by Don Calame
“We start this morning with a name game.” He gives us a fleeting closed-mouth grin. “Each person will state their name along with something they wish to bring to our very own desert island. But there are a few catches. And they are as follows: Your item must be useful, must be portable, and must start with the same letter as your name. Oh, and you also must remember all of the names and items previously mentioned. Any questions? No. Good. I’ll begin. I am Mr. Nestman.” He strokes his lumpy pockmarked chin with his right hand, his eyes searching the ceiling. “And I will be bringing to our desert island . . . some nail clippers.”
Mr. Nestman gestures to the well-padded eggplant-breasted brunette on his left.
“Okay.” The girl adjusts herself and sits up tall, her legs crossed. “Hi. I’m Victoria.” A little wave to the class. “And I’ll be bringing Vaseline —”
A couple of meathead-type dudes shout, “Yeah!”
“All right, bring it down a notch,” Mr. Nestman says. “Vaseline along with what, Victoria?”
Victoria’s cheeks have gone rosy. “Along with,” she continues, “Mr. Nestman’s nail clippers.” She turns her head to Mister-Handsome-Guy beside her.
“Me?” The kid smirks. “I’m Ryan and I’ll be bringing a rectal thermometer.”
The entire class breaks up with laughter.
“I’ll allow it,” Mr. Nestman says reluctantly. “But only because it is, technically, useful. But keep it clean from here on out, kiddies.” He motions for Ryan to continue.
“And also”— Ryan clenches his eyes shut —“Vanessa’s Vaseline.”
“Victoria,” a girl across the oval calls out.
“Yeah. Sorry.” Ryan shakes his head. “Her Vaseline. And Mr. Nestman’s nail polish.”
More laughter.
“Clippers,” someone else corrects.
“Yes.” Ryan points double finger guns in the direction of the voice. “What you said.”
I quickly count the people in between me and Mr. Nestman and realize that I am going to have to remember twelve names and twelve desert-island items. Not something I am very confident I can do. My scalp tightens, and I am chewing my tongue like crazy before I know it.
I have to put the Evelyn business aside and concentrate here. I don’t want to look like a big old dorkus on the very first day. Especially in a class where I don’t even know most of the students. Mainly, though, I don’t want to go pissing off any of my potential movie stars by screwing up their names.
I decide to try an old trick Mrs. Ostesheaver taught me in second grade when I couldn’t remember who anybody was in our class: matching the names and their items with something very specific about each individual.
Mr. Nestman has a nest on his head and looks like he manicures his nails. Mr. Nest Man and his nail clippers.
Victoria is voluptuous and uses vast amounts of Vaseline on her voluminous volcanoes.
Ryan sounds like the name of a soap-opera star, which is also what he looks like. He seems like a bit of a butthole. Rectal thermometer.
So far, so good.
I cup my hand over my nose and sniff my palm. Something about it calms me and focuses me at the same time. Which is exactly what I need right now.
Calm and focus.
Here’s Mackenzie and she’s bringing a magnifying glass. Mackenzie has a long name that could easily fit on her equally long schnozzola. A nose that would look even bigger through a magnifying glass.
Hunter is a buff chiseled-face dude with a buzz cut who is bringing hand grenades. I love how you get tossed an easy one every once in a while.
Fortney has an unfortunately large forehead, and since she is bringing face cream, she makes my life that much simpler.
Daniel Duncan is a douche bag who was in my English class last year, and I’m sure whatever he is bringing will reinforce his douchebaggery.
“Dollahs,” he says with a big stupid grin, rubbing his forefingers together.
As I was saying.
Dollars on a desert island? Super douchebaggish. But Mr. Nestman doesn’t call him on it, probably because he’s relieved it’s nothing gross or sexual.
Everything is going great guns, my memory plan working like a charm, until my eyes catch sight of the girl who is sitting three doors down from D-bag Dan.
Blunt spiky bob-cut blond hair. Moist full lips. Red shutter shades hiding her eyes. And a tight crimson sweater contouring her amazingly toned arms. Holy cow! It’s like she stepped right out of Final Fantasy. How wicked hot would she look wielding a Blazefire Saber?
I am so completely hypnotized by this incredible vision of enchantedness that I totally miss what the next two kids say. Their names. Their items. What they look like.
As if they even matter.
As if anything matters anymore.
And when at last my goddess speaks, it’s like the most beautiful sound to ever reach human ears in the entire history of human ears. Soft and sweet and melodious.
“Hi. My name is Leyna and I am going to bring”— she pops the top off a tube of Burt’s Bees —“lip balm.” Leyna giggles, then applies the balm in a wonderfully smooth motion across her perfectly pouted pucker. I could watch her perform this very act a million times over and I would never get bored. “Gotta keep them protected,” she says, pressing her glossy lips together.
Oh.
My.
Gandalf.
WHERE DID THIS GIRL COME FROM? And how have I never seen her before? She must be a freshman. I hope she’s a freshman. A junior or senior I’d never have a shot at.
Right. A girl that glorious I don’t stand a chance with no matter what grade she’s in.
But sheeshkabob. What I wouldn’t give to have Princess Leyna plant those silky balmed lips on me. I’d hand over my Xbox 360, all of my video games, all of my World of Warcraft gold, every single Star Wars and Star Trek novel I own, my Antonio Banderas DVDs . . . Everything.
I’d even donate my entire replica sword and dagger collection to the homeless.
You think I’m joking, but it’s true. Because this girl is not only beautiful; she’s got that something extra. It’s like you get this warm feeling all over when you look at her. And once you’ve seen her, you just want to keep seeing her. You can’t peel your eyes away —
A loud clap rouses me from my trance.
“Hellooooo?” It’s Mr. Nestman, and he sounds annoyed. “Are we still on this planet?”
The class busts up with laughter. And that’s when I notice that everyone is staring at me.
“Oh.” I shake my head, blinking hard. “I’m sorry . . . I was —”
“Staring at Leyna.” Mr. Nestman nods. “Yes, we all saw you. It is considered polite to be a bit more discreet about one’s ogling.”
More laughter from the circle.
“No. I wasn’t . . . That’s not . . .” I blink hard again, my cheeks burning up. “Is it . . . ? Is it my turn?”
Mr. Nestman forces a smile. “It is indeed.”
Shit shit shit. Okay. Gotta think. Gotta think.
“Right.” I swallow. “I’m . . . uh . . . I’m Sean and I’ll be bringing . . . to our desert island . . .” Jesus, think, man. Anything that starts with S. It doesn’t matter. Something useful. Something cool. A weapon. A . . . A . . . “A shillelagh,” I announce before I can snatch it back.
The class explodes in whoops of laughter.
Shillelagh? Seriously? Jeez. How about a sword, dinklet? Switchblade not cool enough? Saber, slingshot, submachine gun? No? None of those? God. I hate my late-to-the-party brain.
“What the hell is a shileelee?” Ryan calls out. “Is that like one of those rubber bags you strap to your leg so you can walk and whizz at the same time?”
This gets another nice round of sniggers.
“It’s pronounced shuh-LAY-lee, Ryan,” Mr. Nestman corrects. “And no, it’s not a urine collector. It’s Irish. A thick wooden staff generally used as a cudgel.”
“Wait,” D-bag Dan says. “I want to
bring my thick staff, too.”
Mr. Nestman smirks. “Sorry, Daniel. One item per person. Perhaps if you ask nicely, Sean will let you use his staff.”
Jeers and howls and hoots ricochet off the walls and ceiling.
The entire upper portion of my body is on fire. All I can do is stare at a piece of fluff that gently scoots across the floor in front of me, probably being propelled by the gales of laughter.
“Okay, okay.” Mr. Nestman does a bring-down-the-volume gesture with his hands. “Sean, you’ve got your shillelagh. Now, why don’t you tell us what everyone else is bringing?”
I fake a smile. “I can’t remember,” my voice squeaks. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. My brain is blanking. Sorry. I just —”
“How about you give it a try?” Mr. Nestman says. “We’ll help you out if you get stuck. That’s what this is all about. We’re building community here.”
Right, by making me look like a meat sack.
“Okay.” I clench my eyes shut, attempting to clear my mind. Have to try and remember all the clues I came up with. “Can I start from the beginning instead of going backward?”
“Whatever works for you, Sean,” Mr. Nestman says.
“All right.” I breathe. Nest on his head Nestman. “Obviously, you’re Mr. Nestman. And you’re bringing nail clippers.”
Mr. Nestman tips his head. “Excellent.”
Okay. Okay. Voluptuous, voluptuous. “Victoria,” I say, “is bringing her volcanoes.” I wince. “I mean her Vaseline. And . . .” Handsome soap star . . . “Ryan. You’re a butthole, so . . .”
“What did you say?” Ryan glares at me, his head jutting forward. “I’m a what?”
Oh, shit. Did that just come out of my mouth?
“I said . . . in your butthole. Because that’s where . . . a rectal thermometer goes. And that’s what you’re bringing.” I press my palms into my eye sockets. Must concentrate. Get this over as fast as possible. I remove my hands from my face and look over at . . . “Mackenzie. Is next. And Mackenzie is bringing . . . a magnifying glass. And Hunter is bringing a, uh, hunting knife? No. Hand grenades. Hand grenades. That’s right. And Fortney. She’s bringing forehead cream.”
“Face cream,” Fortney says, her fingers gingerly touching her extra-wide forehead.
“Sorry. Right. That’s what I meant.” Jesus. I am sweating all over. None of these people are ever going to want to be in my film. Not after this idiotic display.
“Continuing,” Mr. Nestman calls out. “Let’s pick up the pace.”
“Yes. Right. Okay, okay. There’s D-bag Dan, who’s bringing . . . I mean Daniel. He’s bringing douche bags. No. No, he’s not.” I give my head a smack. “He’s bringing dollars. And then, after him . . .” I stare at the girl with the long blond hair and the retainer in her mouth. “I can’t . . . um . . . I don’t . . .”
“Kelsey,” Mr. Nestman offers.
“Kelsey.” I point at her, pretending it’s just come to me. “Correct. And Kelsey is bringing a”— something that begins with k —“keyboard!” It’s the only thing I can think of.
“Kerosene lamp.” Kelsey huffs.
“Yes. That’s what I meant. Kerosene lamp. And next to Kelsey is a guy by the name of . . . Don’t tell me — it’s on the tip of my tongue. Wait for it. It’s, like, right there. Just give me —”
“Jake,” somebody barks.
“Jake. It would have come to me. Except . . . I have no idea what Jake’s bringing.”
“A jacket,” the same somebody groans.
“Thank you. Wouldn’t have gotten that one.” I nod, then gesture toward Leyna. “And next is Princess Leyna and her luscious lip balm.” I clench my eyes and my fists simultaneously. “I mean . . . just regular Leyna . . . and just plain old regular lip balm. Nothing else.”
I drop my head, wishing that someone would just kill me right now.
“COME ON, GUYS.” I’m pacing around my room with Judy, one of our foster ferrets, draped around my neck like a stole. “We’re supposed to be trying to come up with ideas for our movie.”
“Okay, but wait. You have to watch this first.” Coop laughs as he points at my laptop. “It’s elephant porn, dawgs. Can you believe this is YouTube sanctioned? I mean, look at that ginormous whang. It’s bigger than his trunk.”
Matt moves over to my desk. “Jesus. He’s just flopping it around for everyone to see.”
“You don’t want to watch this, Judy.” I take the ferret from around my neck and put her on the floor. “Go on, get me my socks.”
Judy scurries off and disappears into my closet.
Matt watches her go, then turns back to the computer. “I guess elephants don’t get embarrassed.”
Coop laughs. “Dude, if your schnoodle was that big, you wouldn’t be shy about waving it around, either. His porn star name should be Packin’ Dermis.”
“Can we please get back to looking for horror clips?” I say.
Coop cracks up. “What? This isn’t horrifying enough for you? Hold on, let me find the one where the dog nurtles the cat. It’s set to seventies porn music.” He hunches over the keyboard and starts typing just as Judy returns with a Mr. Spock action figure in her mouth.
Matt gestures at the ferret. “Hey, that’s a pretty cool trick, Sean.”
I sigh. “It would have been cooler if she’d actually brought me what I’d asked for.”
“Maybe she heard Spock instead of sock,” Matt says, laughing.
“You think you’re being funny but that’s actually a good point. I did teach Judy the names of everyone on the Enterprise a few years ago.”
Matt knits his brow. “Do I even want to ask?”
“Here it is,” Coop interjects. He spins the computer toward us and taps up the sound. “Watch this. It’s freakin’ brill.”
Porn music blasts over my tiny laptop speakers as we watch a dog going to town on a cat.
“You teach your pets to do these kinds of tricks,” Coop says, “and you’ll have my dollar.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Jesus.” Matt’s eyes bug. “That’s so wrong.” He snorts with laughter. “That poor kitty.”
“I don’t know.” Coop shrugs. “The cat only seems mildly inconvenienced.”
Matt laughs. “Yeah, probably because it happens on a regular basis. The cat’s all, like, ‘Oh, great, here we go again. Just get it over with already.’”
Coop punches Matt in the arm. “Kind of like what Val says to you, huh?”
“More like what your mama said to me last night.” Matt swats Coop’s head. “After, like, the twelfth round.”
“That’s funny, because even after a marathon session, your mama likes me to take my time. But I guess that’s because I’ve got the mad skills.”
“Are you guys finished?” I ask, grabbing the back of my tensed-up neck. “Because I’ve only got a few months before my life turns into a total nightmare.”
“Really?” Coop picks up my laptop and shows me the dog-on-cat video. “I would think you’d be grateful. I mean, at least you’re not being accosted by Rover every night.” Coop head-gestures toward the dog sleeping in the corner of my room. “Unless, of course, you are.”
Just then, the door to my bedroom is bumped open and in walk Mom and Dad, each carrying parts of a crib.
“Sorry,” Mom says. “We would have knocked, but our hands are full.”
Dad squints at the laptop screen as he rests the head- and footboards against my dresser. “What are you boys watching?”
“Nothing,” I blurt, stepping in front of Coop.
“Oh,” Mom says, laying the crib slats on the floor. “Is that the one where the dog and cat are wrestling and then fall off the couch? Angie sent me that. It’s so cute.”
Dad peeks around me. “Whoa!” He jerks his head back. “That’s not wrestling.”
Mom looks confused. “What?”
Coop snaps the laptop shut. “It’s for biology class,” he says. “We’re
doing a report on animal reproduction.”
“Reproduction?” Mom screws up her face. “What are you talking about?”
Dad holds up his hand. “It’s okay, Barbara. I’ve got this one.” He cants his head as he looks at us. “You boys do realize that animals of different species usually can’t reproduce?”
“Yeah,” Matt says, his eyes veering off to the side. “That’s what we were trying to find examples of. Animals that can’t have babies together. Because . . . not everyone knows that.”
“Although,” Dad says, emptying a bag of nuts and bolts onto my rug, “interesting factoid: Certain dissimilar species actually can generate offspring. If they’re closely related. Usually within the same genus and within the same family. Have you ever heard of a zonkey?”
“No,” Matt says.
Dad fits the headboard and one of the slatted sides together. “That would be a cross between a zebra and a donkey. And while they’re very rare in the wild, they have been successfully bred in zoos. In fact, the first zoo to breed one was —”
“That’s fascinating,” I say. “Why are you guys bringing this baby stuff into my room?”
“Mrs. Goldstein gave this to us,” Mom replies, all sprightly. “Wasn’t that nice of her?”
“Yeah, real generous.” I stare at the partially assembled crib, my jaw clenched tight. “I thought you said the baby wasn’t going be born until May.”
“Babies sometimes come early.” Dad continues with the assembly. “We can’t wait until the last minute to make up the room. Besides, it’s going to end up in here eventually, so —”
“But this isn’t a baby’s room,” I argue. “It’s not even safe for a baby. There are swords on the walls.” I motion to my mounted replica samurai swords. “And glass-framed posters that could fall down and kill it.” I point to the Lord of the Rings poster over my bed.
“Aw, sweetie.” Mom forces a smile. “We’re going to have to take all that stuff down, of course. You’ll see. We’re going to paint it powder blue with some fluffy clouds on the ceiling.” There’s a wistful look in her eyes, like she’s picturing the whole thing already finished. “We might even paint a nice big rainbow over there.” She points to the wall where my Death Star clock hangs. “And a flutter of butterflies flying up to the ceiling over there.” Where my World War II figures are displayed. Then she shakes herself out of her reverie. “But we don’t have to do it all right now. I mean”— she glances at Dad —“there’s still some time. Right, Gary?”
