Hello Groin

by Beth Goobie

  His eyes held my face for a moment, as if trying to read something in it, and then he turned and walked out of the library. Watching him go, I almost called after him, but then I thought, What could I tell him? I’m the last person who would know what Joc is thinking.

  At that moment the door to Ms. Fowler’s office opened, and the tutoring club came pouring out. On their heels, Ms. Fowler walked up to the check-out desk and said, “Thank you so much, Dylan. You’re one of my most reliable volunteers. I don’t suppose...”

  Hesitantly she glanced at the display case. “Well,” she added wistfully, “you haven’t been struck with a genius idea for next month’s display, have you?”

  “Uh no,” I said, aiming for a tone between definite and polite. Another display was absolutely the last thing I needed right now. Glancing at the infamous construction-paper silhouettes, I studied them for about the zillionth time, and that was when it hit me. The three titles Ms. Fowler had put in the girl’s groin—To Kill A Mockingbird, Stranger In A Strange Land and The Farthest Shore—she’d chosen them for a reason. They were a kind of code, clues that said something about her.

  I wanted to ask her then, oh how I wanted to ask her straight out. Instead, I went at it deviously.

  “Ms. Fowler,” I asked. “Are you married?”

  “No,” she said, giving me a startled glance. “No, I never have been.”

  “Do you have kids?” I asked.

  A brief sadness passed through her face, and she shook her head. “No,” she said quietly. “I don’t.”

  “Are you happy?” I asked, watching her carefully.

  “Happy?” she repeated, as if astounded. “I don’t know about happy.” Eyes narrowed, she stared off across the library. “I don’t know if I would say life is about being happy, Dylan,” she said finally. “But I’m alive, and aware, and learning. And yes, every now and then I am actually happy.”

  For a moment we just looked at each other, a kind of unspoken meaning there in the air between us. Then Ms. Fowler gave a small shrug and said, “It’s the seventeenth of October, and I’m going to have to put up a new display soon. Put on your thinking cap and see if you can come up with another brilliant idea, why don’t you?”

  “Maybe,” I said cautiously. “I’ll think about it.”

  And we left it at that.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  When I got to English after lunch, I put on my best terminally bored expression, dropped into my seat and tried to glance casually at Joc. But instead of glancing back, she continued to sit, eyes closed, and leaned against the wall with an equally terminally bored expression on her face. I am stuck here in neutral for the rest of my life—the thought was written all over her. And my having just walked into the room obviously hadn’t changed that for her. Last Thursday afternoon was beginning to look more and more like something that belonged in a parallel universe.

  Holding up my copy of 1984, I said, “You’ve read half of this already? What’s happened to your love life?”

  Joc’s terminally bored expression didn’t waver. Looking me dead in the eye, she said, “I get Dikker to read it to me. Then I can pay attention.”

  “Oh,” I said weakly, my eyes flicking away. Then, of course, I got hit with another neurotic power blush.

  Blushing! I thought furiously. Why the hell am I blushing? I’m not the one lying here.

  Grimly I forced my gaze back to Joc’s to find her still watching me, her eyes tired and dull-looking, but with something glimmering in behind the dullness. I had to hand it to her—of the two of us, she was the much better faker.

  “You mean he’s not quoting Hamlet at you anymore?” I asked, watching for a change in her expression, a brief flicker in her gaze, but she just shrugged.

  “I wanted to tell you,” she said coolly. “I’ve decided to start walking to school in the morning. I’m getting fat and I need the exercise.”

  Panic hit me full force. “What d’you mean?” I asked, my voice going up into a squeak. “The last thing you are is fat. I wish I was as thi—”

  “Dikker said I was,” Joc said flatly, cutting me off. Again, her gaze didn’t waver, but mine did. I mean, in all the years that I’d known Joc, I’d never figured she would flat out lie to me. And I had the feeling she knew that I knew she was lying. So how come I was the one who felt guilty about it?

  “Okay,” I said helplessly. And then, because there didn’t seem to be anything else to say, I turned around in my desk and sat facing the front of the room. The clock over the door stood at two minutes to one, and all across the classroom kids were yakking, getting in that last bit of gossip before the bell went. Even Mr. Cronk was talking to a couple of front-row keeners at his desk. Usually Joc and I were the last ones to break off conversation when the bell rang, in fact it was probably more realistic to say that we never actually broke off talking, just took a few breathers here and there. But today, as the last minute ran down on the clock, we sat side by side, deadly quiet. Never before had I realized how lonely air could feel.

  Finally the bell went, launching Mr. Cronk into 1984. Stuck in a funk, I barely heard a word he said. Why is she doing this to me? I kept thinking. Why would she lie about Dikker? And why, all of a sudden, would she want to start walking to school? Does she hate me that much?

  No, I thought, getting an infinitesimal grip. Joc would never hate me. But if she thought I was attracted to her and she wasn’t to me, she would go out of her way to tell me in every way possible.

  So how did I prove to her absolutely that I was hetero? As the classroom clock ticked off the seconds, I tried frantically to come up with the perfect, drop-dead, hysterically funny one-liner that would completely terminate all of her doubts. But my brain was like a blender, turning all my thoughts into mush. And when the bell finally went, Joc shot out of her seat before I could even turn toward her.

  “See you,” she mumbled and headed for the door. I don’t think she even looked at me.

  “Yeah,” I whispered, watching her go. “See you, I guess.”

  That was the way it went for the rest of the week—cold lonely bike rides in the morning and one-liner, deep-freeze conversations in English. To make things worse, Cam had volunteered to ref the lunch-hour volleyball intra-murals that had just started, and with his after-school football practices I hardly saw him. Suddenly, everywhere I looked the school felt...empty. So when my intra-murals team didn’t have a game, I put in time shelving books for Ms. Fowler in the library and otherwise sat tight and waited for Joc to work her way through whatever it was that she was working her way through.

  Then, Friday lunch hour as I was trudging drearily through the cafeteria en route to the library to shelve more books, someone called my name. Turning, I saw a grade ten girl named Arlene Heidt get to her feet at a nearby table and wave at me. Easy to pick out of any crowd, Arlene had triple-dyed hair (green, orange and pink), a stud in her nose and right cheek, and was the Dief’s best trumpet player. She also happened to be one of its five official lesbians.

  “Hey, Dylan,” she called again, and without thinking I started toward her. At that moment my eyes fell on the couple sitting across from her—Joyce Dueck and Lucy Settee, two of the Deif’s other known lesbians. Not only were Joyce and Lucy holding hands in a way that broadcast their relationship far and wide, but they were both looking right at me. That was when it hit me: I was in direct transit toward three dykes who obviously had something to say to me, and I was immediately blasted with that familiar flamethrower feeling.

  “Uh, hi,” I said, coming to a halt at the end of their table.

  “Hi yourself,” said Arlene, giving me a wide grin. “I just wanted to tell you that I really like your display.”

  Across the table Joyce and Lucy nodded enthusiastically. “I heard you put Foxfire under the girl’s censor strip,” said Lucy. “Is that true?”

  “Yeah,” I shrugged. The word about Foxfire and The Once and Future King had been out for several days now. To my surp
rise it hadn’t been that big a deal. A few kids had asked me why I’d used Foxfire, but when I’d told them it was a book about justice and courage, they’d simply bought it. But then that might have had something to do with the fact that my face didn’t go fireball red when they asked me about it. I guess, after what had been happening lately with Joc, my kiss with Sheila felt like ancient history. So Foxfire didn’t have that overloaded meaning anymore. In the end it was just a story about a group of girls from another century.

  “Sweet,” said Arlene, brightening. “I love that book.”

  “Thanks,” I said quickly. Grabbing at a chance to end the conversation, I turned toward the exit.

  “And,” said Arlene, raising her voice so I either had to turn back or listen to her shout at me from halfway across the cafeteria, “I have a message for you. From a friend.”

  The flamethrower feeling was back, full force. “Oh yeah?” I said, turning slowly to face her.

  “Yeah,” said Arlene, her eyes flat on me. “Her name’s Sheila. Sheila Warren. Remember her?”

  As if on cue, Joyce, Lucy and the entire table honed in on me—kids from the drama club, the creative writing club, the junior and senior bands.

  “Um...yeah,” I said, focusing on a zit that sat dead center on Arlene’s forehead. “I met her a while ago at Confed.”

  “You sure did,” said Arlene, her grin growing wider. “Anyway, she asked me to say hi.”

  “Great,” I said, forcing myself not to turn and run screaming for the exit. “Well, thanks, I guess.”

  “Anytime,” said Arlene. “Want to sit down? Join us?”

  Jeeeeezus! I thought, but managed to keep a grip. “Really, I can’t,” I mumbled. “Things to do, y’know? Gotta go.”

  This time I did take off for the door, but not before I saw a knowing grin pass between Arlene, Joyce and Lucy. Then I was out of the cafeteria and heading down the hall, my thoughts in absolute chaos. They knew, damn it. The Dief’s official lesbians knew. And if they saw my dumb stupid drunken mistake with Sheila Warren as the hilarious joke they so obviously thought it was, they would be more than likely to pass it on to someone else. Wasn’t everyone always ready for a good laugh?

  I had to get a grip and think about this, just get a grip and think. So instead of going to the library as planned, I grabbed my jacket out of my locker and went for a walk. The wind was in a nasty mood, ripping and tearing the last of the leaves from the trees, but that suited me fine and I walked straight into it with my head down, letting its cold twisting emptiness blow right through me. Bitch, I kept thinking. That Sheila Warren is such a bitch. I mean, why did she have to tell Arlene Heidt, a dyke from my school, of all people? Why couldn’t she just keep it to herself? This was about both of us, after all. What right did she have to spread stories about what had so obviously been a private moment?

  Blurry block after blurry block passed, my eyes stinging with tears. Gradually, very gradually, my funk began to wear off. I could have kept it pumped, telling myself how much I hated Sheila and how I was going to get her back, absolutely bury her in an avalanche of rumors and lies. I mean, I knew how that worked—hadn’t I been observing the phone patrol in operation, up close and personal, for almost a year? All I had to do was feed them a few tidbits and they would be on their phones, spreading the dirt with glee. That kind of thing was a real rush for them.

  But what would be the point? Sure, it would cover my ass for a while, but Sheila didn’t deserve that. Besides, my ass was getting pretty lonely these days. I seemed to have developed quite a knack for convincing my closest friends that they didn’t want to spend time with me. If only I could figure out where I’d gone wrong. If only I knew how to get inside Joc’s head and figure out what she was thinking, so I would know the best thing to say to her, the exact way she wanted me to be. That was all I wanted really—for last Thursday afternoon to be forgotten as if it had never happened and to have my best best friend back again.

  Getting my lonely ass into gear, I turned around and headed back to the Dief.

  That evening Cam and I went to a house party at Gary Pankratz’s. Gary’s family was well off; he lived in a gated community, and his dad was frequently out of town on business. That left his mom in charge of things, or rather, not in charge. I mean, the last thing Ms. Pankratz could be called was domineering. She basically doted on her two sons, and when they had friends over she pretty much let anything go. Not that their parties were bedlam—Ms. Pankratz didn’t let us wreck the place—but there were several empty bedrooms and a lot of dark corners, with only an ancient German shepherd to supervise. So, all things considered, a party at Gary’s place was a parallel universe to a party at Deirdre Buffone’s.

  When Cam and I knocked, Gary’s brother Luke answered the door. We followed him into the rec room to see that it was pretty much the usual—kids sprawled on the couch and floor watching a video, a pool game going on in one corner and Ms. Pankratz sticking her head in every now and then, glancing quickly around the room and heading back to another TV at the other end of the house. The expected group was there—Len, the phone patrol, your basic jock social club. Room was made on the couch, and I sat down, leaving a space for Cam, but he grinned and said he was going over to check out the pool game. For a second I almost jumped up and scurried after him—something about Gary’s place had me constantly riding my nerves—but I managed to get a grip.

  C’mon, bozo, I thought. Half the kids at the Dief would kill to be in your shoes right now. Act like you know it.

  “Hey, Dylan,” said Rachel, leaning over and whacking me on the leg. “Listen up. You are getting a scoop here. Monday morning before homeroom, you are to march your ass down to the gym and tell Harada you’re available to play ball.”

  Confused, I just looked at her. The volleyball season had been underway for weeks, and as far as I knew no players had died recently. Then, as Rachel sat there, continuing to grin at me, I started to get it. An enormous sinking feeling took over my gut. “Why would I do that?” I asked slowly.

  On either side of Rachel, Julie and Deirdre broke into snickers. Rachel’s grin widened.

  “Because we snagged a spot for you,” she said dramatically. “Just for you. After we made the dyke e-vic-tion, that is.”

  Julie’s and Deirdre’s snickers escalated into guffaws, and they collapsed against Rachel in a hysterical seizure. With a condescending smirk, she patted them on the head.

  Weed, I thought. Or the punch is spiked.

  Then I thought, Not once. I mean, school had been on for a month and a half, and not once had I stopped Michelle Allen in the hall to ask how things were going. She was in grade twelve and I didn’t know her that well, but still...

  “What d’you mean, eviction?” I asked carefully.

  “Michelle quit,” Rachel said smugly. “It took an entire month to convince her, but she’s finally seen the light. Apparently it happened today. Harada told me after school. Michelle’s quit the team, she’s quit the Dief, and she’s gone back to Confed where she belongs. So right away, of course, I told Harada you’ d be more than happy to take Michelle’s place. And the team would be happy to see you take it too, because...well, because we know you’re...safe.”

  Suddenly Rachel was also splitting a gut and collapsing on top of Julie and Deirdre. Eyes narrowed, I sat watching the merriment and trying to ignore the massive heat crawling across my face. Rachel Gonzales had a real knack for confusing a compliment with a knife in the back.

  “I dunno,” I hedged. “I’m not really in shape. I’d be too far behind the rest of you.”

  “You’ll catch up,” said Rachel, straightening. “Mind over matter, that’s all it takes. And now you’ll finally be part of the team the way you should’ve been in the first place. Unless...” She paused, eyeing me significantly, then added, “You’re too busy reading Foxfire, that is.”

  Stiffening, I sat trapped within the kick-ass thud of my heart as Rachel lost it to further hilarity. Things had b
een quiet on the Foxfire front since Cam had laid down the law earlier in the week, but illegal chemicals had a way of bringing out the uglies in people.

  “Mind over matter,” wheezed Rachel, grinning at me. “Fox over fire, fox over fire.”

  Silently I gritted my teeth and settled in for the long haul. If there was one thing last Monday’s lunch in the cafeteria had taught me, it was that protesting would only be interpreted as a sign of guilt. Fortunately, before Rachel could recover enough to get in another jab, Cam sat down beside me and handed me a glass of Coke. Then he held up a bottle of vodka that was obviously making the rounds.

  “The moon or Mars?” he asked, giving me our private code on how much liquor to add.

  “Mars,” I said grimly. As he tilted the bottle over my glass, I leaned into him, bumping his arm so extra vodka poured in. He looked at me, eyebrows raised, and I shrugged, so he shrugged back.

  “Okay,” he said. “But make sure you’re walking straight when I take you home.”

  He turned to pass the bottle to someone else, and I quickly lifted my glass and downed half the contents. Then I leaned back against the couch to ride out the burn in my stomach. I’d never drunk vodka before, and at first I wondered if Cam had been fooling me by adding water to my drink because all I could taste was Coke. But soon things started to feel warm and fuzzy, and I knew the vodka was kicking in. Which was fine with me—warm and fuzzy had a way of making Rachel’s predatory face seem almost...well, nice.

  Laying my head on Cam’s shoulder, I watched the general goings-on. Kids were leaving the room at frequent intervals, searching out dark private corners or looking for the can. As usual Gary was playing Mr. Hook-Up Man, swaggering around with his bedroom key and handing it over to privileged couples along with a time limit. I mean, it was the ultimate power trip, his shining moment of glory. Len and Julie were the first to land the key, of course, and when they returned forty minutes later, they were both smiling like the cat’s meow.

  But then, I thought, studying Julie’s face, how else could they look? I mean, with everyone watching like boogeldy-eyed bears?