by Antony John
“No, I typed in ‘br,’ the computer filled in the rest.”
“That’s weird.”
“Kevin, you don’t use the computer to … you know … self-stimulate, do you?”
“Oh my God.”
“I mean, I want you to know that it’s perfectly healthy for a boy your age to masturbate, but since we both share the computer, it would make me feel a little uncomfortable to imagine you sitting here—”
“Can we please not talk about this?”
Mom huffs. “No, honey, I think we need to get this out in the open. You’ve been behaving strangely lately, and now I find you’ve been using the Internet to locate soft porn. You know I don’t approve of the male fascination with breasts, any more than the vagina or clitoris—”
“We’re not having this conversation.”
“Oh yes we are, Kevin. You’ve changed, and I want to know why.”
“I haven’t changed.”
“Kevin!” snaps Mom, but then there’s knocking on the front door so she gets up to answer it. “Don’t think we won’t revisit this later, young man.”
As she flounces out of the room, I jump on the computer and turn off the auto-complete preference. While I’m at it, I erase the entire search history. I can’t believe I forgot to do this before—it must have been because Abby came in and interrupted me. I hope she doesn’t pay any more visits for a while.
“Hi, Abby,” Mom chirps as she opens the front door.
Oh crap. I absolutely do not want to talk to Abby. More importantly, I absolutely do not want to talk to Abby with Mom hanging around, so I scamper into the bathroom and lock the door. It’s kind of a lame thing to do, but I can’t make it to my bedroom without passing them on the way.
“Kevin, it’s Abby … Kevin, where are you?”
I don’t say a word. I’m invisible—I no longer exist.
“He’s probably in the bathroom,” says Abby.
“Are you in the bathroom, Kevin?”
“I’m sick,” I moan.
“He’s not sick. He’s just hiding from me.”
“Why are you hiding from Abby, honey?”
“I’m not hiding from Abby.”
“He’s hiding from me because he’s a coward.”
“I’m not a coward. I’m just sick.” I stick my fingers down my throat and try to gag, but nothing happens. Geez, this is how half the girls at school spend their lunchtime. How difficult can it be?
“Please don’t make yourself throw up,” says Abby. “It’s kind of gross hearing you gag ’cause you’re sticking your fingers down your throat.”
“I’m not sticking my fingers down my throat.”
“Of course you’re not, honey. Now, why don’t you come out and talk to Abby and me.”
Hmmm, let me think about that. “No.”
“Don’t bother, Maggie,” Abby says. “I only came around to ask Kevin why he wasn’t at rehearsal today. I figured there’d be a simple explanation, but now I wonder if maybe there isn’t something more complicated going on here. If there is, perhaps he can get it all out in the open before things get even uglier … Anyway, I should go. I’ll let myself out. Goodbye, Kevin.”
I hear her footsteps receding, but I’m too afraid to come out. Presumably Mom’s still by the door, waiting to pounce.
“Kevin,” Mom eventually whispers through the keyhole. “How would you feel about therapy?”
28
My new campaign to be invisible is failing miserably. I recited a litany of reasons why I wouldn’t be able to make it to the baseball semifinal, but Brandon still dragged me along. He says it’s the biggest game of the year so far—like I care—and there’s bound to be some post-game action. And even though I don’t want any action, I’m here anyway, loitering beside the Brookbank dugout, wearing dark clothing so I can’t be seen. At least it’s the top of the seventh inning already, and the way Spud’s been pitching, the remainder of the game won’t take long.
When the third of Brookbank’s star batters strikes out, the opposition’s cheerleaders surge forward and perform a short routine as part of the seventh-inning stretch. Then they ease back to the visitors’ bench as Morgan and the other Brookbank cheerleaders take the field. They’re almost through with their set when I realize that I’m actually watching the steps rather than ogling the girls. This is a first for me.
“And now Morgan Giddes, captain of Brookbank High’s varsity cheerleading squad, will perform a solo dance she’s created especially for the occasion,” drones the announcer.
I figure I must have misheard him, but there’s Morgan, standing apart from the cheerleaders, head raised high, waiting for the music to start.
And what music: modern, angular, with fiendish syncopated rhythms and a constantly fluctuating meter. I can’t imagine a harder piece to choreograph to, but she clearly knows the music intimately. Every spike in the melody is reflected in her movements, every jarring chord provides the impetus for gestures both subtle and dynamic. It’s part ballet, part interpretive dance, and completely, suicidally daring.
I’m suddenly reminded of the last time I saw Morgan dance: back in fifth grade during the infamous hobbies class. After I’d played “Dance of the Blessed Spirits,” taking credit for the pianist’s acrobatic performance, Morgan had danced ballet steps in the confined space beside the teacher’s desk. Even when the CD got stuck she soldiered on, trusting the music she heard in her head, immersed in the beauty of her own performance rather than the sounds of stifled laughter from the kids in the class. She was so small back then, so fragile, but so much braver than I could ever be.
I look back at the field as Morgan sways in an imaginary breeze. So all these years she’s continued to dance in private, avoiding the judgment that comes from opening up, being herself. I want to stand up and applaud her, but the first rumblings from the crowd aren’t so appreciative. A few members of the opposing team have even begun laughing at her and pointing at Brandon—I guess they think he’s still dating her.
Morgan doesn’t seem to notice the intrusion, leaping from left to right and turning graceful circles on the spot. Meanwhile, a few of the cheerleaders have distanced themselves from her, creating a cushion in case the crowd turns against her any more.
Which they do. Most of the opposing team is now openly taunting her, and Brandon looks like he’s getting mad. I figure it’s only a matter of time before he says something back to them.
“Loser,” he crows. I try to see who he’s shouting at, and realize it’s Morgan.
Hold on. Morgan?
“Give it up, freak,” Brandon jeers, like he doesn’t realize almost everyone present can hear him.
Morgan looks over suddenly, loses her balance, and crumples to the ground. Taylor rushes to her side and tries to help her up, but Morgan holds her ankle gingerly. As Brandon’s insults compete with the frenetic music, I wonder if the grimace on Morgan’s face has anything to do with her ankle.
Taylor tries to help her up again, but Morgan doesn’t budge; she just stares at the ground, like the laughter rattling all around her is nothing more than she expected. I can see tears cascade down her cheeks, and when she finally gets up she does so alone. She looks straight ahead as she hobbles off the field. As soon as she rounds the bleachers, the music stops abruptly.
I look at Brandon, watching as the coach calls him over. He’ll be thrown out of the game for sure now. He’ll probably have to forgo the rest of the season for something like this.
“Now!” yells the coach. Brandon slopes over and stands before him, completely unrepentant.
“Listen up, Trent. Drop the commentary, okay? Remember, these are the semis. You’ve got more important things to think about than chicks.”
This has to be a joke; he cannot seriously let Brandon off. I look at the rest of th
e team, watching to see if anybody else appears remotely outraged, but no one even seems to notice what’s going on. Only Spud stares at Brandon, his eyes narrowed like he’s trying not to pass gas.
Without thinking, I turn the corner and rush behind the bleachers, following Morgan. I crash into her almost immediately—she’s leaning unsteadily against a metal support, trying to keep her weight off her ankle.
“I … I … I’m so sorry, Morgan. It was so wrong of Brandon to do that.”
“Whatever.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
“But it was disgraceful. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with saying stuff like that.”
“Just go away.”
“No, I won’t go away. Something needs to be done. Aren’t you going to do something?”
She lifts her eyes and glares at me. “Don’t speak to me, Kevin. Don’t you dare speak to me. You’re the worst one of all.”
“W-What? Why?”
“Because of that freakin’ book you’re compiling.” She grabs her breasts, shoves them upwards. “See these? Small, aren’t they? And that’s with a padded bra on … Are you getting all this? I don’t want you to miss any of it. I’m an A cup, okay? So go ahead and write it.” She starts to cry again.
“I’m not going to write it, Morgan,” I say quietly.
“Why not? That’s all you see, isn’t it? A tight butt and small tits. A bunch of measurements, statistics.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Bullshit. I know exactly what it’s like. As long as I prance around half naked, everything’s cool. As long as I let Brandon touch me any way he wants, everything’s cool. As long as I pretend not to notice boys ogling me, everything’s cool. But as soon as I say I’ve had enough, I’m frigid. And when I dance the way I want to, I’m taunted.” She stares off into the distance. “Why is it so wrong for me to be myself?”
“It’s not wrong. That was a beautiful dance, Morgan … reminded me of fifth grade—”
“When I should’ve learned my lesson,” she chokes.
“No. This is isn’t your fault. Brandon shouldn’t have said those things.”
“Stop it, Kevin. Just stop it, okay? You want me to believe you actually give a crap about what Brandon says to me, but you’re just the same as him … and I guess I figured you were different. All of us thought you were different.”
A collective gasp draws our attention, back through gaps in the bleachers to the field of play. The ball flies through the air momentarily, then Brandon makes a diving catch and unleashes a bullet throw to first base, where the runner is tagged out before he can get back—a double play. Inning over. The crowd cheers. His teammates mob him.
Morgan takes a deep breath and grits her teeth. Her jawbones flex. “If you want to help—if you really want to help—then explain something to me: how come Brandon Trent gets to hurt me, abuse me, and humiliate me, but I’m the one hiding behind the bleachers while everybody chants his name?”
She doesn’t wait for a reply, but hobbles off in the direction of the parking lot, confused and hopelessly alone.
As soon as she’s gone it occurs to me that she desperately needed a hug, but I was too slow to react. Then again, why should I get to hug her and tell her it’s all going to be okay, when I’m the reason it’s not?
29
Ms. Kowalski appears flustered, which is a new look for her. She has a standard repertoire of facial expressions—exhausted, bemused, incensed—but she rarely looks flustered.
“Kevin, I’d like a word with you. In private.”
The class looks up in unison, stares at her momentarily, then shifts its attention to me. I feel a dozen pairs of eyes boring into me as I climb out of my chair and follow her into the corridor.
Ominously, she closes the door to give us some privacy.
“Kevin, I just want you to know that I haven’t said a word to your mother about your connection to the Graduation Rituals.”
“Okay.”
“I know you’re aware that I don’t approve of them, and I’m disappointed that you of all students would be involved. But I’ve made it a point not to come between you and your mother.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. Good. I just wanted to make that clear before she finds out about your involvement.”
“Ok—” Hold on. “Finds out? What do you mean, finds out?”
“Well, Zach Thomas requested permission to join your mom’s class, and knowing him, he’s not doing it to show his support for the senior girls.”
“But s-surely you didn’t let him in?”
“Of course. We had to,” she says breezily. “It’s school policy that no student be denied access to a course on the basis of gender. He could sue us.”
“But it’s not even a real course!”
“Kevin, that’s just the attitude toward Women’s Studies that your mother is trying to undo—”
“No, no. I mean, she’s not teaching it for credit.”
“But she’s teaching it on school grounds, so she’s bound by the same rules as any other teacher.”
Oh crap. This is really bad.
“Can I have permission to join the Women’s Studies class, please?” I ask.
“What? Why?”
“Because I have to stop him.”
“Not a good enough reason.” Ms. K shakes her head vigorously. “Not good enough at all.”
“Um, how about: because I know I’ve been a jerk, and I want to make amends?”
She hesitates, and stares at me like she’s trying to gauge my sincerity. “Okay,” she says finally. “Permission granted.”
I rush back into class, grab my bag, and less than a minute later I’m standing outside the door of my mom’s classroom. I’m about to walk in when I hear Morgan’s voice rise above the general murmur:
“Well, I’m not comfortable with him being here. Have you all forgotten he’s part of the problem?”
I peek through the small window in the door and see that her comments are aimed at Zach, who doesn’t look perturbed at all. He’s leaning back in his chair, a look of utter contentment on his face.
“Now, Morgan,” says Mom soothingly. “I hear your concerns, but let’s not play the blame game until we’ve given Zach a chance to speak.”
“But he’s involved in the Book of Busts, for Christ’s sake!”
“The Book of Busts?”
“Yeah. It’s where the boys write down the measurements of all the girls in the senior year and publish the results.”
“That’s a horrible accusation to make, Morgan,” trills Mom, turning violently red. “That any boy would dare to undertake such a despicable and degrading exercise is unfathomable. Zach, tell me this isn’t true. Tell me this book is a myth.”
Zach looks suddenly and convincingly contrite. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, “but it’s true. That’s why I’m here. I know what I did was wrong, and I feel terrible.”
“Well, I must say,” fizzes Mom, like a bomb craving detonation, “you’ve either got a lot of guts or a lot of nerve to come in here today, given your involvement in something as egregious as this.”
I don’t think Zach knows what “egregious” means—he looks confused—but in the context he knows it isn’t good, so he hangs his head like a shamed puppy and fiddles with his hands.
“You’re right,” he sighs. “But I haven’t really done anything with the book—”
“But you would’ve done if you could,” Morgan shoots back. “I bet you wanted the job of compiling the book. Then all the girls would’ve been lining up dates with you instead.”
“Morgan!” protests Mom. “What on earth are you saying? You’re not seriously suggesting that girls arranged dates with the boy compiling this book, are you?”
Morgan looks away. “Yes.”
“But why?”
“So they could give him inflated measurements … boost their scores a little.”
Mom’s face has morphed from a scarlet red to a pale, almost ghostly white. “Has anyone here done such a thing?”
One by one, Jessica, Kayla, and Taylor raise their hands.
“B-B-But how can you think a boy like that is worthy of even a second of your time?” chokes Mom. “Why wouldn’t you just tell him to crawl back to his cave?”
“I pretty much did,” laughs Taylor. “I told him he was a loser who ought to know better.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose.”
“Oh, come on,” says Morgan quietly. “Let’s just be honest for once … almost all of us are responsible for this. None of us wanted to rock the boat. No one was willing to stand up to the boys and say the Graduation Rituals suck. We just played along like every other senior class before us, because it beats being called boring or frigid. We could’ve stuck together and ended it … We should’ve stuck together. We shouldn’t have let it go on.”
The room is suddenly silent. Everyone seems to be studying the floor.
“I don’t know what we were thinking.” Kayla nods solemnly. “He’s not even that attractive,” she adds, provoking laughter all around.
“But that’s not relevant, is it, Kayla,” Mom chastens her. “One of the purposes of our class is to move beyond people as objects, and that goes for boys too. It’s his behavior and his attitude toward others that defines a man, not his looks. The boy you’re talking about is a discredit to all males because of his blatant disrespect toward women.”
I notice that Zach is laughing now, and everyone seems to have forgotten that he’s in the doghouse too. Everyone except Mom.
“I’m surprised to see you laughing, Zach,” she chides. “After all, he’s one of your friends.”
“No, not him. Like Kayla says, he’s a complete tool, and he’s pretty freakin’ weird, and his name—”
