Busted

by Antony John

  Ms. K beckons me away from the door as if she’s afraid my classmates might be lurking outside, eavesdropping. She needn’t worry—eavesdropping implies a level of celebrity I’ll never achieve.

  Abby waggles her finger at me as she heads off to class. “I told you they’d find out you did it.”

  “Find out you did what?” asks Ms. K, concerned.

  “Nothing. Abby’s just teasing me.”

  “Oh. That’s quite funny.”

  “Yes. And I’m her favorite target.”

  “Indeed.” For a moment, Ms. K’s eyebrows rise inquiringly, but then she clears her throat. “Kevin, I, um, just wondered if your mom is still teaching at Brookbank University?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, good.”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, I just wondered.” She waves my question away with a flick of her hand and an open smile. “I trust that you won’t be going to Brandon’s meeting?”

  Her question catches me off guard. Ever since parent-teacher night my freshman year she’s taken a personal interest in my studies, but never in my extracurricular activities. I’m about to say no, they’d probably kill me if I showed up, but then I realize what she’s really saying is that even the teachers know I’m not cool enough to belong to Brandon’s group.

  Over the past four years I’ve become reconciled to belonging to what Abby calls a “select minority,” but hearing a teacher acknowledge my unpopularity marks a new low. I want to tell her she’s wrong, only I’m pretty sure she’s not, so instead I hover moodily while she tucks her hair behind her ears. But then I remember that the bell rang three minutes ago, so I take off—because I hate being late.

  Which I guess is incontrovertible proof that Ms. K has me pegged.

  3

  It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when my progress toward Acceptable Boyfriend Material seemed steady, if unspectacular.

  The first breakthrough occurred in spring of fifth grade. During the annual hobbies class I performed a flute piece called “Dance of the Blessed Spirits,” by the unfortunately named Christoph Willibald von Gluck. It’s one of those great pieces that make you sound like a virtuoso, even though it’s the pianist who’s really doing all the work.

  My accompanist was sweating profusely by the end, but I remained a model of calm professionalism. And I would have stayed that way if Natasha Williams and her butt-length black hair hadn’t padded over and praised me on every aspect of my performance. She even asked if she could touch my flute, which seemed like an innocent enough request. After I made her apply antibacterial gel to both hands, I handed it over.

  I’ll never forget the look on her face: reverential, inspired. Her eyes flitted from me to my flute, like she was seeing me for the first time. I was only ten, but the electricity between us was palpable. I knew that things would never be the same.

  Natasha took about ten deep breaths, shifting her weight from one leg to the other.

  “Would you be willing to, like, you know, give me flute lessons?” she asked finally. “That was such a nice piece you played. I’d like to be able to do that. Will you give me lessons? Please?”

  She spoke so falteringly that I could tell she was nervous. Normally I’d have been nervous too, but we were talking about the flute, of all things. This was my turf. I felt emboldened.

  “Natasha, have you got a crush on me?” I teased.

  Natasha froze. Her face flashed pink, then red, then a deep burgundy that didn’t seem entirely human. I began to suspect that her next words might not be as complimentary as I’d initially hoped.

  “Kevin Mopsely, you … you butthole,” she snapped, clattering the flute on the desk. “Just forget it, okay?”

  As she stormed out of the room, I couldn’t help wondering why I hadn’t just said “yes”; a few weekly lessons is all she’d have needed to realize that my dorky reputation wasn’t entirely justified. And then we’d probably have started dating, I’m sure of it. After all, she never actually denied having a crush on me.

  But it was not to be. Instead, I was absolutely right in supposing that things would never be the same between us. That was the last time Natasha ever spoke to me.

  Perhaps it was inevitable … after blowing such a gift-wrapped opportunity, I was bound to suffer what might be termed a “girl drought”; I just hadn’t counted on the drought lasting four years. But it was fall of ninth grade before my flute and I again attracted attention from the opposite sex. And even then it was Alyssa Gregoire, whose goofy-cute combination was amply offset by her questionable personal hygiene.

  I should have realized straight away that Alyssa and I were not destined to be together. Her idea of social climbing was a fervent desire to join the Band Geeks, the musicians’ clique of which I was unofficial head and, technically, one third of the membership. (Ben Walton, our fourth member, had just left by mutual agreement after he failed my weekly pop quiz on music theory.) I was proud to be a Band Geek, but even I was aware that we were pretty low on the social totem pole.

  Besides, I had other reasons to question Alyssa’s sudden interest in the Band Geeks. She had recently begun announcing that she aspired to be the best flutist in school, which meant supplanting me. So it seemed only natural to question whether she was joining my clique, or infiltrating it.

  Then, one lunchtime, she plopped down at our table and asked to try out my flute. I figured she meant she just wanted to touch it, but she pieced it together and started blowing. Her embouchure was all messed up because she’d just gotten braces, and spit flew everywhere. But she still gushed about the lightness of the key mechanism, and said how jealous she was that I had a solid silver flute while hers only had a silver mouthpiece. She said it nicely, too, with a gentle singsong voice and a lopsided smile that emphasized her cuteness and made me momentarily forget her odor.

  She continued talking, but I wasn’t really listening. I had already put my lips on the flute, absently fingering the opening notes of a Handel sonata while thinking about the way our saliva was being commingled on the silver mouthpiece. It was like French kissing, except without the danger of injury from her braces. And even though we were only sharing a fake Frenchie, it was still an incredible turn-on. So much so that I didn’t hear her until she started shouting.

  “Kevin, why are you moaning?”

  I froze. “Was I?”

  “Yeah!” She continued shouting, like her volume control had gotten stuck on High.

  I looked around the cafeteria. Everyone had stopped to watch.

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  She hesitated. “Did you clean my spit off first?” Another pause. “You did clean my spit off first, didn’t you?” A long pause—the horror of dawning recognition. “Omigod, you’re sharing my saliva! You’re sharing my saliva and … and moaning!”

  Moments later, I’d not only been deposed as head of the Band Geek clique, but kicked out of it as well. While she munched contentedly at the dirt beneath her finger nails, Alyssa assured my former clique-mates that she’d assume my leadership responsibilities. It was undoubtedly the low point of my life.

  I didn’t play my flute again at school for the rest of the year, which meant that Alyssa had achieved her objective of becoming the school’s best flutist. And it only took her five minutes.

  I probably would have kept my flute playing entirely private if I hadn’t found The Picture while I was rummaging through Mom and Dad’s closets the summer before tenth grade. It was just a photo on the cover of an ancient LP, but it changed everything: Herbie Mann, funky guy with a funky name, standing stark naked except for a flute draped provocatively across his shoulders. His album was called Push, Push, which seemed pretty suggestive too. Oh, and the LP occupied a primo spot in Mom’s most secret drawer, right on top of her copy of The Joy of Sex. True, the book was
still wrapped in cellophane and hidden in a drawer—which didn’t seem like an auspicious sign for my parents’ sex lives—but the symbolism was obvious. Back in 1971, naked male flute players were sex symbols—the Justin Timberlakes of their day. Maybe Herbie Mann himself was Justin Timberlake’s inspiration. It was such a groundbreaking moment that I didn’t even feel particularly guilty about invading my parents’ privacy.

  I was certain this was a sign that things would be different in high school. Weren’t teachers always telling me that fashion is cyclical, that if you wait a while everything becomes cool again? I’d be the Herbie Mann of Brookbank High—nothing but me, my flute, and a parade of hot girls.

  But two days later something happened to turn all that on its head: Abby and her parents moved in next door.

  I remember watching Abby lugging heavy furniture into the house while the movers sat around complimenting her parents on their fine tea. When she needed a break, Abby dragged out her double bass and began playing, right there in the middle of the yard. Passersby gawked at her, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She was imperious, a force of nature, and I wondered what it would feel like to have that sort of courage, that self-belief.

  I opened my window a crack and started playing the flute, hoping she’d notice. Thirty seconds later there was thunderous banging at the front door. I rushed downstairs to open it and Abby stood before me, all bushy hair and serious, straight eyebrows.

  “Finding duets for this ensemble is going to be a real nightmare,” she announced, like she was warning me of rough seas ahead.

  “I’ll do an arrangement,” I blurted, momentarily forgetting to be cool.

  “It’s a deal then.” She stretched out her hand. “I’m Abby, by the way.”

  “Um, K-Kevin,” I said smoothly.

  “Great. Well, I’ll come back around dinnertime. Our place is a wreck right now. Oh, and I eat anything, so if you’ve got leftovers … ”

  She clomped back to the moving van and clambered inside. Moments later she staggered out, an impossibly large antique bureau clasped awkwardly between her arms. I ought to have offered to help, but I couldn’t. I just stood there, watching her, overcome by a mixture of amazement and envy.

  That was the beginning of Abby and me: the Inseparable Duo.

  She showed up that evening, just as she’d said she would. She ate Mom’s food like it was the finest she’d ever tasted, and the two of them chatted like long-lost best buddies. I began to wonder if I should just sneak off and leave them to it.

  After dinner, Abby carried her bass into the living room and we played through my arrangement of “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” by the Beatles, which I’d picked because it has a simple but prominent bassline; she played it like it was the easiest thing in the world, but her smile told me she was enjoying herself anyway. Next, I pulled out an arrangement of Van Morrison’s “Moondance,” with a significantly jazzier bassline and a flashier flute solo; it sounded surprisingly good, although I couldn’t help thinking what a difference adding piano and drums would make.

  When we paused for a drink, Abby picked up my flute.

  “Do you mind if I try playing it?” she asked.

  “Go for it.”

  While she tried to hone the breathy sound emerging from my flute, I focused on banishing my memories of Natasha and Alyssa.

  A minute later she handed the flute back to me in defeat. “Your keys have got holes in them,” she huffed.

  “It’s an open-holed flute. Produces a better tone, plus it also forces you to master your fingering technique.”

  She peered up at me from under her dark eyebrows. “Did you, um, just say you’re an expert at fingering?”

  I recognized that all-too-familiar look of shock; it was happening all over again. My brain jerked into flashback mode, replaying classic footage from my Natasha and Alyssa nightmares.

  “N-No, no, no. Not like that. I mean … not that sort of fingering.”

  Abby cracked up. “I’m just teasing, Kevin. But you have to admit, complimenting yourself on your fingering is pretty bold when we’ve only known each other an hour.”

  “Well, yeah. But I didn’t exactly mean it like—”

  “Kidding again, Kevin!” Abby coiled a strand of hair around her finger, then tucked it behind her ear. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t do that, but I just can’t help it.” She shrugged. “Oh, whatever. You’ll get used to it pretty quick.”

  I felt a wave of relief and anticipation. “So, you’ll come over again?”

  “You betcha. Your Mom’s cooking is amazing.”

  “Oh.” I tried not to look too disappointed that my mom’s food was more enticing than my company.

  “Kidding again, Kevin,” groaned Abby. “It’s you I want to come hang out with, not your mom … Wow, I’m really gonna have to work on you, huh?”

  “’Fraid so,” I said. But secretly I couldn’t wait for the work to start.

  Things haven’t changed significantly over the past few years. We’re best friends, confidants, and partners in crime, but that’s all. Contrary to popular belief, we’re not, nor have we ever been, an item—although Abby’s constant presence ensures that no other girl will look twice at me. It’s like she forms an exclusion zone for unidentified estrogen.

  Not that we don’t have fun together, but sometimes I feel like we resemble a comedy duo instead of a potential couple. We have the kind of Laurel and Hardy relationship that makes Ms. Kowalski laugh at my expense, the kind of chemistry that makes me seem not just uncool, but borderline asexual. We’re friends without benefits, Abby and me. And there’s a reason they call them benefits.

  I’ve had eighteen years to be noticed, to be somebody, but so far all I’ve accomplished is a near miss with Natasha, a fake Frenchie with Alyssa, and an eternally platonic coupling with Abby. I am what I’ve always been: official class dork, ignored by anyone remotely popular. Even when including teachers, I can count my friends on one hand. So I guess that Ms. Kowalski is right about me. Maybe she knows me even better than I know myself.

  But that’s about to change. There’s less than two months of high school remaining. It’s time I made them count.

  4

  Dude. Like. Whoa.”

  Spud Beasley has a way with words, so everyone maintains a respectful silence until they’re sure he’s finished. Even then they all wait until it’s absolutely, positively clear he’s satisfied with his little pearl of wisdom.

  Got to hand it to Spud—he may speak with the directness of one of his infamous curveball pitches, but he always has an audience. Of course, the reason he has an audience is because he’s like that dwarf Gimli in the Lord of the Rings movies: all grunts and simmering testosterone. If we were ever crazy enough to give him an ax, he’d probably take out half the school before anyone even noticed he’d gone postal in the first place. Rumor is, his latest counselor describes him as “volatile.”

  No one knows what happened to the other counselors.

  “Dude. Like … Whoa.”

  Spud’s done it again, which is really interfering with Brandon’s account of yesterday evening’s dalliance with Tiffany. I get the feeling Brandon would like to ask Spud to keep his guttural sounds to himself, but he’s aware that college juniors won’t be so attracted to him if he’s missing a limb or two.

  Instead, he waits for Spud.

  Everyone waits for Spud.

  Spud nods to show he’s finished.

  Everyone breathes again.

  Brandon looks at his watch. “What the hell, let’s get started.”

  He ambles to the front of the classroom, apparently pleased with the turnout for the meeting: a full quota of guys from the baseball, football, and basketball teams, plus other aspiring alpha males. As he opens his arms wide in a gesture of welcome, his smile morphs into a
smirk, and before I can catch up with what’s happening, he’s cackling demonically and his infectious laugh has everyone in the room laughing with him. I join in too, although it’s tough to feign laughter when you’re petrified. I feel a sense of masochistic pride just for having the nerve to be here.

  Brandon looks around the room, sizing us up. Zach, his brown-nosing protégé, stamps the ground excitedly when Brandon looks over at him, but Brandon just flips him the bird and keeps on scanning. Eventually he sees me.

  “What the f—”

  I shift my butt on the plastic chair and conjure a nervous smile. I don’t belong here, and I’ve already been found out. Thank God he didn’t actually use the f-word.

  “Mopsely, what the fuck are you doing here?”

  Oh well, at least he knows my name.

  I take a deep breath. “I just, um, want to be part of the, the … you know, the Graduation, er … ” Crap. I can’t remember the name. I can’t even remember the name. “A part of the, er … ”

  “The Graduation Rituals,” says Brandon, as if this is becoming too painful even for him.

  “Yeah, the Rituals.”

  Brandon’s smirk is back and everyone is pretending to try not to laugh, so the laughter comes out in coughs and snorts. I can feel my face flashing red, heating the air around me.

  “Right,” says Brandon gravely. “So, which part of the Graduation Rituals were you hoping to be involved in? Maybe the Alternative Yearbook, huh?” Everyone laughs. “Or maybe the Strategic Graffiti Campaign?” Everyone laughs even louder. “No, no, I know … you want to compile the Book of Busts, right? That must be it. Come on, Mopsely, tell us which one. You just say what you want and it’s yours.”

  I know he’s not serious, and so does everyone else—their laughter is so riotous that I want to evaporate. Two minutes in and all I can think about is getting away. But as the noise dies down Brandon’s still staring at me, like he’s actually waiting for me to respond. Somehow the silence is even worse than laughter.