by Beth Goobie
So in spite of the fact that my head cold was growing steadily worse, I sat through my morning classes, then headed to the cafeteria for lunch. To my surprise, as soon as he caught sight of me Cam broke into a smile and slid over to make room. And I was so relieved that at first I didn’t catch it, the change in the air. I don’t think Cam had gotten it either—the quick looks or the whispering between Rachel, Julie and Len. But then I was doing my very best to occupy all his attention, leaning against him while he fed me one of his ham sandwiches. His mom made the best sandwiches, they were like an art form, but my cold was so bad I could barely taste anything.
“Hey, Dyl,” Len said casually as Cam offered me another bite. “I was talking to your brother earlier today.”
“Oh yeah?” I said, flicking my eyes across his. Right away the hair went up on the back of my neck. I mean, Len’s gaze was too focused, too intent. He was onto something.
“Yeah,” said Len, leaning forward, his eyes honing in. “We were talking in the hall by his locker, and he told me the title under the girl’s censor strip is Foxfire.”
It was instant flamethrower. I mean, I just wasn’t expecting the secret to get out now—the display had been up for weeks, and the questions and comments had pretty much died off. And with my head cold and everything, I had no strength to think. So there I was, stuck in the middle of absolute hell—flamethrower face, the power blush of power blushes. And there was no way to hide it, all that ugly red evidence shouting out its truth.
Beside me Cam stiffened, staring at my face. Julie let out a long low snicker.
Get a grip, I thought. Just fucking get a grip. “Oh yeah?” I faltered, trying to nail Len with my eyes. But the damn things wouldn’t cooperate, just kept flitting here, there and everywhere.
Danny, I thought savagely. When I got home that afternoon, I was going to murder him. He’d promised me, he’d promised.
“Yeah,” said Len, his voice casual, his eyes two killing points. “I mean, isn’t Foxfire a book about dykes?”
In the sudden silence everyone heard my quick intake of breath. “Not necessarily,” I stammered, trying to keep a grip. “Some of the characters might be, but at the end of the book at least four of them get married. None of them ever have sex with each other, and—”
“Yeah, but they take off their shirts and rub boobs,” Julie said quickly. “That’s a dyke thing to do, if you ask me.”
“Yeah,” agreed Rachel. “And they rent a house together, way off in the middle of nowhere. And they always attack men as their victims.”
“They went after jerks,” I protested. “So what if they were all men?”
“They were dykes,” interrupted Gary. “Even if they didn’t have sex with each other, they were thinking it.”
“It’s a book about justice,” I said hoarsely, my eyes skipping across their grinning faces. “And thinking for yourself.”
Desperate, I sounded desperate. Quietly, without speaking, Cam put down his sandwich and stared at it.
“So what if they were an all-girl gang?” I said, trying to ignore his silence. “They were just people trying to bring justice into the world. What’s wrong with that?”
“They were dykes, Dyl,” Len said evenly, erasing everything I’d just said with his tone. “And you put Foxfire between the girl’s legs. You could’ve put it anywhere—her hand or her foot, or in one of those little thought clouds floating around her head. But you put it right between her legs.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, my eyes skittering around the edge of his face. “So what?”
“Well, it’s kind of a dykish thing to do, isn’t it?” he said carefully. “I mean, for you to do?”
Our eyes locked, and I sat trapped in a dead stare with him. So here it was, finally, the accusation I’d been dreading for years. Heat deepened in my face, I was burning up with it—burning up with the shame, the ache, the need of Foxfire.
“I put it there,” I began, then stopped, searching for the right thoughts, the right words, anything that would take the gloat out of Len’s eyes.
Abruptly Cam broke in. “Leave her alone,” he said, lifting his head and glaring at Len. “She can put whatever she wants between the girl’s legs, got it? It’s okay because I say it’s okay, and you’re going to drop it right now.”
He was flushed, his cheeks as red as mine, the pain all over his face. Stunned, everyone stared at him, and Len jerked slightly, as if struck. For a second I saw regret in his eyes, real regret.
“Okay, bud,” he said quickly. “If you say so.”
“I do,” said Cam, holding his gaze, “say so.”
“Then that’s the way it is,” said Len. Their gaze held for a few more seconds, and then Len broke it off, and everyone sat staring at the table.
“Hey, what did you think of the game yesterday?” Gary asked uneasily. “Roughriders plowed the Stampeders. I think they’ve got a good chance at the Cup.”
“Roughriders?” Len said quickly. “Nah. They’ll make the western final, but—”
Conversation kicked in, quick and relieved, smoothing things over. Beside me I felt Cam begin to relax, easing himself back into a normal state of affairs. Without looking at me, he moved his hand slowly over mine, took hold and squeezed gently—in front of everyone, just like that. Briefly conversation halted, and everyone’s gaze fixed on our hands. Then they started talking again while Cam and I sat silent and motionless, not looking at each other as it all went on around us.
Chapter Twenty
After lunch I biked straight home and crawled into bed. Then I lay there, sniffing the afternoon away while I counted the minutes and waited for Danny. When I finally heard him coming upstairs, I threw off the blankets and tore out of my room. Racing down the hall, I grabbed the front of his shirt and backed him into the nearest wall.
“You shit!” I hissed into his startled face. “You told. D’you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused me?”
“Take it easy,” said Danny, fending me off. “I didn’t tell anyone until today. And that was only because they got my arm up behind my back.”
“They what?” I demanded, still hanging onto his shirt.
“They twisted my arm behind my back,” said Danny. Lifting his right hand, he waved it emphatically in my face. “This arm. I was at my locker and they were bugging me—Len, Gary and a few other guys. They kept asking what was under the censor strips and I kept ducking it. So they took a quick look down the hall to make sure no teachers were around, then put me in a headlock and got my arm up behind my back.” Danny grimaced. “I was shitting acid, it hurt so bad. I couldn’t write all morning.”
A deep, shocked feeling poured through me. “They hurt you?” I said, letting go of his shirt.
“It’s all right now,” Danny said hastily. “I can write and stuff. But that’s the only reason I told, honest. It really hurt. And someone kept jamming my head into Len’s crotch, saying I was a fag to keep a girl’s secrets, and—”
“Say what?” I interrupted, my jaw dropping.
“Yeah,” Danny shrugged. “Weird, eh? Then Len said he knew I wanted to eat his dick, and he was going to feed it to me real good.”
“Jeeeeeeezus,” I gasped, and for a long moment we just stared at each other. “Hey,” I said finally, “I’m sorry for going after you like that. I should’ve known something like this happened. I know you would never tell on me unless...”
My voice trailed off, and again we stood and stared at each other.
“Well,” Danny said. “At least now you know for sure.”
A flush hit me and I nodded. Danny was right—I should have known better. But before I could start working myself into one of my funks, he added, “The weirdest thing was the way kids looked at me after—kids who had lockers near mine and were watching. I mean, I’m no fag. They know that. But suddenly they were all looking at me as if I’d been hiding something from them.”
“That’s crazy,” I said angrily, trying to ignore hi
s use of the word “fag.” “I can’t believe they would stand there and let those guys do that to you. I can’t believe Len and Gary...”
Again my voice trailed off as I saw the dubious look on Danny’s face. “Well,” I added slowly, “maybe I can. Len is a shit. I’ve always known that. Joc can’t stand him. Or Gary.”
“Yeah,” said Danny. “I guess Cam hangs around with them because they’re on the team.”
I nodded, then said, “Y’know, Danny—I’m so sick of them, their stupid jokes and beer-and-belch stories. If you ever make the football team, don’t act like that, okay?”
“Uh-uh,” said Danny. “I’m going to be like Cam, the guy who ties little girls’ shoes. But hey, Dyl—what’s the big secret about Foxfire and The Once and Future King? Why don’t you just tell everyone they’re the censored titles?”
Right away I got a quick breathy feeling in my chest. But then I thought, Get a grip, Goofus. This is just Danny. He’s not out to get you.
“D’you know what Foxfire is about?” I asked.
Danny shook his head.
“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “It’s about a gang of girls in the fifties, who do a Robin Hood thing and start robbing the rich to help the poor. We studied it this year in English. And, well, a lot of kids think the girls in the story are dykes.”
Danny’s eyes widened. “And you put that title,” he said softly, then paused. “Well...you know where.”
I shrugged. “Yeah,” I said, grinning slightly. “And then Brennan saw it and flipped.”
Danny whistled softly. “No wonder Len howled when I said Foxfire,” he said. “It was as if he’d struck pure gold.”
A sinking feeling took over my gut. “Yeah, I know,” I said dully.
Danny studied my face quietly. “Well, why did you do it?” he asked. “You must’ve known something like this could happen.”
I shrugged again. “You have to read the book,” I said. “It’s awesome, it made me feel like I could do things, be someone important. I mean, those girls thought for themselves and did what they thought was right. What does it matter if they were dykes or straights? Why does that matter?”
Danny shrugged back. “Okay,” he said agreeably. “I’ll read it. Have you got a copy?”
“Yeah,” I said, turning toward my room. “I’ve got my copy from English. I’ll get it for you. And Danny...”
I paused, looking back at him. “I’m really really sorry for jumping you like that,” I said fervently. “I should’ve known better.”
Danny nodded slowly. “Now you do,” he said, his dark eyes holding mine.
“Yeah,” I said, taking a quick breath. “I do.”
After giving Danny my copy of Foxfire, I went to my room, sat down on the bed and stared at the phone. As usual, my heart was doing its kick-ass thing, and my brain felt like the bell of doom, repeatedly tolling out a single thought: LEN, LEN, LEN. I mean, I had to call him, it was obvious. No way could I let what he did to Danny pass without comment, and no way did I want to have to make that comment to him in front of a watching audience at the Dief.
Slowly I reached for the phone, and just as slowly I pulled my hand back. No point in rushing things, I thought grimly. Not until I had what I wanted to say really clear in my mind.
Hugging myself tightly, I tried to figure out what that was, but the only thing my brain seemed to be picking up on was the megasonic thud of my heart. And the longer I sat, trying to come up with something specifically brilliant to say to Len, the more megasonic my heart became.
It’s kind of a dykish thing to do, isn’t it? I remembered him saying while Julie grinned at me smugly. I mean, for you to do.
Even though it was just a memory, my cheeks burned. It wasn’t so much what Len had said that was the problem now, it was the way he’d said it—so matter of fact and conclusive. As if there was no argument about it, the situation was case closed and nothing I could do, say or feel would ever change anything. And what made things worse was the fact that, technically speaking, his accusation had been correct. Len Schroeder was the one who’d told the truth today at lunch, and I was the one who’d lied. But that didn’t give him the right to attack my brother. Danny had been standing up for me whether I deserved it or not, and now it was my turn to do the same for him. Because there was no question about it—he deserved it.
Hands shaking, I picked up my address book and flipped to Len’s name. Then I dialed his number. On the fourth ring his mom answered and called him to the phone. Footsteps thudded in the background, I heard a mumbled “Thanks” as Len picked up the phone, and then he was breathing into the mouthpiece.
“Hello,” he said.
“This is Dylan,” I said, fighting a tremble in my voice. “Dylan Kowolski. As in Danny Kowolski’s older sister.”
There was a pause at the other end of the line and then Len said carefully, “I know who you are, Dylan.”
“Good,” I said, trying to ride out the massive slam-hammering of my heart. “Because I want you to know exactly who’s saying this to you and why. Listen closely. If you ever go near my brother again, I will tell everyone in the entire fucking Dief that you told Danny to eat your dick. Just before one of your buddies practically twisted his arm off, that is. You got that, Len?”
He breathed in and out, in and out. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I’ve got it.”
Takes one to know one, I thought, staring at the phone in my hand. A coward, that is.
I hung up. Then I just sat there for a while, staring at nothing while a hugeness raged around inside me. It wasn’t anything I could define, just a gigantic kind of energy, roaring away—a mix of gladness and sadness, pride, fear and absolute hysteria, making me feel ten times my actual body size.
Well, I thought grimly, at least one thing was clear. In spite of all the twisted crap going on in my life, my heart wasn’t stuck living inside The Egyptian Book of the Dead anymore.
With a tiny crouching smile, I went downstairs to help with supper.
The following morning was pretty much like the previous one, a hello-how-are-you-I’m-fine-see-you-later bike ride to school with Joc, then three endless hours in class, watching the wall clocks go round. Finally the lunch bell rang, and I headed to the library to do my weekly volunteer shift.
“There you are, Dylan,” said Ms. Fowler as I walked up to the check-out desk. “I’m so glad you’re on time. I have a meeting with the tutoring club in my office at twelve, and most of them are already here.”
“No prob,” I said. “No detention today—I haven’t been kissing any doors lately.”
Flashing me a small grin, Ms. Fowler went into her office, and I took up position behind the desk. The library was the usual scene—kids yakking over the tops of study carrels, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Crouched down beside a filing cart, I was heavily involved in the alphabetizing process when someone let out a low whistle behind me. Turning, I saw Dikker standing on the other side of the check-out desk, holding a book.
“Hey, Dylan,” he grinned, setting it on the counter. “Sign me out this book, pronto.”
Reluctantly I got to my feet, swiveled the book around and looked at the title: The Stage in Shakespeare’s Time. “You can’t be serious,” I said. “This book has words in it, lots of them.”
“Mr. Tyrrell sent me down to get it for him,” Dikker shrugged. “Anyway, don’t pick on me. I’m already bleeding.”
“Bleeding?” I said, surprised at his plaintive tone. “Why? Did the book give you a paper cut?”
A bewildered look crossed Dikker’s face. “Paper cut!” he said. “Come on—more like my heart. It’s been three days and I’m still hemorrhaging.”
“Hemorrhaging?” I repeated. Now it was my turn to look confused. “Why would you be hemorrhaging?”
Dikker’s jaw dropped, and then he said, “She didn’t tell you? But you two are like glue.”
“No,” I said, swallowing hard. “She hasn’t told me, whatever it
is.”
“She dumped me,” Dikker said flatly. “Last Saturday night. I haven’t talked to her since.”
Stunned, I stood staring at him while he stared back at me. “Oh,” I said finally, then got myself into gear, signed out his book and handed it over.
“Did she...happen to say why?” I asked cautiously.
“Not really,” said Dikker, taking the book. “Just that she wanted to think about things for a while. I dunno, stuff like that.” He looked around helplessly. “What’s there to think about all of a sudden? We went out for a year and a half without thinking. In that whole time I didn’t cheat on her, I swear I never cheated on her once. So why would she be gung-ho for me one day and suddenly break up with me the next?”
Again we stood staring at each other, except this time my eyes kept flicking to the display case behind him.
“I don’t know,” I said finally. “Like I said, Joc hasn’t talked to me about it.”
“Weird,” said Dikker. He sighed heavily, then gave me a lopsided grin. “‘The frailty of women,’” he quoted emphatically.
“Yeah right,” I said. “Joc is hardly Ophelia. No way would you catch her drowning herself over some turd who treated her the way Hamlet treated Ophelia.”
For a moment Dikker just stood there blinking at me. “Okay,” he said, “but it’s still a great line. And here’s another one.”
Staggering backward with one hand pressed to his heart, he said, “‘What should fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven?’”
Hamlet seemed to be perking him up quite rapidly. With a half-grin, I said, “Watch out for broken glass, I guess.”
Slowly Dikker lowered his hand, his playfulness vanishing. “I really would’ve thought she’d’ve told you,” he said. “She was always closer to you than me. It bugged me, that thing between you two, as if the rest of the world was just...well, extra.”
