed. I guess it wasn’t every day that Dylan Kowolski came storming out of the Dief front office, yelling, “Kiss off!” at the top of her lungs.
“Brennan,” I spat in her direction. “He wrecked my library display.”
Then I stomped off down the hall. Fortunately it was empty, homeroom period about to start and only a few kids racing to make the bell. As I reached the library it went off, and for a moment everything was reduced to that harsh mechanical scream, cutting through the halls, the library, my head, everything.
Entering the library, I stood, once again staring at the display case. There it was, my carefully mutilated soul. No, not mutilated. Ms. Fowler had done her best. Just looking at it, no one would guess anything had been altered.
A soft rustling sounded behind me, and I turned to see her coming out of her office.
“Okay,” I said grimly, before she could speak. “Here’s the deal. Mr. Brennan changed my display without asking what it meant. So it’s not mine anymore. It’s his.”
“Part of it, Dylan,” Ms. Fowler said quickly.
“The most important part,” I said. “So here’s what happens.”
I had to take a deep breath before I could continue. I was still shaking and my voice was wobbly, but Ms. Fowler listened without interrupting or trying to calm me down.
“Either the whole thing comes down,” I said, watching her flinch, “or we put a big black censor strip through both their groins.”
Surprise darted across Ms. Fowler’s face, followed by something that was almost pleasure. “Exactly,” she murmured, her eyes darting to the display. “Yes, exactly. If you’ll wait a minute, Dylan, I’ll call your homeroom teacher and let him know you’re here, so you don’t get a late demerit. Mr. Leakos, isn’t it?”
I nodded, and she hurried into her office. When she came out again, she was holding the key to the display case, some black construction paper, a staple gun and a pair of scissors.
“You do the honors,” she said, holding out the paper and the scissors. Then she opened the display case, and I placed a sheaf of construction paper against the girl silhouette’s groin. Folding it lengthwise, I placed it there again.
“That’ll do it,” I said, and Ms. Fowler handed me the staple gun. Quickly I stapled the censor strip over the girl’s groin, then repeated the process for the boy’s. Taking a simultaneous step back, Ms. Fowler and I stood in silence, staring at the black strips. I mean, we were in awe.
“Yes,” Ms. Fowler murmured again. “Exactly. Exactly.”
“Thanks, Ms. Fowler,” I said. “I think I’ll be okay now. I mean, I think I can probably stop with the revenge fantasies.”
A tiny smile snuck onto Ms. Fowler’s lips and she asked, “Do you want to do the boy’s mouth too?”
I looked at The Once and Future King in its new position, speaking for Cam. “No,” I said quietly. “It belongs there just as much. Thanks again, Ms. Fowler. I really appreciate what you just did. I mean, I really appreciate it.”
Blinking rapidly, she nodded, and I turned and headed through the empty halls to homeroom.
Chapter Fourteen
Within minutes I was called back to Mr. Brennan’s office, and we hashed it out again. He was actually fairly decent about the whole thing, and I could tell he felt badly about my being upset, but he wouldn’t apologize for changing my display before asking me what I’d meant by it, so I refused to apologize for blowing up at him. And when he asked why I’d placed Foxfire in the girl silhouette’s groin, I wouldn’t tell him. He owed me an apology first, it was that simple. I figured I deserved it.
Because I also refused to clean my smooch mark off his office door, Mr. Brennan gave me a lunch and after-school detention. School policy required that parents be informed of all student detentions, so I had a lot of explaining to do later that evening, after Keelie had been put to bed. Mom and Dad heard me out, then sat quietly, floating in their thoughts. My guess was that they were slightly dumbfounded. I mean, they weren’t exactly strangers to my temper, but I’d never thrown it at a school principal before.
“Well,” said Mom, glancing at Dad, who was sitting beside her at the kitchen table. “I don’t know what to say, really. I can see Mr. Brennan’s point, but I can also see yours.”
“It was really that important to you?” asked Dad, watching me carefully.
I nodded. Even now, twelve hours later, a rush of anger hit me when I thought about it.
“He didn’t ask first,” I said. “He just assumed it was dirty and obscene.”
“Maybe he was concerned other people might think it was obscene,” Mom said hesitantly.
“No, he thought it was obscene,” I said decidedly. I was sure of it. “Maybe he changed his mind later, but that’s the conclusion he jumped to right off.”
“I wonder why Ms. Fowler didn’t warn you this could happen,” Dad said slowly. “She must have known there could be problems with it.”
“She did, Dad,” I said, not wanting her to get into trouble. “She said something about wondering what Administration would think of it, but I didn’t really clue in. Because she understood what I meant by the display, I figured everyone would.”
My parents sat quietly, still not sure what to make of it. And as I sat there watching them, I got a sudden warm burst of wanting to connect, wanting them to really get it.
“It’s like everyone thinks that what goes on between a teenager’s legs is dirty,” I said, letting the words out in a rush. “I mean, whether you’re having sex with someone or not. That part of your body is automatically indecent because you’re a teenager, and everyone just assumes teenagers are wild and on the edge of losing control at every moment. You’re never allowed to just live in that part of your body. It’s a forbidden zone, a place you’re never supposed to think about, and adults are always lecturing you about saving sex for marriage, or STDs and how they can shrivel your
brain to a peanut. And the whole time you know half of them were having unsafe sex in the back of a car when they were teenagers. Anyway, why does that part of your body have to be treated like a wild animal that should be caged and controlled? Why can’t it be about decency and honor and what’s true and good?
“And wise,” I added defiantly, crossing my arms over my chest. With a deep breath, I made myself look straight at Mom, then Dad. There, I’d said it. They would probably jump on me for it, but not too bad. They were pretty decent as far as the parent thing went. There would be some sighs, stern looks and mild finger-waving, and then a hug to round things off.
To my surprise, I saw tears in their eyes. They glanced at each other, and then Dad leaned toward me.
“Dylan, honey,” he said quietly. “If there’s anywhere in your body that I want you to feel truly wonderful about yourself and your whole life, it’s in your groin. That’s as important now, when you’re young and still living with your family, as later on, when you’ll be married and raising children of your own. The groin is a central part of life and love—we all come from there, don’t we? And I can’t tell you how important it has been to me to be loved by your mother.”
He hesitated, then grinned sheepishly. “Well, I also had a few girlfriends before her,” he added, glancing at Mom, who smiled wryly. “They were all important to me, and each one of them taught me something different. When you love someone, truly love them and are loved back, you learn so much about yourself, and life and what it’s really all about. Your sexuality is a core part of that, whether you’re sexually active or not. And you’re right, you should feel completely free to live in that part of your body—you think and feel and are in your groin, just as much as in your heart and mind.”
Stunned by his honesty, I just stared at him. Then I blurted, “So d’you think I was wrong? To get angry, I mean?”
Glancing again at Mom, Dad took a long thinking breath. “Anger isn’t wrong, Dylan,” he said. “It’s an important warning signal that tells you when you’re being crowded or invaded in some way. What you have to figure out is how to handle your anger, what’s the best way to communicate it.”
One of my power blushes kicked in and I ducked my head. “I guess I didn’t really do that,” I said, staring at my hands.
“Oh, you communicated,” Dad said wryly.
“I was just so mad,” I said, glancing at him, then away. “I still am.”
Dad leaned across the table and took my hand, making me look at him. “I think you had a right to be,” he said. “The display could’ve been covered until Mr. Brennan had a chance to talk to you. I’m sure he’s thought of that since. He’s probably learned as much from this as you have.”
When he’d finished speaking, Dad continued to hold my hand, not letting go, making me feel his warmth and how much he loved me. I gripped his hand tightly and he squeezed back. Suddenly I wanted to bawl my head off.
“A picture,” said Mom, her voice wavering as she wiped her eyes. “We have to get one of your display for our photo album.”
“I’ll take one for you,” I said, freeing my hand from Dad’s and rubbing my own eyes. “I’ll bring the camera to school tomorrow and take a bunch before homeroom.”
“No, I want to see it for myself,” Dad said firmly. “I’ll drive you to school and take a few pictures with you standing in front of the display. I can call into work and let them know I’ll be late. I’ll just go check the batteries in the camera.”
Jumping to his feet, he hurried off to check, while I sat at the table thinking about what we’d discussed. Neither Dad or Mom had said straight out that I’d done the right thing, but they hadn’t criticized me either. It left me feeling in limbo, sort of, but then I realized they were letting me work it out for myself. They were trusting me with it.
Taking a shaky breath, I smiled at Mom. She smiled back.
“Yup,” said Dad, bustling into the kitchen with the camera.
“The batteries are fine and the memory card is only half full. Should be able to get in quite a few pictures.”
“Hey, can I be in one?” asked Danny, following him into the room. Right away I knew my brother had been listening in at an air vent in the upstairs hallway that was handy for eavesdropping on kitchen conversations. I raised an eyebrow, and he gave me a quick grin.
“Everyone’s talking about it, y’know,” he said. “The library’s been crowded with kids looking at your display. I know some guys who’d absolutely love to get into a picture with those censor strips.”
We all just split. I mean, after the tearful melodrama we’d been through, we needed it.
“Oh god,” I spluttered. “Major Kodak moment.”
And I was right. Danny must have gotten the word out later that evening on the phone because the next morning it looked as if half the school had shown up for the photo shoot. Dad was kept busy shooting pictures of Danny and his friends and the censor strips, Cam and his friends and the censor strips and Joc and Dikker and the censor strips. Then, of course, there had to be shots of the watching audience of kids and the censor strips. And finally, a few of Ms. Fowler and me, grinning our fool heads off as we stood under the now thoroughly photographed silhouettes and their infamous strips of black.
As Dad lowered his camera, the warning bell rang and the library began to clear. Joc, Cam and Danny waved goodbye and left for homeroom, and Dad and I also headed out of the library. But to my surprise, when we reached the hall he turned left instead of right, the direction of the parking lot.
“No, Dad, it’s that way,” I said, pointing.
He shook his head. “Pit stop on the way,” he said, starting down the hall.
Immediately my radar went up. So that was why he was on the phone so long before we left the house. I’d assumed he was calling the city transit office where he worked.
“You’re going to talk to Mr. Brennan,” I accused, running after him. So much for my parents letting me work this out on my own.
With a smile, Dad put an arm around me. “Yes, I am,” he said. “I’m your father, and I have some concerns about how this was handled. But I give you my word—I’ll fill you in on everything we discuss, okay?”
A wave of relief hit me. So, my father really did think I had a right to be angry. I wasn’t a complete zero.
“Okay,” I said, bumping my forehead against his chest.
His arm tightened briefly. “Go on now,” he said. “Or you’ll be late for homeroom.”
When I reached the end of the hall, I turned to see him standing in the same position, watching me. A grin crossed both our faces, and we raised a hand simultaneously to wave at each other. Then a rocket-launch burst of energy hit me and I took off through the empty halls, racing to beat the final bell.
Just as Danny had said, everyone was talking. For the rest of the day I couldn’t go anywhere without getting comments—in the halls, my classes, or catching a smoke with Joc at midmorning break. I hadn’t realized yesterday what a stir the censor strips were causing because I’d spent so much time in detention, but today I was a free woman and everyone I met seemed to have something to say. The guesses kids made about the censored titles were mind-boggling: The Titanic. The Encyclopedia Britannica. The Edible Woman. Freddy the Pig Goes to Mars. On the Brighter Side, I am Now the Girlfriend of a Sex God. Hamlet. (I bumped into Dikker again between classes.) And, of course, everyone wanted to know what the actual offending titles had been, even Cam’s buddies. Well, especially Cam’s buddies. When I sat down with the senior jock crowd in the cafeteria at lunch, the comments didn’t let up.
“Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets,” suggested Julie, and everyone snickered.
“Temptation,” said Deirdre. “Or how about The Tycoon’s Virgin Bride?”
“The Tycoon’s Virgin Bride?” repeated Len. Letting his jaw drop, he bugged his eyes at her. In two seconds flat, Deirdre was severely rattled.
“Duh, let me guess,” Len added smugly. “Harlequin,
right?”
“I read it last week,” Deirdre said defensively, throwing a french fry at him. “And stop looking at me like that. Some of the scenes were pretty hot.”
Len rolled his eyes, then opened his mouth, about to reply, but was interrupted.
“Superman,” crowed Gary, stretching out his arms and pretending to fly. “You put my favorite book right over the guy’s dick, and Brennan saw it and got pissed.”
As screeches of approval erupted from Julie and Rachel, a girl at a nearby table turned to look at us. A flash of guilt hit me as I saw that it was Michelle Allen, who obviously should have been sitting at this table, laughing at Gary’s comment along with the rest of the jock crowd. But she wasn’t; in fact she hadn’t sat with us for weeks—not since the first few days after she’d made the senior girls volleyball team. It looked like Julie and Rachel had found a way to make it very clear that she wasn’t welcome.
Completely oblivious, Cam pulled a sandwich out of his lunch bag. “She couldn’t use Superman, Feeb Brain,” he grinned at Gary. “It had to be a real book with real words. Y’know, more than POW, BAM, SLAM and exclamation marks.”
“Superman Pooperman,” agreed Len, turning his gaze on me. “It was probably War and Peace. Now that would really jerk Brennan’s chain.”
“Maybe,” I shrugged, ducking a direct reply. All morning I’d been answering kids’ questions the same way—with a shrug and a grin. Let everyone think what they wanted. The only people who knew the actual titles were Mr. Brennan, Ms. Fowler, my parents, Danny and Cam, and obviously they hadn’t let anyone else in on the secret. Even Joc didn’t know what I’d placed into the girl silhouette’s groin, because she’d left my house last Friday before I’d finished writing all my titles onto their construction-paper outlines.
“Treasure Island,” persisted Len, between guzzles of Pepsi. “And Sweet Valley High. C’mon, Dylan—admit it. You used my suggestions, and Brennan pulled them.”
