Two Parties, One Tux, and a Very Short Film about The Grapes of Wrath

by Steven Goldman

  How? Does everyone stand? Do people sit on the desk?

  “I assume you are aware of how this works. The Judicial Board will ask you questions, then they meet and discuss what they have heard secretly, I mean without you, and then they will make a recommendation to Dr. VandeNeer. I’m sure he will want to meet with your parents to discuss any disciplinary actions we may need to take. You may return to class.”

  “Thank you,” I say as I leave, since he seems to be waiting for me to say something. Why do I keep thanking this man?

  I must look pretty shellshocked when I return to calculus, because even David notices. Luckily, lunch is next.

  If anything has changed since our car ride over the weekend, it is hard to tell from the way David’s acting. Over the last two days we have talked about homework, baseball, and Curtis’s sub, and he has done his Pib and Pog voices about sixty times. Nothing unusual. David is sitting at lunch with his sandwich and apple, waiting for me with the same slightly bored look on his face that he always has when I take too long at my locker. He looks a little less disinterested when I fill him in on the details of my conversation with Sorrelson.

  “I hate to agree with Louis, but he’s right. What are they going to do to you?” David sounds convincing, like he really knows about these things. “The J-Board is a complete joke. And there is no way Sorrelson is going to poison your college recommendations. Your parents would sue.”

  I nod, but all I’m really thinking is, “Shit, I have ruined my entire future by showing a cartoon to my English class.” You would think it would be harder to screw up this badly.

  David is looking at me with an expression that conveys the depth of his sincerity and concern. I’m thinking of punching him, but he seems to remember who he is suddenly and makes a typical David comment: “Some school will take you. It’s not like you’re serving jail time or something. Plus, you know, there are lots of jobs that don’t require a college degree.”

  Jobs. A wave of guilt-induced nausea brings the taste of vomit to my mouth. I manage to keep it down and breathe loudly through my nose.

  “Are you okay?” David asks. “You look like you’re about to color the carpet.”

  I nod, without opening my mouth. “It’s not just me,” I explain between long breaths. “They fired Curtis for letting me show the thing. I’m sure that’s why he’s gone. I got someone fired. I got Curtis fired.”

  I can’t finish lunch. Instead I treat myself to a lie-down in the nurse’s office. I’m the only one over twelve who still uses the cot. She takes my temperature and gives me Pepto-Bismol and a few clucking noises. I can’t tell if the clucking indicates sympathy or disapproval, but she leaves me in the little room and turns off the light. I lie in the darkness, wondering what professional options pompous, recently fired English teachers and pathologically shy, recently expelled teenagers have.

  Theory 3: I got Curtis fired (M.C. version)

  The nurse’s office is by the sophomore lockers. When I do finally get myself off the cot, I have to pass by M.C.’s locker, which at this moment has M.C. in front of it. She’s not, however, simply standing in front of it; she seems to be engaged in some form of tug-of-war with it. It is hard to tell whether she is trying to put her backpack in or take it out, because she’s smashing it viciously with the door. When the bag has been punished enough, she yanks it loose, which precipitates a rainstorm of books, notebooks, loose paper, and various articles of clothing. She picks up some of what has escaped, opens the latch, and tries to toss it in before more falls out. So far, this does not appear to be a successful strategy. I help by picking up a shoe and a French book and tossing them into the locker, but the shoe misses the mark and bounces back into the hallway. It isn’t until I retrieve the shoe that I notice she’s crying.

  “Maybe you should just take a few minutes and clean out your locker. It can’t take that long.”

  “Stupid fricking locker,” she snorts, and slams it again. The door catches on her binder and the locker vomits most of its contents onto the floor. M.C. sinks to the floor next to the pile of debris and lets loose a wail.

  “I’ll help,” I say, and I start picking up the larger books. M.C. reaches up, grabs my hand, and tugs me down beside her.

  “Forget the locker. Who cares about the locker?” She looks at me, tears streaming down her freckles. “I am a horrible person.”

  “You are?” This is a dumb response, and I know it is a dumb response even before it comes out of my mouth.

  “I got Curtis fired,” she tells me, and looks away again.

  “No, you didn’t.” I feel pretty sure of this since I’m convinced that I’m the one who got Curtis fired.

  “He didn’t do anything, I mean we didn’t do anything. Nothing. Nothing at all. I mean, I wanted to do something, not everything but something, but I didn’t even try to do anything.”

  I am still stuck on the idea that M.C. wanted to do anything with Curtis and I am now totally flustered. She looks up for some sort of response and the only thing she can read on my face is horror. She begins to sob.

  And I’m stuck. I know that this hallway will soon be full of people. I’m not sure what they will make of the two of us sitting on the floor beside the spilled contents of M.C.’s locker. And what am I supposed to do about M.C.? I think I should hold her hand or give her a hug or something, but I’m not sure how to do that. Her hands are currently wrapped around her waist like she is giving herself a hug. I pat her on the back, a little too forcefully, like maybe I’m trying to burp her or something, but she responds by leaning into me a little. My arm is sort of draped over her shoulder, but my hand hangs limply in the air, too far to rest on her shoulder but not far enough to reach her arm. I flail a little, then leave it hanging there.

  Now that the physics are out of the way, I try working up a verbal response.

  “M.C., what are we talking about?”

  “Carrie said that David said that you said that Curtis was fired. I thought he just had some sort of nervous breakdown or was outed or something.”

  “He wasn’t fired because of you. I don’t even know that he was fired.”

  “Well, what if someone thought something had happened because maybe someone else had hinted that something could happen, even if it didn’t, and then didn’t deny it when other people thought maybe it had? I am such a jerk. I should have just said it—I should have just said that nothing happened. We painted flats together in the workroom and we barely spoke, but it felt personal, romantic and all and I’m sure I looked flushed and then Charlotte made a joke about me being all flushed but it was all like joking, nobody actually asked if we had done anything, and now, and now … crap.”

  “I don’t think that they could fire him just because of a rumor. You would have had to complain or something.”

  “Then what happened? Why did he just leave in the middle of class?”

  “I don’t think he left because you painted flats together and Charlotte made a joke. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Then I tell her how I got Curtis fired, and while she doesn’t quite buy it, at least it’s enough to make her doubt her own theory a little and get us off the floor. We shovel most of her belongings back into her locker and, through some miracle of gravity, most of it stays in long enough for her to shut the door.

  She wipes her eyes, looks me full in the face.

  “Nothing happened. You believe me, don’t you?”

  I tell her I do.

  “I really didn’t want anything to happen. I just thought he was cute.”

  I tell her I believe her.

  “I really have to grow up.”

  It is almost painful to see M.C. being this serious.

  “I’ll see you at home,” she says, and starts off down the hall.

  Has she moved in?

  Have you noticed that Louis always has an answer?

  The school has become an obstacle course. Once past the M.C. locker of despair, I find myself blocked by the large
Louis of obstinance. He has witnessed something, but he’s not sure what. M.C. crying. Me with my arm around her.

  “Stud boy, getting a little frisky there?”

  “She was upset.”

  “I would have cried too if you put your arm around me. I know, I know, you’re late for class. Do me a favor, though. Let me give you a ride home. I have a question for you.”

  I almost suggest that he could write me a letter, but it’s a joke he wouldn’t get. I don’t have a ride home, so I accept. Has to be better than talking to him now.

  Louis drives a car so old, so decrepit, so noisy, that it’s almost cool. I can see road beneath my feet through the rusted floorboard. The car smells of beer and farts, and the backseat is a trash dump. I hold my backpack on my lap.

  When he asks why M.C. was upset, I explain in abbreviated form that she thought she might be responsible for Curtis being fired.

  “Curtis wasn’t fired,” Louis says simply.

  “How do you know?”

  “Wrong euphemism. You’ve got to learn admin speak. The notice said he was on personal leave. Personal means he either went wacko and needed time off or someone kicked it and he’s grieving somewhere. I’m betting wacko. If he was fired, they would have said he was on administrative leave.”

  Strangely, I feel better. Maybe I’m a little sorry someone died or my teacher had a nervous breakdown, but at least neither of those options are my fault.

  “You know M.C. pretty well, right?” Louis asks, not looking at me but not exactly paying a lot of attention to the road either.

  “I guess.”

  “Ever … you know?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing, never?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? She’s not a bra-buster or anything, but she’s cute. Definitely cute. Butt like that you could squeeze yourself into. Am I right?”

  “Sure, I mean, yeah. But it would be weird. She’s been Carrie’s best friend since they were about five.”

  “Like kissing your sister.”

  No. Not at all. But M.C. is, well, M.C. I’ve known her forever; she practically lives in my house. To her I’m somewhere between furniture and a relative. I don’t feel like explaining any of this to Louis, who doesn’t look like he’s paying attention anyway. “No. She’s just a friend.”

  “So you aren’t taking her to the prom?”

  So this is where this conversation is going. I am so relieved to tell him that David has already asked her.

  “Can’t quite see her with your sidekick,” Louis says, sounding slightly disappointed. “Smells like he was pistol-whipped into it. Shotgun wedding?”

  “Carrie.”

  “That makes sense. Who was your assignment?”

  “Amanda. But I didn’t ask her.”

  “Now she is busting her seams. Short, but compact. Everything handy, but probably more than you can handle. Scared you shitless, right?”

  “Are you planning on going to the prom?”

  “Thanks for the invite, but I have someone I’m supposed to take, church youth group girl, although I would have dumped her for M.C. We’ve gone out a couple of times and she knows the prom is coming and if I don’t take her it would be a big deal.”

  Church youth group? Louis is part of a church youth group? Someone who goes to a church is willing to go out with Louis? I look back over at him as he steers his car down my street. He has some purposeful fuzz growing on his chin that may be an attempt at cultivating facial hair, but he still looks like Louis. Doesn’t sound like him, though. Maybe we’ve never had a real conversation.

  “I feel sort of stuck. She’s really fun. She’s funny. We haven’t gotten very far, but I never really do. I’m not a guy who they’re lining up to fuck, if you know what I mean. I can get them to laugh, but no one ever laughs their pants off. Ugly, fat, deformed—you name it, I’ve dated it, and I can’t even get burn victims to lick me.”

  I’m not feeling particularly sorry for Louis.

  “You can’t get it either, can you?”

  There doesn’t seem to be any reason to lie.

  “No,” I say quietly.

  “Not even kissing. I mean, other than your sister.”

  “Not even with.”

  “Sad. On the other hand, virginity isn’t so bad. Keeps your wrist muscles supple. But you’re not a bad-looking guy, Mitchell. A little scrawny, but very sincere. At some point, you’ve got to take a chance.” Louis pulls his car into my driveway. “Just by the by, could you not mention to M.C. that I asked about her? It would make it awkward, you know.”

  I promise him I won’t, although I can’t imagine Louis feeling awkward around anyone. I thank him for the ride and he takes off, a smelly stream of gray smoke pouring out of his tailpipe.

  CHAPTER 19

  Mitchell Gets a Haircut

  The theological implications of barbering, part one: free will

  M.C. seems to be staring at me. She, Carrie, and I are all doing our homework in the family room, although Carrie decided that she could work better on the couch, watching television. She is holding her French book; maybe that counts as studying. It is Friday afternoon, so there’s not a lot of pressure to get things done. I don’t know who we think we’re fooling. M.C. and I are sitting on opposite ends of the table and I really want to know if I’m just imagining that she’s staring at me, but I can’t figure out how to look up without meeting her eyes, so I stay focused on the page in front of me, which hasn’t become any clearer in the five minutes I have been staring at it. I try a half glance, but I can’t get my eyes up far enough to see beyond her chest, which makes me feel even more awkward. M.C. is pretty thin, but she does have a noticeable shape underneath her T-shirt, even if she isn’t what Louis would call a “bra-buster.” This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed.

  I look up at Carrie on the couch, as if I’ve just thought of something I need to say to her, but she isn’t looking in my direction, so I give a little shake of my head as if I thought of something and then decided not to say it. I contemplate making a little chuckle but decide against it. My head now up, I turn casually toward M.C., who is staring at me. This seems easier for her.

  “You need a haircut, Mitchell,” she decrees. “Do you want me to do it for you? I’m not sure I can stand that cowlick sticking up in the back much longer.”

  “Thanks for the input, but I think I’ll go to the barbershop. No offense.”

  “Not that creepy place you and your dad always go. Have you ever noticed that you are the only ones over seven or under sixty that go there? They always cut your hair too short. You look like a refugee from the late fifties. You need a real haircut.”

  My hair is a frequent target of derision and instruction, but most of the previous advice I’ve gotten has centered around mousse, gel, and blow-drying. Once Carrie tried to get me to dye it, but we’ve never focused on my choice of stylists before. Carrie and M.C. change their hair color almost as often as their clothes. Nothing too strange, mostly natural shades, highlights, darkening, streaks. I will not let either of them touch my hair.

  And to be fair, I no longer go to Tony’s, my dad’s barbershop. About two years ago I abandoned that bastion of archaic Reader’s Digests for one of the Excellent Cuts chain. Graduating to Excellent Cuts was a proud moment of independence. I’m treated as an adult there. They call me “sir,” as in, “You are next, sir.” I don’t have to discuss baseball or be told how much I’ve grown every time I go in. Plus, the haircuts are pretty cheap.

  “I like my haircuts,” I tell M.C., doing my best to summon some conviction.

  “You can’t go to the prom with geek hair.”

  “I’m not going to the prom. And it’s not geek hair.”

  “It’s the same haircut you’ve had since you were six, Mitchell,” Carrie interjects from the couch, without looking up. “Geek hair.”

  M.C. gets up and returns to the table with the phone book and the phone.

  “We can’t take
him anywhere too radical, we won’t get him through the door.” She is addressing Carrie. I have been third-personed again. “What about that place down near Walgreens—sort of near the Chinese restaurant. What’s it called?” She begins thumbing through the Yellow Pages.

  I look down at my calculus homework as if it might hold the answer, or an answer, any answer. I am not letting Carrie and M.C. take me to some salon to get my hair cut. I try several times to voice this decision, but I can’t get their attention.

  “They have an opening now, but we have to hurry,” M.C. tells me as she hangs up the phone and slips on her sweater. “What? Oh, don’t even pretend you aren’t coming. It’ll be great.”

  Why are you doing this? Why are you doing this to me? Why am I letting you do this to me?

  “You can’t be scared about getting your hair cut. What are you, four? Carrie and I could drag you bodily into the car and strap you into the chair, but that might be more embarrassing. Or, I’m sure there are some scissors around here somewhere.”

  Lamb to the slaughter, I stand up and follow M.C. to the car.

  The theological implications of barbering, part two: predestination

  Soiree is not Tony’s. It isn’t Excellent Cuts. From the moment we walk through the door, I know that this is a mistake.

  First of all, I think I am the only male in the salon. Tony’s was all-male. There were always three or four old men who came to have their few remaining hairs shortened and a few young boys waiting to lose their curls, accompanied by their mothers. The mothers are only tolerated at Tony’s as transportation. At Excellent Cuts, there are always both men and women. The waiting area is basic airport lounge decor, all very comfortable. Soiree looks more like a cave. It is dark and full of chrome, and loud techno music, audible from the parking lot, emanates from its walls. It’s also crowded. Women wearing black bathrobes wait on benches and talk at the juice bar or sit in the chairs with what looks like tin foil in their hair.