by Beth Goobie
But I managed to keep a grip, shrug and say, “I dunno. I don’t hang around with royalty.”
A blank look crossed Gary’s face and he just stared at me. Abruptly he swiveled around in his seat and started talking to the guy behind him. For a moment I continued to sit, staring at the back of his head, wondering if I’d missed something. Then a tiny grin crept onto my mouth as I realized that nothing was missing, I simply hadn’t allowed something to happen. Andy Lambard, the Virgin King, was right—this wasn’t important. If I could just leave it alone and not let the phone patrol provoke me into picking up my end of the fight, the whole thing would have to die out.
For the rest of algebra Gary strenuously ignored me, which was fine with me. When the lunch bell rang, I headed to the library to meet Ewen and pose for my yearbook picture with the censor strips. After he left, Ms. Fowler asked me to fill in at the check-out desk because her regular Thursday lunch-hour volunteer hadn’t shown. So though I was getting anxious to see Cam, I settled in behind the desk. The library was the usual scene—kids yakking quietly across the work tables, the fluores-cent lighting buzzing overhead. Some guys came by with books to sign out, and one of them started bugging me about the censor strips, but I flashed my well-practiced mystery smile and that kept him at bay.
After he left, however, I started working my way into one of my funks, thinking about Cam eating lunch in the cafeteria without me. Was he sitting beside Len? Or worse, was he trapped between Julie and Rachel while the entire group made jokes about virgin queens? Biting my lip, I considered. No, Cam wouldn’t let them do that. He might moan about not having a sex life to Len and Gary, but he wouldn’t let anyone else joke about it. He would defend me, I knew he would.
But what if he got tired of waiting for me? Or what if he started to get suspicious? I mean, he knew what had originally been under those censor strips. Miserably I glared at the display case with its two multicolored figures. Damn those censor strips, I thought. If I’d just had some common sense and put Anne of Green Gables into the girl silhouette’s groin, none of this would have happened.
Turning toward the filing carts, I got to work, organizing them for reshelving. The library had hit the lull it often got into around 12:30—no one coming or going, everyone settled into research or a good book. On my knees beside a filing cart, I was alphabetizing the bottom shelf when I heard someone humming on the other side of the check-out desk. The tune sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it, so I got to my feet to ask what it was.
As my head surfaced above the counter, I saw Joc standing with her back to me. She had obviously come in while I was crouched down behind the desk and didn’t know I was there. Dikker was nowhere to be seen, and she didn’t seem to be doing anything in particular, just standing around and humming.
Abruptly I realized that she was doing something, she was studying the two silhouettes in the display case. At the same moment I recognized the song she was humming—”Fear of Bliss” by Alanis Morissette.
The second I realized these two things, the entire universe seemed to suck in its breath. Sweet heat hit me like a blowtorch and I could have been in bed, doing you-know-what—the sensations were hitting me that hard, I was that helpless, that gone.
Foxfire, was all I could think as I stared at the long gleaming fall of hair down Joc’s back. Foxfire, Foxfire, Foxfire.
Footsteps sounded to my left, and I jerked myself out of my massive moment of lust to see Tracey Stillman walking up to the check-out desk with a book in her hand. Immediately I realized that she’d seen. In the second I’d turned toward her, her eyes had darted between Joc and me, and a kind of knowing had flashed across her face. Instant panic swept me and I was hit with images of myself machine-gunning Tracey Stillman to bits, throttling Tracey Stillman to bits and machete-chopping Tracey Stillman to bits. That, or taking up life permanently as a carpet fiber.
Fortunately I managed to get a grip.
“Hey, Tracey,” I said, forcing a smile. “Look what you inspired—the October library display. I got the idea from that poetry book you showed me.”
At the sound of my voice Joc stiffened, then turned slowly to face me. Our eyes met, and to my surprise I found myself looking directly into fear. It was a soft lonely kind of fear, something I’d never seen Joc feeling, and it was only there for a second before she shut it down. But in that second I realized fear was always with her the way it was always with me, and she was as good at hiding it as I was. Better even.
Again, Tracey’s eyes flicked between us. “Yeah,” she said, so quietly I could barely hear her. “I like what you did. Except...”
She hesitated.
“Except what?” I asked, keeping my eyes fixed carefully on her face.
“Except...well...,” she mumbled, looking down, then glanced at me quickly. “Why won’t you tell anyone what’s under the censor strips?”
I could feel a major power blush coming on, but managed to keep my voice steady. “Because the titles I put up aren’t there anymore,” I said. “Brennan made Ms. Fowler take them down. The censor strips are covering the new titles she put up.”
“Oh,” said Tracey. She stood for a moment, studying her hands, then asked hesitantly, “Okay, so what was there, before Brennan made her change them?”
Without answering, I took the book she was holding and read the title—Land to Light On, another book of poetry by a woman named Dionne Brand.
“I haven’t been telling anyone,” I said slowly, “because that’s the point of censorship, right? When something’s censored, it’s gone. You don’t get a chance to know what it was. But since you inspired the display, I’ll tell you. If you promise to keep it to yourself.”
Tracey nodded, her eyes glimmering with interest.
“The book in the boy’s groin was The Once and Future King,” I said. “Ms. Fowler moved it to his mouth. And the book in the girl’s groin was Foxfire.”
For a second, after I’d said it, I just stood there in surprise. I mean, when I stopped fighting and simply let it, the title walked easily out of my mouth.
“Have you read it?” I asked Tracey.
She shook her head.
“It’s a damn good book,” I said, taking her ID card and signing out Land to Light On. “Read it sometime.”
“Okay,” said Tracey, a smile flickering across her face. For a moment she looked delicate, almost pretty. Then, as if this was too much for her, she flushed and ducked her head.
Andy Lambard, I thought. This is a girl for the Virgin King. But then I thought, Hey, who knows? Maybe she needs a Virgin Queen.
“Have yourself a truly superb day, Tracey,” I said as she pushed through the turnstile and headed toward the exit.
“You too,” she called over her shoulder, and then she was gone and there was no way to avoid it anymore—the gaze of my absolutely best, my very best friend.
Joc was still standing there, watching me silently, her purplish blue eyes flat on me. “So, where’s Dikker?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
“Hamlet shit,” Joc shrugged. “He’s decided now he’s going to spend his lunch hours helping to build sets.”
Our eyes were doing an odd kind of dance—meeting, then flitting away, then meeting again. Flit flit flit—we could have been late-season mosquitoes.
“How come you’re not helping him?” I asked, pulling a book off a filing cart, then putting it back again. As usual, I was in a funk. Everywhere I touched, I left a trail of sweaty guilty fingerprints.
Get a grip, I thought. This is, like, your best friend since grade three.
Joc shrugged again. “I don’t want to build sets for Hamlet the Turd,” she said. “What’re you doing after school?”
Our eyes did another flit-flit.
“Nothing,” I shrugged back.
“Come over,” she said. “There’s leftover pizza—ham and anchovies, your fave. We’ll put on Morissette and get jagged. Unless...”
She hesitated, then added, “You have to meet C
am, of course.”
“He’s got practice,” I said. “I don’t.”
“Yeah,” grinned Joc. “That’s what I figured. Dikker’s got Hamlet, me NOT.”
As I grinned back, the warning bell rang, practically sending us both leaping out of our skins.
“Oh god,” I moaned, glancing at the clock. “Ms. Fowler isn’t back, and I have to get to my locker before English.”
“Wing it,” said Joc. “We’re still doing Foxfire, and you’ve got the whole book memorized, don’t you?”
An electric vibe passed between us, so tangible I could almost touch it.
“Have you read it yet?” I asked, my eyes flitting past hers.
“Maybe,” she grinned, then pushed through the turnstile, out the library door and into the crowded hall.
Chapter Seventeen
I made it from my locker to English in twelve seconds flat, just beating the bell, and dropped into my seat in time to hear Mr. Cronk inform the class that the next two days were to be spent working in preassigned discussion groups. I guess he figured Joc and I already spent enough class time together in discussion, because he placed us in different groups. So when we met up at the bike racks after school, we hadn’t had a chance to talk since lunch. And of course, I’d spent the entire afternoon inside my head, trying to work out every possible angle on our short conversation in front of the library display case. Which meant that by the time I got to my bike, I was a supersonic bundle of nerves. I mean, I was in a dead sweat just trying to keep my heartbeat somewhere near normal.
“Hey,” said Joc, coming up behind me.
“Hey,” I replied, hoping the sudden heat wave sweeping my face was not as obvious as it obviously was.
Our eyes did some more of the flit-flit thing, and then I just started pushing my bike toward the street. At the curb there was an awkward moment as Joc got on behind me and I pushed off and started pedaling. Then she hooked a finger through one of my belt loops and started waving with her free hand, calling out to kids we were passing. As usual, I was doing the legwork, and she was being the social butterfly.
“Tim might be home,” she hollered as I pedaled over the Dundurn Street bridge. “I hope he hasn’t gulped all the pizza.”
“If he has, we’ll give him super-nuggies,” I hollered back. Nuggies were a form of mild torture that Tim had taught us in grade three. According to his version you got someone down, then dug your knuckles into his arm and twisted until he hollered, “Spaghetti and barf on the barbecue!” It had to be exactly those words—nothing else would do. Tim figured it was a bigger concession than “Uncle.”
“Agreed,” said Joc as I swerved onto her street. Coasting up the driveway, I braked beside Tim’s Chev and let her get off, then locked my bike to the porch rail. As I straightened, she was opening the front door, her eyes flitting delicately around my head.
“C’mon, Goofus,” she said and went in. Following her through the doorway, I was hit with the usual combo of cigarette smoke and blaring TV. “Hey Rambo,” called Joc, kicking off her shoes and heading into the living room. “Did you leave any pizza for us?”
“Pizza?” demanded Tim, sitting up as we entered. His hair was mashed oddly from lying on the couch, and he still looked oily and greasy from work. “Did I hear you say pizza?” he grinned.
“Yup,” said Joc. “And I also said stereo. As in loud. As in we’re sending messages to Mars.”
“The Martians will be pleased,” said Tim. “In fact, they’re beaming an important message to you right now.” Putting both hands to his head, he waggled his fingers and intoned dramatically, “This is the message: Your mother is at work until nine, and she wants, nay, orders you to eat ALL the pizza.”
With a whoop, Joc ditched her jacket and headed into the kitchen while Tim hauled himself off the couch and turned off the TV. “What’s your fix, Dylan?” he asked as I hung up my jacket. “What d’you want to hear?”
“Something jagged,” hollered Joc through the kitchen doorway.
“Got any Alanis?” I shrugged at Tim.
“Morissette?” said Tim. Agreeably he flipped through the CD rack. “Let’s see...Jagged Little Pill, Supposed Former—”
“Feast on Scraps is in my room,” yelled Joc. “In my CD player.”
“I’ll get it,” I called. Taking off down the hall, I angled a perfect slide through her doorway that ended several inches from her CD player. With a satisfied grin, I ejected Feast on Scraps, then took off in another perfectly executed slide that took me all the way down the hall. When I got back to the living room, Joc’s and my eyes started doing the flit-flit thing again, so I just handed her the CD without saying anything. Quickly she slid it into the stereo and pushed play. Slow reverb heartbeats began filling the room, and then the first notes of “Fear of Bliss” came on, loud and pulsing.
“C’mon, let’s get the pizza,” said Joc. Following her into the kitchen, I watched as she took several sizzling slices out of the microwave. Then she opened the fridge and beckoned to me.
“What d’you think?” she asked, pointing to a twelve-pack of beer at the back.
A vision of my mother, frowning strenuously, loomed inside my head. School night, I heard her say sternly. You’ve got to be home soon for supper.
But all I said was, “Whose is it?”
“Tim, we want some of your beer,” Joc yelled over her shoulder.
“You want it, you pay for it,” Tim yelled back. “A looney a can. Fetch me one too.”
With a triumphant grin, Joc pulled three cans out of the pack. Tim was usually pretty possessive with his beer, telling us he wasn’t into corrupting minors and if he caught us stealing any, he would super-nuggie us into a state of absolute terror. That had been enough to convince us to keep our hands off, but today he was obviously in a different mood. Piling the beer and pizza onto two trays, Joc and I carried it into the living room. A second later we were parked on the couch, scarfing down pizza at an unbelievable rate.
“Yeah,” said Joc, holding up her can of beer. “Pizza and beer. Perfect combo, don’t you think?”
I didn’t, actually, and was fighting off a burst of beer fizzies in my nose from swallowing too quickly. But again, I didn’t say anything. To tell the truth, the whole scene had me on edge. Whenever you bring beer into a situation, kids start acting differently. For someone who’s underage, beer is a symbol—of independence, defiance, pushing boundaries. And sometimes, it has to be said, of sheer stupidity. So, like I mentioned before, when drinking beer, slow and thoughtful was my rule. I usually faded back into the crowd and watched other kids drink more than I drank myself.
But this afternoon there was nowhere to fade to. And with all the questions I had revving around my head about Joc, and the way the music was pounding away, and with Tim sprawled oily and greasy on one side and Joc on the other, her leg brushing mine, it was no wonder half my beer was already gone. Tim had completely finished his, and Joc was right on his tail.
“C’mon, Dylan,” said Tim, getting to his feet. “I’m itching for a dance partner.” Grabbing my hand, he pulled me up from the couch.
“You too,” I said, taking Joc’s hand, and a second later the three of us were jigging around the room, riding Alanis’ huge throb of sound.
“More!” yelled Joc, turning to the stereo and hitting the stop and play buttons. “I want more ‘Fear of Bliss’!”
Once again the giant heartbeat came on, reverberating through the room. Right away Tim starting twisting like a maniac, jumping all over the beat, and then Joc kicked in, slower but with an all-body movement, as if her entire being was a single thought. Keeping my head down, I jigged along with them, but I was still feeling on edge. The three of us had done this before, jacked up the living room stereo when their mom wasn’t home and danced until our clothes were plastered. But there hadn’t been any beer then, and I’d spent the entire time completely and absolutely ignoring my feelings for Joc while I danced with Tim.
Today tho
se feelings refused to be ignored. Heated and shifting, they were like part of the music. Even though I was facing Tim, my eyes kept turning toward Joc, watching the way she swung her hair as she moved, pulsing it to the beat. Several times already she’d brushed against me—maybe by accident, maybe not.
“I’m dying here,” gasped Tim as a song ended. Sweat beaded his forehead and his T-shirt was plastered. “I’m going for some water,” he added. “Catch you later.”
With a wave he headed down the hall, leaving Joc and me standing in the middle of the room. For a moment I was almost afraid to move. There I was, finally, alone with Joc and practically vibrating out of my skin. I mean, the air around me felt huge, electric with possibility.
Before I could say anything, Joc ducked past me and pushed the stereo’s stop and play buttons. Immediately the great reverb heartbeat from “Fear of Bliss” began filling the room. As Joc turned to face me, I could tell she was a bit tipsy, her cheeks flushed. Sweat had dampened the front of her shirt and she pulled it out of her jeans, grinning at me as she flapped it. Then, without speaking, we started dancing several feet apart, as if the space between us was a conversation we were having, a question, a held breath. Gradually, very gradually, we moved closer. Joc’s arm touched mine, a moment later my hip brushed hers. Each time we connected, it was like touching the impossible, a mild shock, a velvet electric dream.
“Fear of Bliss” ended, and Joc darted to the stereo and hit the repeat button. Then, without saying anything, she walked up to me, slid both arms around my waist, and laid her head on my shoulder. Stunned, I stood absolutely still, absorbing the sweet shock of it, and then the impossibility of the moment vanished, the line had been crossed and I let my body take over, sliding my arms around Joc and moving with her to the music. By now the beer I’d drunk was kicking in, and I was lost in the warm buzz of it, my face buried in Joc’s hair. So I just let my mind do whatever it wanted, while I concentrated on breathing in that familiar coconut scent.
Then, just as my thoughts were really starting to heat up, Joc lifted her head from my shoulder. Startled, I took a step back, but she kept her arms locked around my waist. For a moment we just stood and looked at each other. Joc’s lips were parted slightly, revealing a soft wetness along the inside of the lower one. And I was glued to the sight of that wetness. All I could do was stand there, imagining myself leaning forward and ki—
