by Beth Goobie
About to manufacture another shrug, I was saved by Joc. “Hey, Dyl,” she called from the end of the table where she was standing with Dikker, and I waved them in to sit in the open space across from me.
As they squeezed into place, Gary reached across Rachel and punched Dikker’s shoulder. “What’s the matter, Dik?” he smirked. “Too cold in your car?”
Dikker gave him a slow grin. Most of his reputation came from his nickname, and the rest lay in that grin. I mean, no one could have survived the number of lays he was rumored to have pulled off. At least not and eat, sleep and get in a few favorite TV shows.
“Hillo, ho, ho,” he said mysteriously. “We are arrant knaves all, believe none of us.”
“Oh, shut up about Hamlet,” moaned Joc, giving him a shove. “And yes, Gary, for your information, the car’s heating system is broken.”
“What’s the matter?” drawled Len. “Can’t you make your own heat?”
Joc shrugged. “I’m sensitive,” she said, rubbing her cheek against Dikker’s shoulder.
Gary snorted loudly. “That’s not what I hear,” he said.
A raucous guffaw swept the entire group. “Hey, just a sec,” I said, seeing Joc stiffen, but she was way ahead of me.
“Just because I’m getting it more regular than you are,” she snapped, looking Gary right in the eye. “And in better company.”
Gary straightened, about to shoot something back, but then Cam broke in with an uneasy, “Okay guys, knock it off.” After a few more snorts and giggles, everyone calmed down. In the ensuing quiet, I glanced sideways at Cam, studying his face. I mean, the question was there in my mind—whether he’d intervened because Gary had been picking on Joc, or because I happened to be sitting right next to him and he’d realized that I’d seen him laughing with the others.
But then I ditched the thought. Everyone laughed without thinking sometimes, and he’d stood up for Joc as soon as he’d seen that she was uncomfortable. Anyway, it was more than Dikker had done. Right now he was digging into a hamburger and fries as if nothing had happened, and Joc was sitting there watching him, a kind of sadness floating across her face. Then abruptly she switched gears and started hogging his fries. Soon they were feeding each other and putting on their usual show. As the rest of the group watched appreciatively, Len turned to me, his eyes honing in.
“So c’mon, Dyl,” he said. “Give us the scoop. What did you put under those censor strips that made Brennan take such a major flip?”
Everyone’s eyes zeroed in on me. And right away I saw they weren’t joking around; this time they expected an answer. These guys weren’t like the rest of the school—an air of mystery wouldn’t keep them at bay forever. Deep in my gut a dull thud started up, and my hands went prickly with sweat. At the same time I felt Cam stiffen as he went into diplomatic gear, simultaneously trying to figure out why I wasn’t just answering straight out, and how to ward off Len’s question without being obvious.
Taking a quick breath, I said, “Whatever you want it to be. I mean, that’s the point, isn’t it? Everything gets censored, even Huckleberry Finn. So give it whatever title you want.”
“Uh-uh,” said Len, leaning forward intently. “We’ve already told you what we thought. Now we want to know what you put up there.”
FOXFIRE, FOXFIRE. The title screamed itself, huge and hypersonic, across my brain, and without warning I was once again behind Confederation Collegiate in my mind, Sheila pressed tight against me, her lips on mine. Instantly I was hit by a wave of blowtorch heat and my gaze wavered, flicking away from Len’s. But not before I saw his eyes narrow, as if catching sight of something unexpected.
Forcing my gaze back to his, I said, “That’s censorship for you. You’ll never know what I put up there, because Brennan censored it.”
A moment of stunned silence followed as the group just stared at me.
“I guess,” Len said reluctantly, and the others looked at each other and shrugged. As they finally let go of it, I heard Cam let out a small sigh, and the thud in my gut eased a little. But then I glanced across the table and saw Joc watching me, her eyes narrowed and speculative like Len’s. Had she figured it out? I thought quickly. She’d worked on the boy’s silhouette, not the girl’s, but she might have seen Foxfire in the girl’s master plan.
Our eyes locked, and in that second I could have sworn I saw disappointment on her face. Then, with a shrug, she turned to Dikker, picked up one of his french fries and began feeding it to him.
“Something,” said Dikker, chewing agreeably, “is rotten in the state of Denmark.”
No one noticed me freeze, and the conversation shifted to other things while I sat, momentarily forgotten. Face in neutral, I swallowed repeatedly, forcing down a heated ugliness that was creeping up my throat. Why, oh why, hadn’t I just said Foxfire the first time Len asked? I mean, it wouldn’t have been a big deal, not with Cam sitting next to me. If I’d been willing to include the title in the display last Saturday, why was I backing away from it now?
But that had been before the dance at Confed, the kiss with Sheila, and the nuclear fantasies that had taken over my life since. The word Foxfire now had a thousand times more meaning than it had had last Saturday morning. I mean, it was loaded. There was no way I could have said it without a radioactive glow taking over my face.
So instead of just telling the truth, I’d choked. And the worst part of it, I realized grimly as I mulled it over, was that I was actually relieved Mr. Brennan had done what he’d done. As long as Cam and Danny kept quiet about the censored titles, no one else would ever find out what they’d been. I was more than sure Cam would never tell, and I knew Danny would promise not to if I asked. And so the problem, once again, appeared to be solved.
Unless Joc figured it out and talked, I thought, glancing at her. But she wouldn’t, I could trust her for that. Or could I?
At that moment Joc happened to glance from Dikker to me, and I saw it again in her eyes, definite this time—disappointment. Then her gaze flicked back to Dikker, but not before it had told me what I needed to know. She had figured out that Foxfire was one of the censored titles. Not only that, she’d read the novel, had probably already finished it the day I’d said justice was like sex in our English class. And I was pretty sure she’d read it in one sitting the way I had, her eyes racing from page to page while heat pounded softly, softly, through her entire body.
Sensing my gaze on her, she glanced at me again. Her eyes were a bit glazed, almost frightened, and I could just feel what she was thinking—the way her body was soft and full of heat. I’d never seen her like this with Dikker, not once, and then suddenly, as we stared at each other across the table, a flash of electricity passed between us—shimmering, dancing, singing. Joc’s lips parted, as if in astonishment, and a flush swept her face. Getting to her feet, she grabbed Dikker by the arm.
“C’mon,” she said. “I’m tired of this place. Let’s go have a smoke.”
“Hillo, ho, ho, my lord,” Dikker said cheerfully. Without a backward glance, they headed out of the cafeteria, Joc clinging tightly to his right arm.
Chapter Fifteen
After school, Joc headed off somewhere with Dikker. Since I didn’t have to double-ride her home, I decided to spend some time watching Cam’s football practice. As luck would have it, that afternoon’s senior girls’ volleyball practice had been canceled because the coach, Ms. Harada, was ill, and some of the girls were also hanging around the field, watching the football teams run laps and drills. Sitting down beside them, I watched guy after guy run full tilt into a row of sandbags that had been positioned at the far end of the field. Even without the number 19 on his jersey, it would have been easy to pick Cam out of the group. Like everything else in his life, he went after those sandbags in hyperdrive. I swear he actually lifted off the ground and flew toward his target, and his third slam into a sandbag had me cringing. I mean, it looked as if he’d splintered every bone in his neck, but Coach Gonie immediat
ely hollered, “Atta boy, Zeleny! Way to kill, way to kill!”
Pumping his fist in the air, Cam trotted to the back of the line, but as soon as the coach had focused on someone else, he started rubbing his neck. Like I’d thought, he was going at it too hard. Something was bugging him—bad—and a sick hook in my gut told me what it probably was.
“You’re quiet,” Rachel said abruptly, her eyes zeroing in on me. “Something wrong?”
Warnings ran softly up my back. I mean, it wasn’t like Rachel to express concern for anything except her makeup.
“I dunno,” I said quickly. “Cam’s going at it too hard. He’s going to hurt his neck.”
“He’s always like that,” Julie said dismissively. “Nuclear missile.” She smiled. “Not like Len, the big oaf.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But he doesn’t usually rub his neck after.”
“Coach likes it,” Deirdre shrugged. “If Cam keeps it up, he might get bumped up to offence.”
“Maybe,” I said again, keeping my eyes on the field.
“He’s just got too much energy,” Rachel said with a grin. “Not like Len. We know where he’s putting it, don’t we, Julie?”
Julie gave her an answering grin. “You bet,” she said. “That man is like, nonstop.”
Heat rose in my face as if I’d been slapped. There it was again—the knowing. Every chance they got, the phone patrol had to rub the fact that Cam and I weren’t having sex in my face. A couple of weeks ago, Julie and Len had started going out. Who knew how far they’d gone in the backseat of his car—my guess was Julie was more talk than action. But suddenly it got to me, the way they thought about Cam and me, and dating, and the whole girl-guy thing—as if it was all just about sex. All the time Cam and I had spent talking, the books we’d told each other about, the way he practically showed me his soul sometimes—as far as the phone patrol was concerned, it was all just a game Cam and I were playing in order to get laid.
“Yeah, well,” I snapped, so goddamn mad I didn’t stop to think. “I guess I’d wait longer than two weeks before I let Len Schroeder put his dick-that’s-been-everywhere between my legs.”
The words were a grenade going off, absolutely blowing every-one’s minds. Mouths open, the phone patrol turned en masse to stare at me.
“What...did you say?” Julie faltered.
“Nothing,” I muttered, realizing how unbelievably stupid I’d been. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just forget it, okay?”
“Forget it?” said Julie, her eyes narrowing. “Just because you’re so above us, Dylan—too goody-goody to get it on with Cam. What’s the matter with you? Waiting for Prince Will?”
Above us. Prince. There it was again, the queen bullshit. I wasn’t a queen. Taking a deep breath, I made myself keep a grip.
“Hey,” shrugged Deirdre, turning to Julie. “You never know. Maybe she’s just scared of getting preggers.”
“She wasn’t scared when she was doing it with Paul Bohner, was she?” spat Julie, her eyes bright and hard, the hurt mixed in with the venom.
“Look,” I said, forcing myself to hold her gaze. “I’m sorry I said that. It’s none of my business and I didn’t mean it. Dumb thing to say. Really dumb.”
“Yeah,” said Julie, but her gaze didn’t soften. For a moment the entire group sat silently, eyes fixed on the field as we waited for the tension to subside. Then Deirdre carefully cleared her throat.
“So why...are you waiting so long with Cam, Dylan?” she asked, slanting me a glance.
Instantly a cold eagerness leapt onto everyone’s faces. And even though I knew the question was there, hiding out in their minds, I was surprised at the look of it when it hit the surface—the bare hard meanness of it.
A soft panic settled onto me, fluttery and delicate. “It’s private,” I said, my eyes slipping from theirs.
“I bet it is,” Julie said coolly.
The panic got more fluttery, more delicate. “Why does it matter?” I asked hoarsely, staring across the field. “I mean, why is it important?”
As if on cue, Cam took another run at the sandbags, hurling himself headfirst through the air. “WAY TO GO, ZELENY!” roared Coach Gonie as he lay stunned, then clambered slowly to his feet.
Sniggering softly, Rachel said, “Man, has that guy got energy to burn.”
Without a word, I stood and headed for my bike.
When I got home, I found Dad and Keelie washing the family station wagon in the driveway, and remembered that it was my night to make a salad. Because both Mom and Dad worked, we all took turns cooking and washing up—even Danny, who’d complained at first, saying cooking was faggy. But Dad had just asked, “Is it faggy to eat?”, and Danny had gotten the message. In fact he’d gotten it so well that he was getting quite handy at making meat loaf...and more meat loaf...and more meat loaf. But tonight Dad was the main chef and I was on salad and cleanup, so we were meat loaf-free. After giving Keelie a hug, I stashed my bike in the garage, went inside and got to work. As the smell of Dad’s tuna casserole filled the kitchen, I washed and diced vegetables, my thoughts keeping time with the rhythm of the knife: Idiot. Moron. Very very dead meat. Hail, Basti, who comest forth from wisdom and the gods and all that stuff, I do not have what you would call a basic functioning brain.
I wasn’t kidding myself. I knew the look of girls who had their brains in high gear. As soon as they got home, the phone patrol would go into action, and tomorrow the story would be all over the Dief: Dylan Kowolski is keeping her legs crossed and locked, even though she knows it’s killing her boyfriend. And she had the nerve to criticize Julie Crozier for just wanting to show her sweetie some love. There’s something odd about Dylan, don’t you think? She’s unnatural, tight-assed. What d’you think, could she possibly—
Caught up in my thoughts, I wasn’t watching carefully enough and cut into the tip of my finger. As I howled in pain, Dad whirled around with the hose and stared at the kitchen window. Quickly I leaned into the glass and waved to let him know that I was all right. Then I ran cold water over my finger and examined it. Not bad, just a surface cut. Fetching a band-aid from the bathroom, I got back to work. Through the window I could see Keelie stalking importantly around the car, pointing out imaginary flecks of dirt while Dad followed with a lopsided grin, dutifully washing them off.
Just for a sec, I stood and watched him. It hadn’t taken me long growing up to clue into the fact that my father was unusual. He had a quiet place inside him that most dads didn’t have, a watching place like Ms. Fowler’s, but stronger, more connected to the people around him. Ms. Fowler watched everyone like a shy quiet bird, an angel for your mind. But Dad was right there with you in the thick of things, a close warm presence you knew would listen until he understood. He wasn’t good-looking—even though he was big-boned, he still managed to look nerdish when he put on his glasses. Still, I knew Mom, who was drop-dead gorgeous, thought she was damn lucky to have gotten him. Right now I could see her idling her car at the end of the drive, a huge smile on her face as she watched Keelie sternly lecture Dad about a speck of non-existent mud on the headlights.
When Dad spotted her, he turned the hose on her car, and Mom rolled up her window and sat waiting him out. Racing toward the soaked car, Keelie ran around it shrieking wildly until Dad finally laid off. Then Mom got out and gave Keelie a hug. As they walked hand-in-hand toward Dad, I leaned into the window to keep them all in sight. There they were, the typical Canadian family—Mr. and Ms. Heterosexual, and their rambunctious squealing offspring. How many couples like them were coming home from work at this very minute, parking their cars and giving each other an after-work kiss?
As I watched, Dad picked up his sponge and went back to work, soaping the car. Without warning an arc of water hit him in the butt, and I realized that Mom had picked up the hose and turned it on him. Dad whirled around, earning himself a full-frontal soaker, then charged Mom and wrestled the hose from her. A moment later she was also drenched, her office clothes
plastered, her blouse completely transparent. The effect on Dad was immediate. The hose dropped to the ground, his arms went around her, and my parents started making out in the driveway like two teenagers in a wet bathing-suit contest.
Okay, I thought, watching until they broke off. So maybe they weren’t exactly your typical Ms. and Mr. Canada. But they were definitely not a scene out of Foxfire either. Foxfire was a great book, but that was all it was—a story—whereas the scene in front of me was real life, where I belonged. If I worked hard at it and kept my stupid queen mouth shut, that scene in the driveway could be me and Cam in ten years.
Picking up the knife, I got back to work. No matter how much it bugged me, I thought grimly as I chopped away, those censor strips were just going to have to remain in place over the library display and my mouth. No matter how much other kids got on my case, wanting to know what the original titles had been, from this point on my best course of action was silence and a mystery smile. Yeah, that was it, I thought, my head coming up—a silent mysterious grin. Before going to bed, I would put in some time with my dresser mirror and figure out the exact angle of mystery to put into my smiling lips when refusing to answer a question about the censored titles.
I would also have to work harder at holding the gaze of other kids, so my eyes didn’t flick away the way they had with Len’s. Looking away was a dead giveaway. It meant you had something to hide, and what I had to impress upon everyone right now was that I was squeaky clean. I had no secrets, no skeletons in my closet. Yeah, look inside me and I was virtually empty.
Hail, Basti, who comest forth from nothing, even my heart was eaten.
After supper, Dad gave me a rundown on his discussion with Mr. Brennan while we stacked the dishwasher. Basically Brennan had agreed with Dad—he should have covered the display and talked to me before any changes were made. I was certainly welcome to return to his office and talk about it again if I wanted, he’d said, and he wasn’t bothered by the censor strips. In fact, he’d told Dad that he thought they were an intelligent response, and he respected it. At the same time he was adamant that Ms. Fowler’s substitute titles remain in place. Neither Foxfire or The Once and Future King could appear in the silhouettes’ groins, and that was where he and Dad had left it.
