by Antony John
“Please, Abby—”
“Just go, Kevin. I need to be alone. And you need to go work out who the hell you really are.”
I pull on my shirt, and I’m about to exit when Abby tosses me something. It’s a square foil packet, and although I’ve never used one before, I know it’s a condom. She wasn’t peeing in the bathroom—she was getting contraception in case she went all the way.
With me.
“You may as well take that with you,” she whispers. “Maybe you can use it on your next date.”
I run out and take the stairs two at a time. I know I ought to stop and thank her parents, but by the time I reach the door to the dining room I’m too ashamed to see them, so I just hurry by and let myself out.
I make it up to my bedroom without being intercepted by Mom. The packet still clenched in my hand reminds me of Abby, so I look out at her bedroom window, but the blind is closed. Behind it, the only girl who has ever liked me for myself is crying herself to sleep.
25
Taylor’s no longer attending English. Neither is Jessica. Paige realizes that she and Morgan are the final holdouts and starts fiddling with her cigarettes.
Ms. Kowalski has clearly anticipated this reduced class. She enters with a triumphant flourish, throwing her bag onto the desk with a satisfying thump. I notice she’s wearing her white blouse again, and that the stain from the black dry-erase marker didn’t completely come out. Paige notices too. She points a finger, chuckling forcefully.
“What’s so amusing, Paige?” asks Ms. K.
“Nothing … Well, actually, it’s your blouse. It has black stains across the back.”
A few of the guys laugh, not because it’s funny but because they’ve been conditioned to respond to Paige’s attacks with Pavlovian consistency. Ms. K says nothing, just nods and turns her back to us so that we can see what Paige is talking about.
“Do you all see it?” she says, turning around to face us. “The stain, I mean. My blouse got stained the first time I wore it, but I still wear it anyway. I suppose that makes me a bad person. Perhaps it means I’m unfashionable, unpopular, and have no life. Perhaps if I simply disposed of the blouse and bought a new one I could prove my intense self-awareness, my slavish attention to appearances, my infatuation with superficiality.” She furrows her eyebrows as though deep in thought. “Yes, that would certainly make me a vastly superior human being.”
I figure that no one understands a word she’s saying, or even that she’s being sarcastic. But as I look around I realize that for once I’m wrong—at least half of the guys have their eyes cast down, embarrassed for having laughed.
Paige appears completely unapologetic. In her world, she’s guilty of nothing more than stating the truth. She may even believe—in her twisted, pathologically bitchy way—that she has saved Ms. K from perpetuating an obviously unforgivable fashion error.
But Ms. K isn’t looking at Paige—she’s staring straight at me.
Slowly and deliberately I lower my eyes, too, because on some deep level I need her to know that I know Paige is wrong, and she is right.
“How was school?” Mom asks, handing me a slice of pizza.
“Fine.”
“What do you mean by ‘fine’?”
“I mean the tolerable and the intolerable parts of my day canceled each other out,” I say, sure that this is not the definition she’s been looking for every night.
Matt the Mutt growls at me because I’ve raised my voice. He’s been seeking retribution ever since the lasagna incident. I fully expect Mom to start growling at me too, but she just laughs.
“What?” I say, unamused.
“Oh, Kevin, I’m sorry. You seem so miserable at the moment, and I can’t help laughing because I’m clearly having a much better time at your school than you are. I mean, you have to enjoy the unlikelihood of it.”
I don’t have to enjoy it at all. “What’s so great about Brookbank High?”
“It’s my class. You may have noticed that my numbers just keep growing, and there’s clearly a very genuine and justified discontent seething among the girls at your school.”
“Hmmm.”
“And they’re just so thoughtful and forthright. I wish my undergrads were half as engaged as these girls are. Just today they decided they needed a name … you know, as a symbol of their solidarity. Someone came up with Brookbankers Against Boys Espousing Stereotypes, but then we had a discussion on why the acronym BABES might not be conducive to our agenda of viewing ourselves as more than sexual objects. So someone else suggested Girls Rejecting Really Lewd Stereotypes.”
“GRRLS?”
“Yes, you know … ‘GRRLS’ is the hip, culturally relevant acronym signifying postpubescent female self-affirmation.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Point is, they really thought about it, like it mattered to them. It’s the first time in years I’ve felt like I’m actually making a difference.”
“That’s great,” I say, even though none of this is reassuring me in the slightest.
“Yes, and then after today’s class the captain of the cheerleading squad came along and asked if she could join us.”
I try not to choke on a slice of pepperoni. “Morgan Giddes?”
“Yes. We had a nice chat. She’s such an erudite young woman.” Mom sighs. “I must admit, I had her all wrong when she walked through the door. I just figured someone that popular and attractive was not exactly my target audience. But the longer we talked, the more I realized she’s probably as attuned to the way girls at your school are mistreated and misrepresented as anyone in the class. It’s inspiring.”
I’m trying to reconcile this appraisal with my own knowledge of Morgan, which pretty much amounts to ogling her from across crowded rooms. And then I remember Brandon.
“But she’s dating … well, her boyfriend is, um—”
“A butthole, right? Yes, she mentioned him. And it’s not the first time his name has come up in my class, believe me.” She shakes like the room just got cold. “It sounds like he’s a truly narcissistic, offensive, sexist pig.”
She looks to me for confirmation, so I smile ambivalently.
“But don’t worry,” Mom continues cheerily. “She’s not with Brandon anymore. She said he got angry with her when she wouldn’t let him touch her breasts, and he called her ‘tight’ and other awful things, so she told him to get lost. I have to admit, I cheered when she told me that.”
Uh-oh.
26
I keep waiting for everyone else to show up for the Rituals meeting, as the present group consists of the offensive line from the football team, the starters on the baseball team, and me. As if I didn’t already feel like a total outsider, this seals the deal. Meanwhile, Brandon paces around the room.
“Hey, Brandon,” shouts one of his teammates. “Have you got Morgan’s stats yet?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, Morgan.” Brandon laughs. “Yeah, I got her stats all right. But I got to check them again, if you know what I’m saying. And then again, and again.” He thrusts his pelvis forward suggestively as Zach fawns by his side.
“We don’t need you to check your numbers a hundred times. Just give Kevin the scores. Come on, it’s not fair for you to keep them to yourself.”
Brandon looks at me like I’m the one who just said it, and the atmosphere suddenly seems tense.
“Hey, just leave Brandon alone,” I say, surprised by the sound of my own voice. “When he’s ready, he’ll tell us, okay?”
“Yeah, Kev’s right,” says Brandon, eager to change the subject. He coughs and turns to me. “So, you got Abby’s scores yet?”
I can’t believe he’s asking me this after I just saved his butt. “No, I don’t have Abby’s scores.”
“But you said you and her were hanging out
on Saturday. Don’t tell me you struck out.”
Zach’s smirking in Brandon’s shadow. I want to tell them both to get lost.
“No, I didn’t strike out.”
A horrified look envelops Brandon’s face. “You got caught stealing second!”
I try to stay cool, try to ignore the hypocrisy. “No, I just didn’t want to go to second base.”
“All right, that’s cool. I don’t blame you really, ’cause let’s be honest … she’s not exactly the hottest girl in school. She’s not going to win any beauty contests, that’s for sure.”
“If you think she’s ugly, you should see her parents,” Zach interjects. “They’re freaks. Like, seriously, their teeth are freakin’ bent all over the place and yellow and shit. My dad’s an orthodontist and when he saw them he just laughed and said it’s proof that Britain’s like a third-world country.”
Zach laughs, and Brandon laughs, and gradually everyone else joins in too because they’re afraid they may have missed a classic comedy moment. But this time I don’t join them, even though Zach is staring at me.
“Sorry, Kev,” he smirks. “Did I offend you talking about your girlfriend’s parents like that?”
“She’s not my girlfriend, and no, you didn’t offend me. I just never thought anyone would be dumb enough to say that straight white teeth are the defining characteristic of developed nations.” I try to sound like my mom so that Zach will appear stupid. It works—he goes bright red.
“So you’re saying their teeth look okay, is that it?”
“No, I’m not. Sure, their teeth are freaky enough to scare small children, but that’s not the point. The point is that you’re too stupid and vain and fixated on teeth to know that you’re talking complete crap. You’re so dumb you didn’t even realize Taylor was—”
Uh-oh. I stop mid-sentence, hold my breath and wonder how to continue. I can’t mention what Taylor said—I promised I wouldn’t. And even though she humiliated me the other night, I actually feel sympathy for her, having to date Zach for a year just to get free dental work.
“I didn’t realize Taylor was what?” snarls Zach.
“That she was … was … a feminist.”
There’s a collective gasp like I just called her a leper, and then Ryan’s laughing and pointing at Zach.
“You dated a feminist for an entire year and you didn’t even realize it, you pussy!”
Everyone else joins in the laughter like the obedient little sheep they are, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
As we file out of the room, I see Abby standing in the corridor. I think she’s waiting for me, and although I’m scared to death about what she’s going to say, I want to apologize to her. I need to apologize.
I’m about to join her when Brandon wraps an arm around my shoulders.
“You should be a comedian, Kev. For real. Like, that thing you said about Abby’s parents—their teeth are freaky enough to scare small children—absolutely hilarious!”
I feel my body go rigid.
Brandon lets go, surprised. “What’s the matter?” He looks up, sees Abby, and laughs nervously. “Whoa! Fucked up!” He laughs again, but Abby’s mouth just hangs open in shock. “What? Come on, like it’s not true.”
Abby spins on her heel and hurries down the corridor. I want to run after her, but if I do it will confirm everything Zach just said about her being my girlfriend—and for the rest of the year she’ll be abused by Zach and Brandon and probably everyone else, even though she’s done nothing wrong. So I stay rooted to the spot.
“Ugly and weird,” Brandon concludes as her figure recedes into the distance.
“No, she’s not,” I say. Only Brandon’s not listening, because Brandon never listens.
“Don’t forget the baseball semis tomorrow,” he shouts as he walks away. “Games like this are where legends are born.”
I nod, but in the back of my mind all I can think about is how Mom was right: Brandon can be a real asshole.
27
I’ve decided to leave the quartet. Nobody actually knows this yet, but they’ll find out after school today when I don’t show up for practice.
It’s not that I’m a coward—it’s just that I’m too frightened to face Abby. Come to think of it, I’m too scared to face a lot of people right now: Paige, Jessica, Kayla, Taylor, Zach. I’m even avoiding Spud. I don’t know if he and Zach are close, but if they are it stands to reason that Zach would get Spud to carry out his ritual slayings for him, sort of like the Mafia.
During English, I start counting down the school days that are left: only seven until prom, and then fifteen after that. I could fake a mystery virus for three days without arousing suspicion, but that still leaves nineteen school days, and that’s nineteen too many. I’m wondering if it’s possible to graduate if I miss the last month of school. Sure, my class ranking would tank, but that’s a totally acceptable trade.
It was just last week that I didn’t want school to end. I had dreams of five more pre-prom dates—109 in a parallel universe. I imagined my life chronicled in the annals of Brookbank High—a Lothario, a stud. Turns out it was just early onset insanity. But I’ve returned to reality. Now I just want to disappear. Maybe by the time I resurface, nobody will remember I ever existed.
I don’t speak during English, and neither does Paige. I think it’s starting to dawn on her that being the only girl in class is actually quite daunting, especially as most of the guys spend the whole time shamelessly checking her out. She sits in her customary seat at the back of the room, but it doesn’t matter—they just rubberneck anyway. Without any of her friends around, she can’t even complain aloud as they ogle her. I wonder how much longer she’ll hold out.
I’m almost out the school door when I see Nathan studying the vending machine options. I feel a pang of guilt, knowing I’m about to stand him and the other quartet members up, so I hurry over, hoping I can make amends preemptively.
“Hey, Nathan. What are you getting?” I ask nonchalantly.
“Oh, hey. Geez, I don’t know. Something Diet … Diet Sprite.”
Before he can say another word, I press the Diet 7-Up and Diet Coke buttons, then bang the Diet Sprite button with my knee. There’s an ominous cracking sound like I may have applied a little too much pressure, but the can obediently rolls out anyway.
Nathan doesn’t move. “Wow. You hit the machine … and there’s a can.”
“Yes,” I say, handing it to him.
“What did you just do?”
“Um, I can’t tell you. I promised I wouldn’t show anyone.”
“I’m not talking about your trick—the knee-strike, the button bang—I’m talking about stealing.”
I can feel his disapproval like a chill in the air. “No, Nathan. It’s not like that. The guy who owns the vending machine is cool with it.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. He uses the missing cans as an excuse to fire people he doesn’t like.” Nathan studies me like I’m growing an extra head. “Oh, man, that didn’t come out right. Look, I just figured you’d like a freebie, that’s all.”
Nathan narrows his eyes and carefully flattens his hair with his fingertips. “Let me recap, Kev. You’re stealing drinks, but it’s cool ’cause you’re also helping Mr. Vending Machine fire his employees. Any of this sounding illegal … unethical?”
“No way. It’s not like that … ”
He gives me a couple seconds to continue, then hands the can back.
“Keep it. This one’s a little too cold for me.”
“How was school?” Mom asks.
“Fine.”
“What do you mean by ‘fine’?”
Not again. I’m about to scream when I notice she’s laughing.
“I’m just kidding, honey.” She taps away on the com
puter keyboard. “I thought you’d be disappointed if I didn’t ask you about your day.”
“No, not disappointed at all,” I assure her.
“Oh. Well, it would be nice to hear you say something about school every now and then.”
“Okay. How about, I’m ready for graduation.”
“Ha ha. You seniors are all the same. My new student, Morgan, said she’s ready to move on too. She said she’s even sick of cheerleading—she wants to get back to solo dance so she can express herself outside of the prescribed boundaries of micromanaged routines.”
“She really said that?”
“Uh-huh. She also said the boys at Brookbank make her feel uncomfortable, like she’s nothing more than an object for their twisted fantasies, although I think she was generalizing. I mean, you’d never make a girl feel like a fantasy object, and there must be other boys like you.”
“Hmmm.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Mom says excitedly, returning her attention to the computer. “Jane said they’d put some information about my class on the school Web site.”
Suddenly my heart is racing. “It doesn’t say anything about me, does it?”
“I don’t know, but I expect so. Let’s find out.”
Mom closes her e-mail and pulls up Google. She begins to enter the name of the school, but after she types the first two letters, the computer completes the search term for her: breast measurements examples with images. She stops typing and reads the words over and over, as if trying to divine some deep and hidden meaning.
“Why does it say ‘breast measurements examples with images,’ Kevin?”
“Um, I don’t know. You typed it in, not me.”
