by Antony John
“Can’t do that … I set fire to it.”
Zach leaps out of his seat. “Bullshit. You wouldn’t have the guts.”
Interesting.
“Okay,” I say. “It’s in my locker.”
“Well then,” Zach hisses, no doubt enjoying his renewed status as Brandon’s undisputed right-hand man, “you’ve got five minutes to go get it or you’ll be dreaming about prom from a hospital bed.”
I can’t believe Zach just said something as melodramatic as that—it’s really not cool—but maybe he actually means it. To be honest, I’m a little surprised that my performance hasn’t yet warranted at least a minor beating, and I don’t plan on hanging around long enough for that to change.
“Hold on—Spud!” shouts Brandon, ushering over the human cannonball. “Go with him. Make sure he doesn’t try anything.”
Spud obediently falls in step behind me. I really want to get out now, but I can’t help taking one last look around the mostly empty room. I expect to see Brandon’s grimace on every face, so I’m taken aback at the sight of his teammates. Gone is the swagger, the untouchable self-confidence; they now have the downtrodden appearance of a bedraggled platoon following their leader on one final, hopeless mission. I look back at Brandon, and I know immediately he’s seen it too.
“I wish you could just admit you were wrong,” I say, breaking the silence. “The girls would worship you for it, you know … And what are you getting out of this stuff anyway? You think every girl in school figures she owes you something? Are you getting a kick out of being in control?”
Brandon doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t move—he just stands beside the poster, like that’s all the evidence he needs. It’s a predictable poster, too: smiling twenty-somethings reliving the glory days of high school. And that’s when the truth finally dawns on me.
“Are you afraid, Brandon? That every girl here will forget about you the moment senior year is over? Is that what this is about?”
Brandon rolls his eyes, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. Suddenly I have a vision of him in Hooters thirty years from now, professing his adoration for a waitress half his age as neighboring tables jeer him. I have to concentrate to keep the corners of my mouth from twitching into a smile.
“Look, Brandon, I hate to break it to you, but you better hope they do forget about you. Because at our ten-year reunion, the ones who remember you won’t be looking back on the good ol’ days … they’ll just be wondering how on earth you ever made them care.”
As Spud and I walk out, I can already hear a hushed murmur behind me, and I know that Brandon will be doing everything in his power to keep the Rituals going. Maybe it’s because he can’t let a dork like Kevin Mopsely derail any project he masterminds, or maybe it’s because I’ve seen his glaring weakness: Brookbank’s star jock has already reached his prime, and it’s all downhill from here.
“Listen, Spud,” I say, knowing what’s about to happen and wanting to spare him the humiliation, “you may not want to come with me. ’Cause I’m not giving the book to Brandon, I’m just not. And things are about to get crazy.”
Spud arches an eyebrow theatrically. “Things are already crazy.”
Whoa! Spud Beasley just spoke.
“You just … spoke,” I gasp, even though that’s quite a rude thing to say.
“Of course I spoke. You think that ‘Dude, like, whoa’ stuff is all I’ve got? I just do that because it’s my role, you know? Tough guy, man of few words, speaks with his fists, that sort of thing. I just figured it would simplify my interactions with peers if I presented a consistent and coherent persona. You understand?”
“Whoa.”
“Thing is, I was going to come with you anyway. What you said back there, it’s true. It’s time to close shop on this stuff.”
“B-But … you’re the editor of the Alternative Yearbook.”
Spud grins sheepishly. “Yeah, another book that Brandon won’t be getting his hands on.”
“Are you sure? I mean, we’re about to enter the Twilight Zone.”
“No need to get all geeky about it. I’m in. I have to be.”
“Why’s that?”
Spud’s head droops and he stops walking. “See, I tell my counselor everything. Except for some reason I never mentioned the Rituals. And just then, when you were giving your little soliloquy, I finally worked out why.” He sighs. “It’s like, of all the stupid things I’ve done at Brookbank High, this is the only one I’m really ashamed of.”
Without thinking about it, I give Spud an awkward man-hug, like professional athletes do knowing they shouldn’t but—aw, shucks—they’re just that happy. Spud stares at me like I just committed a cardinal sin, so I cough ostentatiously and get back to business.
“You got the Alternative Yearbook with you?” I ask, and Spud taps his bag affirmatively. “Okay, we’re off to room 225.”
Spud grabs my shoulder. “Room 225? Isn’t that where GRRLS meets?”
“Yep. But they usually meet during English period.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.” He visibly relaxes.
“Except for today.”
“When are they meeting today?”
I study my watch like it matters. “Let’s see … Right about now.”
35
The closer we get to room 225, the slower Spud walks. By the time we’re passing 224, he’s practically immobile.
“Come on, Spud. It’s going to be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” I lie.
“Um, okay.”
We nudge forward a few more feet until we’re looking through the window in the door of room 225. Morgan is sitting on the teacher’s desk, chairing the emergency session of GRRLS. I hope that she’ll be the one to see me, but no such luck. Instead, Kayla catches a glimpse of me, and within seconds the classroom is rattling with boos. Morgan turns around, gives a curt nod, and then I pull Spud away.
“I thought you said it’d be fine?”
“They weren’t booing you,” I say comfortingly.
“They’re going to lynch us.”
“Probably.”
“Geez, Kev. Like, why don’t we just go back and take our chances with Brandon?”
“We still might.” I drag Spud along the corridor and down the main staircase. “Listen, Spud, do you trust me?”
“No, of course not. Why the hell would I trust you?”
“So what was all that stuff about my speech changing your life?”
“It doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“Great!”
At the bottom of the staircase, I hesitate by the double doors leading to the Quad. I have serious misgivings about this part of the plan, but Spud seems to be reading my thoughts—he mumbles something about his counselor and then clomps onto the thick lush grass, while I follow close behind. Then he turns around expectantly, and I point to the doors. Almost immediately the entire contingent of GRRLS comes pouring through, all death stares and hands on hips and concentrated estrogen.
“Um, hello,” I say, once they’ve fallen into silence. “So you’re probably wondering why Morgan told you to come down here, huh?”
Actually, they just look like they’re waiting for a chance to pummel me, but I pretend they’ve answered in the affirmative as it makes it easier for me to continue.
“Yeah, so the reason you’re here is that—”
“I’m really sorry,” babbles Spud, like they’ve just threatened him with thumbscrews. “I wholeheartedly apologize for any part I have played in the offensive endeavors of the so-called Graduation Rituals.”
There’s a lengthy silence as they process this impressive oratory display, then they’re all staring at me again. But it’s clear that Spud has softened their resistan
ce, and as I resume my speech I’m not so afraid that this will be my last day on earth. I even catch Abby smiling at me reassuringly, which really helps.
“Yeah, so I … oh, the hell with it,” I shout, pulling the book from my bag. “This is the Book of Busts. I’m sorry I ever made you care about something as meaningless as this. And since the information in it belongs to no one but you, I hereby return it to you, to do with as you please.” I throw it on the grass with a flourish.
“And this is the Alternative Yearbook,” adds Spud, “which … well, actually, I never got around to filling it in, but if I had it would have been pretty offensive as well, and I’m sorry for that.” He throws it on top of the Book of Busts.
“And now,” says Morgan solemnly, stepping forward to join us, “I think it’s time to free ourselves from the influence of bad literature forever.”
Everyone holds their breath as she pulls a bottle of perfume and a lighter from her purse. She douses the open leather-bound books with Calvin Klein Euphoria, then flicks her lighter. Instantly the worn pages are devoured by flames, and the air fills with smoke and cheering.
Abby points to a row of windows running along one side of the Quad. Behind them, the remaining proponents of the Graduation Rituals are staring at us with seething hatred.
Without hesitation, Morgan takes charge. “Sisters,” she cries, “I want you to make a note of each of those boys. Whatever happens, they won’t have a dance at the prom. Agreed?”
Suddenly everyone is cheering again, and Zach comes out to investigate. The sight of Taylor applauding wildly probably didn’t sit too well with him. He ought to realize he’s vastly outnumbered, but he doesn’t seem to have a firm grasp on the situation, so he strides forward until he’s surrounded by GRRLS.
“What are you doing here, Taylor?” he asks with a bemused expression. “You’re not a dyke.”
Taylor just shakes her head. “Isn’t it time you crawled back to your cave and played some more drinking games?”
“Screw you, bitch.”
There’s an eerie silence. Taylor looks like she can’t decide whether to laugh or scream or punch Zach.
Spud steps forward. “I think you need to leave, Zach,” he says calmly.
Zach blinks in surprise, then regains his composure. “Oh yeah? Why?”
“Because I’m feeling really tense.” Suddenly, Spud is doing a passable impression of Bruce Banner just before he becomes the Hulk. “And I don’t think I can be held responsible for what I might do.”
Zach’s eyes narrow, and in a rare moment of intellectual clarity he takes a step back. “Yeah, well … fine.”
Zach hasn’t made it back through the double doors before everyone is laughing and cheering again. All except Taylor, who plants a kiss on Spud’s cheek.
“My knight in shining armor,” she bubbles.
Spud blushes.
“Oh, the fire’s gone out already,” says Jessica, directing everyone’s attention to the sad pile of charred sheets on the ground. She proposes a moment of silence.
Morgan leans in toward me and whispers, “I’d have to say that went pretty well.”
“Yeah, it actually did.”
“You did a brave thing, Kevin. Everyone here knows that now. I’m proud of you. You should be proud of yourself too.”
I look around and see that Abby is smiling, and suddenly everything seems worthwhile. And I really do feel proud.
“Ah, wonderful,” cackles Principal Jefferies, appearing beside the double doors. “A bumper crop! So many punishments, so little time!”
36
No one says a word, but the air continues to hum. I look around and realize the excitement our activities have generated. Faces are glued to every window, watching as Jefferies steps out onto the Quad. They know they’re watching the high-school equivalent of a train wreck, and no one wants to miss a thing.
Zach is conspicuously absent, and the other members of Brandon’s posse have left their places behind the windows. Given his infatuation with the baseball team, Jefferies probably waited for them to make themselves scarce before pouncing.
“Well now,” he booms, trying to pretend that he’s not enjoying this immensely, “who do we have here? Spud Beasley, naturally, and … Kevin Mopsely! Hmmm, didn’t expect to see you out here, Mr. Mopsely. And on to the female contingent—”
“We’re GRRLS,” interjects Abby, preempting the tedious process of identifying everyone by name.
“I can see that.”
“No, GRRLS,” says Morgan. She draws out the word as if it had three syllables and no vowels.
“What?”
“GRRLS—the Women’s Studies group taught by Dr. Donaldson.”
“Oh. Well, that’s nice, I suppose. You’ll all be able to arrange a little meeting for your club this Friday evening, instead of attending prom.”
“What?” shrieks Taylor. “But that’s not fair!”
“Oh, but I assure you it is, Miss Carson. In fact, it’s supremely generous of me to give you such a mild punishment, all things considered.”
Taylor looks like she’s ready to burst, but Morgan steps forward, a model of calm. She has a presence I’ve never noticed before.
“We understand your position, of course,” she says.
“Good.”
“However, I should remind you that three weeks ago you permitted the male participants of the Graduation Rituals to hold a similarly sized meeting on this very spot, and we demand nothing more than equal treatment.”
“And need I remind you, Miss Giddes,” sneers Jefferies, “that the boys you’re talking about didn’t set fire to the Quad.”
“Oh.” Morgan looks over at me for help, but all I can do is shrug; he’s got us there. She takes a deep breath. “Well, never mind, we won’t need to meet on Friday because we already have a meeting planned for Thursday evening … while the baseball final’s being played.”
Jefferies seems to have trouble making the connection, but then he gasps. “B-But you … you’re practically the whole cheerleading squad. You have to attend the game. It’s your duty to cheer our boys on.”
Morgan sighs and wrings her hands. “What a pity. Such terrible timing, but the meeting absolutely can’t be moved.”
“But you’re the cheerleaders. It would be an embarrassment to the school if you weren’t there.”
“Such a shame,” agrees Morgan.
“Well, if you don’t attend this game, you can forget about making the squad next year!” he quips with an evil leer.
“We’re seniors.”
The standoff between Morgan and Jefferies is all the more compelling because it’s being viewed by almost half the school now, some of them hanging out of open windows to hear better. Spud glances at me and raises his eyebrows. I raise mine back.
“Now listen here, Miss Giddes. I will not be blackmailed into renegotiating your punishment.”
“Of course not,” says Morgan, like the very implication offends her. “Can we go now, please?”
“But … I’m not finished. I mean, couldn’t you reschedule your meeting? It’s really important that we have a convincing display of Brookbank High spirit.”
“I see that,” agrees Morgan. “After all, it will look awful when all those TV cameras show that the cheerleading squad isn’t even there. And when they find out that we’ve all been banned from our own senior prom … well, just think of the negative publicity. I’d be surprised if anyone joined the cheerleading squad ever again.”
It’s clear that she’s won. Now it’s just a matter of how long Jefferies holds out before capitulating.
“Hmmm,” he murmurs, shuffling his feet. “On further consideration, I’m thinking it may be advantageous if the cheerleaders are able to attend prom.”
“And everyon
e else too, of course,” she says amiably.
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh dear. I suppose we’ll be holding our meeting as planned, then.”
Jefferies looks ready to explode. “Fine! Everybody present is entitled to attend prom.”
“That would be nice.” Morgan seems like she doesn’t much care either way.
“In return, however, I expect the full cheerleading squad to attend the game on Thursday. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” says Morgan, a little too readily.
“The baseball game,” he clarifies.
“Yes.”
“And you’ll wear your Brookbank High cheerleading outfits.”
“Yes.”
“And I expect to hear you cheering.”
“Yes.”
“Loudly.”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm.” Jefferies has clearly run out of legal fine print, so he huffs a couple of times and turns to leave.
I notice that Ms. Kowalski is hovering in the doorway, and I wonder how much of the spectacle she’s witnessed.
“So if we do all of the things you just said, we can attend prom, right?” Morgan asks just as he reaches the double doors. “We have your word on that?” She sweeps her hand through 360 degrees to indicate that there are a few hundred witnesses.
He looks around, becoming aware for the first time just how many students have been eavesdropping on the Quad performance. “Yes, Ms. Giddes,” he snaps. “You have my word.”
Everybody screams and cheers and hugs all at once. All except Morgan, who smiles like she finds the whole thing incredibly amusing.
37
Won’t it bug you at all to see GRRLS cheering on the group they’ve sworn to bring down?” I ask Abby as we approach the bleachers.
She doesn’t say a word, just smiles enigmatically.
We’re arriving late so we won’t have to sit through too much of the game, but Abby actually seems quite excited to be here. As we round the edge of the bleachers, I look up and see that the score is already 5-1. Oh well, no surprise there.
