Busted: Confessions of an Accidental Player

by Antony John

  “Dude. Like. Whoa.”

  Spud stands beside me, and in spite of his monosyllabic conversational skills, I can’t help feeling I have a lot more in common with him than with Brandon.

  “I guess we’ll have Morgan’s scores by Monday,” I say under my breath.

  Spud nods. “Dude.”

  On the way to IHOP I seriously begin to question my transition to Brookbank’s social elite. After all, while I’m riding shotgun with Spud in his sputtering Chevy Nova, wondering what’s holding all the pieces of rust together, Brandon’s riding shotgun with Morgan in her Miata, probably scanning through the tracks on her iPod until he finds the right make-out song. I’m no expert, but these seem like the polar extremes of coolness, and right now I’m definitely on the wrong end.

  Spud’s car stalls at the entrance to the IHOP parking lot. As we push it into a disabled parking space, I have the unsettling feeling that I was more hip when I was just a geeky flutist. I’ve gone from bad to worse—a classic Mopsely maneuver.

  Inside, the baseball team has commandeered a few booths, but everyone fights to share Brandon’s table. He doesn’t seem to notice, since he’s busy giving Morgan one last tongue. Then he pats her on the butt and sends her packing to the cheerleaders’ booth. As I follow Spud toward a mostly empty booth, I hear Brandon calling me over to join him.

  “But there’s no room,” Zach scowls, as soon as he sees me.

  “Are you sure about that?” says Brandon. “Because if there isn’t, you’re going to need to move. Kev’s my guest of honor.” He punches my arm in ritualistic greeting.

  Zach shifts a few inches, grumbling under his breath. I sit down gingerly and glance at the baseball players across from me. They all have that sheen of sweaty masculinity, even though most of them never broke into a jog the whole game.

  “What can I get you boys?” asks a kind-looking woman, her face a tangle of laugh lines.

  “Well, for a start you can get us a waitress who’s under sixty,” mutters Zach. “Grab Keira.” He points across the table at Ryan. “This guy’s banging her at the moment.”

  The woman blinks a few times. She looks as though she’s about to say something, but instead she just studies each of our faces like she’s memorizing details for the voodoo dolls she plans to make later.

  “What was that all about?” muses Brandon, as soon as she leaves.

  “Weird,” comments Zach profoundly.

  Moments later Keira sidles up to our table, flushed red with embarrassment.

  “Hey, Ryan,” she whispers, then bites her lower lip nervously and fiddles with her paper pad.

  “Hey, babe,” Ryan bellows. “How much free shit’ll you be able to get us tonight?”

  Keira spins around like she’s expecting to find the manager beside her taking notes.

  “I don’t know, okay? It’s not easy. And now you’ve upset Janet, and she’s the manager’s wife, so I’ll have to be real careful.”

  Ryan shakes his head disgustedly. “Whatever. Don’t do us any favors or nothing. I’m just your boyfriend, that’s all. Nothing special.”

  “Oh, Ryan, I’m sorry. I’ll take care of it, okay? Food’s on me tonight. I’ll pay out of my tips.”

  Keira takes our orders, but I can’t bear to ask for anything. Ryan notices and orders the most expensive item on the menu for me. Keira winces, then leaves.

  “That was good, man,” applauds Zach, chinking his glass of water against Ryan’s. “Do you even like this chick, or is it just about the free food?”

  “Some of both, you know?”

  Zach nods and crunches an ice cube loudly between his teeth.

  “Hey, guys,” says Paige, venturing over from the cheerleaders’ booth. “Whassup?”

  Paige Tramell is hot and she knows it. She’s tied her blond hair back in two long pigtails that scream I’m-cute-and-I’m-innocent! and she’s changed into a bright white crop top (she always dresses in white to be ironic) that shows off her belly button ring. All the guys stare unblinkingly at her tummy, but she pretends not to notice, so I figure she doesn’t mind. I look too.

  “Haven’t seen you here before, Kevin,” she says.

  I feel my head jerking back up to her face. “No, I … ”

  “He’s one of us now,” says Brandon, wrapping a muscled arm around me. “Trust me, Kevin’s big time.”

  “Oh yeah?” Paige’s brows knit momentarily, but then she smiles and bites her lip in a really sexy way. “I’ll have to remember that,” she says, tapping her finger against her head. “That’s the kind of thing a girl ought to know, Kevin.”

  Just to hear her say my name makes my legs go to Jell-O. I try to think of something to say, but my mouth just flaps open and shut a few times like a fish starved of oxygen. Eventually I look away. I know it’s a dorky response, but I don’t care. I want to bottle this moment and keep it for the rest of my life.

  I’ve officially entered the ranks of the cool.

  9

  I’m trying not to ogle Morgan and Taylor, but it’s difficult. They’re sitting on either side of me, forming a Kevin sandwich with their pretty faces and beautiful breasts. As they lean over our shared table in a way that reminds me how truly feminine they are, I worry that my hard-on won’t wear off before class ends. But then I realize what a wonderful problem that is to have, and offer a silent prayer of thanks to Brandon.

  While she waits for everyone to calm down—which always takes up the first ten minutes of every English class—Ms. Kowalski glares at our unlikely trio. If she were a guy I’d say she’s just jealous of me, but instead I assume this is all related to the Graduation Rituals. I never realized how much it would bug her. And I certainly never guessed she’d call my mom. I don’t think that Ms. K and I are best buddies anymore.

  For most of class Ms. K monologues on everything from Sylvia Plath to split infinitives, and the room gets progressively quieter. Eventually she runs out of steam, sits down, and rummages through her notes.

  “All right,” she says with forced enthusiasm, “in honor of our baseball team’s recent success, I’d like to discuss your favorite sports movies.”

  “Friday Night Lights,” shouts Ryan, whose status as one of the pitchers for the victorious team makes him well-qualified to speak without raising his hand. “It’s got everything … guys hitting each other, career-ending injuries, domestic violence.”

  Beside me, Taylor tuts disapprovingly. “What a profound basis for a movie.” Even when she’s pissed, her voice is rich and sexy.

  “You just don’t understand it ’cause you’re a girl.”

  “Another profound observation.”

  “Now, now,” interjects Ms. K, “I think what Ryan’s saying is that he appreciates the way these movies affirm his masculinity. Isn’t that right, Ryan?”

  Ryan stares at her blankly. I think the tiny part of his brain that still functions is gradually turning to mush.

  “Ryan?”

  It’s painfully amusing to watch Ryan stare. If it goes on long enough he may start bleeding from his ears. That would be kind of cool.

  “Ryan? Do you think that’s reasonable?” Ms. K repeats, an encouraging smile pasted on her face.

  Ryan continues his audition for the waxworks museum, and eventually Ms. K looks kind of freaked out. She turns to the rest of the class.

  “Anyone else got a favorite sports film?” she says with decidedly less enthusiasm.

  Morgan raises her hand, and as she does her hair brushes against my arm. It’s soft and smells citrus-y, and it glints in the brightness of the room, and I suddenly have no idea what she’s saying.

  “That’s a good example, Morgan,” Ms. K commends her. “I’m sure we’ve all seen A League of Their Own. But what’s the appeal?”

  “Are you kidding?” gasps P
aige from her customary seat at the back of the room. “There’s the cute cast, for a start. Like, Geena Davis before she got old—hot chick. Madonna before she got pregnant—hot chick. And Tom Hanks has got to be the most adorable drunk guy in, like, forever. And even the fat chick gets to be funny, so she’s cool too.”

  Taylor sighs. “Maybe that’s why no one takes women’s sports seriously. They’re just interested in whether the women are cute or funny.”

  “Which is why cheerleading is so important,” says Morgan earnestly. “It shows everyone we’re athletic as well.”

  “Yeah, great. We stand on the sidelines cheering on the boys. And even then, nobody watches us.”

  She’s wrong about that, but it’s probably not cool for me to admit that whenever I’m forced to attend games I spend the whole time ogling the cheerleaders.

  “That’s an excellent point, Taylor.” Ms. K claps her hands together. “And quite relevant to what our special guest has come to say.”

  Everyone seems as surprised as I am that there’s a guest, and that they’d arrive only five minutes before the end of class.

  “As you’re probably aware,” Ms. K continues, “you have little more than a month of school left. And since it’s no secret that we don’t give a final exam at the end of senior year, I decided it might be preferable to some of you to broaden your horizons. So, for the rest of the semester, you’ll have the option to attend either my class or a class that focuses on women’s issues in modern society—like equal opportunities, and sexism, and feminism. It’ll be taught by a professor from Brookbank University, and it’s open to everyone—”

  Ryan snorts loudly, a characteristically intellectual contribution. But I’m not snorting. I’m taking deep breaths, trying to remain calm.

  “—She’s an inspirational teacher, and will get you thinking about these issues in ways you may never have imagined. I’d recommend it to all of you, but obviously it’s optional.” Ms. K looks out to the corridor and beckons the professor in. “I’d like you all to give a big Brookbank welcome to Dr. Maggie Donaldson.”

  Dr. Maggie Donaldson enters hurriedly, shakes Ms. Kowalski’s hand, then scans the room. She doesn’t make eye contact with me, but I look away anyway. I don’t need to watch her to know how she looks: she’s wearing her silvery hair long because she thinks it looks distinguished, when really it just makes her look old; her bright red fingernail polish is spotty because she bites her nails; she’s wearing a long flowery dress with sewn-on satin flowers that her mother bought during a family pilgrimage to San Francisco for the “summer of love,” 1967. Even though it barely hangs together, she says it’s her favorite dress.

  I look around the room at the other students, expecting to see them making faces at one another—if anyone in history is ripe for a Brookbank High crucifixion, it’s her. But no one is laughing. Instead, they’re hanging on her every word because she’s a college professor, not a teacher. She’s the most unfashionable person they’ve ever seen and she keeps using words most of them won’t understand, but they respect her anyway.

  For the first time in my life, I am truly jealous of my mom.

  10

  At the first opportunity, all the guys sprint away like they’re being chased. Meanwhile, I wait at the back of the room as one by one the girls step forward to sign up for the new class. As they leave, each one casts a nervous glance in my direction, obviously thinking I’d be nuts to sign up for a class on Women’s Studies.

  They have no idea how right they are.

  Eventually only Ms. Kowalski and my mom and me remain, and Ms. K is smirking triumphantly. It’s like she’s declared war on me and is savoring an early, decisive victory.

  “Thanks so much, Dr. Donaldson.”

  Mom snorts. “Please, call me Maggie. I think we can do away with formal titles now, can’t we?”

  Ms. K looks unsure. “Okay … Maggie. But seriously, thanks. I just know this’ll be a positive experience for everyone.”

  “Oh, it’s my pleasure, Jane,” replies Mom.

  Jane? I don’t think I ever realized that the J in Ms. J. Kowalski actually stood for anything.

  “Jane was one of the finest students I ever taught at Brookbank,” Mom explains to me. “But I’ve probably told you that many times, right?”

  Huh? No, she has not told me that many times. In fact, she’s never even mentioned that Ms. K was a student of hers. This is cruel and unusual.

  “Well,” says Ms. K amiably, “I’ll leave you two to … to … ” She blushes, then tries to salvage a graceful exit by speeding away.

  “I hadn’t realized so many of your classmates would be interested in my class,” Mom exclaims. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Yeah, great. But don’t think I’ll be coming.”

  She laughs. “I wouldn’t expect you to. If you don’t understand these issues after living with me for eighteen years, then it’s probably too late anyway. But Jane seems to think that there are some boys in the senior class who are enforcing unattainable and repugnant ideals of femininity, and she really doesn’t want any of the girls to fall afoul of their particular brand of ideological misogyny.”

  Okay, so that’s how you know my mom’s a professor, because she can conjure phrases like “ideological misogyny” without stuttering or pausing to draw her breath. It’s strangely impressive and mesmerizing. And it’s just dawning on me that the people she’s referring to are Brandon Trent’s gang. And that includes me.

  Then Mom’s smile disappears, replaced by a look of concern. “What’s the matter?”

  “Huh?”

  “Come on. You think I can’t tell when you’re angry?”

  “I’m not angry,” I lie.

  “Okay, although—”

  “All right, then, yeah, I’m angry. How could you do this without telling me?”

  Mom carefully places the list of names into her hemp shoulder bag. “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  “When?”

  “Last week. I told you Ms. Kowalski had called me, and you told me you just wanted some space at school. And I’ll give you space, don’t worry.”

  “So this is what she called you about—doing the class?”

  “Yes, obviously. Why else would she call?”

  I gulp. “Um, no reason.”

  “Kevin, please. I know that something’s going on here. Let’s just get it all out in the open, okay?”

  It’s tempting. I’ve never been good at keeping secrets from Mom, but telling her about the Book of Busts would be equivalent to announcing I’ve joined a Satanic cult.

  “There’s nothing else,” I assure her. “I just hadn’t expected to see you here. It’s a shock, that’s all.”

  She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. “Well, don’t worry. I don’t want to embarrass you or make your life complicated. You won’t even know I’m here!”

  Mom saunters off with a lightness of step that I find completely inappropriate and quite enviable.

  I’m feeling out of my depth, so I do what I always do when things spiral out of control: I call Abby. She has caller ID, so I know she’ll pick up the phone after a single ring. Sure enough, the line clicks to life, but before I can speak her voice erupts on the other end:

  “Isn’t it wonderful, your mom teaching the Women’s Studies course?”

  How does she know about that?

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Because she came into my English class and introduced herself. It’s not just your class that’s invited to take her course, you know.”

  “I wasn’t saying that—”

  “I think it’s so cool what she’s doing,” Abby bubbles. “I’m definitely going to go. The way I see it, Brandon and his pack of lap dogs have gotten away with their sexist agenda for lon
g enough.”

  I can’t believe how like my mom she sounds. It’s actually kind of scary.

  “Did you hear me, Kev?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And don’t you agree?”

  “Uh …”

  She coughs meaningfully. “What’s going on?”

  “What do you mean? Nothing’s going on.”

  “Kevin …”

  I take a deep breath. “Look, if I tell you, do you promise not to give me a hard time?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, okay … Um, well, you know Brandon’s meeting the other day? I sort of, did go to it, actually and … well, it’s kind of like I’m … sort of … involved.”

  Abby treats me to a lengthy silence before mumbling, “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Well … ” Oh geez. Even now I’m tempted to lie to her and pretend that yeah, I’m kidding. “No, I’m not kidding.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I didn’t know what the meeting was about. I had no way of knowing what I was getting into.”

  “Crikey, Kev, your mom’ll brain you if she finds out. Or she’ll just cut you off, or cut you up, or throw you out and disown you—”

  “This is not helping, Abby.”

  “Sorry, but it’s true. Looking on the bright side, at least nobody but me knows she’s your mom. I’d forgotten she goes by her maiden name, and it was pretty clear no one knew who she was. Even Nathan and Caitlin didn’t recognize her.”

  I hadn’t considered this. “That could be a lifesaver.”

  “For now, sure. But it’s only a matter of time before someone makes the connection.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it. It’ll happen, and when it does she’ll castrate you—”

  “Abby!”

  “I’m just saying … You know what you have to do, right? You’ve got to face those guys and say ‘no, I won’t be involved in this.’ This isn’t who you are, Kevin. Brandon’s an asshole. You’re not.”