The Kidney Hypothetical

by Lisa Yee

  Startled, I looked up. It was Nick — and there was no Samantha with him. I grinned. It was about time we talked. I hoped we’d have a good laugh over Samantha’s “moral compass” statement, plus I couldn’t wait to tell him about Monarch.

  “Nicholas!” I cried, slapping him on the back.

  Nick looked miserable. “Just checking to see how you are doing,” he said. “And to warn you.”

  “Warn me about what?”

  “Word around campus is that whoever did the flyers isn’t done with you yet.”

  I could feel my face heat up. “What have you heard?”

  Nick shook his head. “Seriously, that’s all I know. It’s just a rumor, but watch your back. Look, I gotta go. I can’t be seen talking to you.”

  “You’re joking, right?” I said. “Nick, we’ve been best friends forever.”

  He looked like he was on the verge of tears. “I know,” he said. “But I’m getting married to Samantha, not you.”

  Even when we were young, Nick and I looked out for each other. Last year, when Coach Valcorza named me speech and debate captain, he said I could pick my co-captain. Everyone was certain that I’d pick Rosalee Gomez, because (1) co-captains have always been a guy and girl, and (2) Rosalee won nationals twice in Dramatic Interpretation, and (3) Coach strongly suggested I pick Rosalee.

  So when I said, “This year’s co-captain will be … Nick Milgram,” everyone was shocked, especially Nick.

  “I’m not sure if this is right,” he whispered to me as all the guys in the room applauded.

  “You can thank me later,” I answered.

  After that, Rosalee stopped talking to me, which was actually a good thing. Coach Valcorza took me aside and said, “I know that I said that the final decision would be up to you, but are you sure you want Nick and not Rosalee?”

  I told him that my choice was final. But what I couldn’t say was that it would have been impossible to co-captain with Rosalee. Sure, she was an excellent public speaker, but she was an awful kisser.

  The team was in San Diego at state finals our sophomore year, and Rosalee and I were both celebrating wins: she for taking first place with her dramatic interpretation of The House of Blue Leaves, and I for being named First Speaker, Varsity Division, Debate. Everyone had gone to their hotel rooms, leaving me and Rosalee in a dark corner of the damp Howard Johnson’s lobby. As ESPN blared on the television, Rosalee leaned in and kissed me. I wasn’t sure what to do, so, as not to be rude, I kissed her back.

  Big mistake.

  It was like making out with a Nerf ball. Her lips were spongy and kissing her was entirely without passion. I felt nothing — well, maybe total awkwardness, and I couldn’t wait to get away. Then there was that issue of Roo. We had just started going out, and though we weren’t official, it seemed highly likely that it could happen, especially since Roo had been dropping heavy hints like, “Gee Higgs, I bet you’d make a great boyfriend.”

  It goes unsaid that when the debate team travels, we don’t narc on each other. Many hookups and heartbreaks have gone on during speech and debate tournaments. Last year, an extemporaneous speaker from Salt Lake City made it very clear to Nick that she was willing to sleep with him. All he had to do was say “affirmative,” and the deal would have been done.

  I told Nick that whatever he decided, I’d keep it from Roo, and therefore, Samantha. In the end, he declined and Miss Salt Lake City found a debater from Des Moines who was more than willing to accept her offer. The downside was that Nick felt so guilty that he confessed what happened (or didn’t happen) to Samantha, including my comment. She had hated me ever since.

  Anyway, the next morning after our quasi kissing, Rosalee made it a point to sit next to me on the team bus, even going so far as asking Nick to move. She was the last person I wanted to see. Not that she was ugly. But let’s face it — she was no Roo.

  As the bus pulled into the school parking lot, I told Rosalee that even though she was really nice, what happened at the Howard Johnson’s was a one-time deal, never to be spoken of again. Then I added, “I have a girlfriend.”

  “You never told me you were with someone,” Rosalee said, eyes flashing, lips pursed into a hard line.

  At that point, I hadn’t even told Roo.

  “Yes!” Roo squealed when I asked her to be my girlfriend. “Tell me, Higgs, why do you think we belong together?”

  I made up something mushy and that seemed to satisfy her. What I couldn’t tell Roo was that we were together so I wouldn’t have to kiss Rosalee again.

  I wondered what it would be like to kiss Monarch. Would she pull away? Would she lean into it? I liked to imagine that kissing her would start off slow, teasing, lips barely brushing against each other, then quickly build into an all-consuming intensity that would leave both of us breathless. Kissing Roo was nice, especially in the beginning. But there were never any fireworks. It was more like sparklers.

  When Roo and I first got together, I gave us six months, tops. After six months, I gave us another three months, and then another three months, then another, until suddenly two years, four months, and seven days had passed. During the last year, I was determined to break up with Roo, but had never gotten around to it. What I could not have imagined was that breaking up with Roo would mean that I was breaking up with Nick too.

  Most of the offending flyers were gone, except for a few strays that I tore down. However, that didn’t stop people from mocking me. It was as if everyone had suddenly been given permission to let loose. Guys, who one week earlier would have stepped aside when I walked down the hall, were now calling me Dinky Dick, or just Dinky, but we all knew what they meant. Most of the girls glared at me, but I think that was more because of the kidney hypothetical than the flyers. You know how when people break up, their friends take sides? Well, it felt like the entire school took Roo’s side.

  When I entered the band room, the drum section heated up and then the horns jumped in, as wind instruments shouted, “Dinky Dick!” Soon the whole room was playing Elvis Costello’s “Pump It Up.”

  I had to laugh, because crying was never an option. “Hey, fellow dickheads,” I shouted. “You all suck!”

  I glanced at Charlie, who was sawing away on her cello. She was playing “Pomp and Circumstance” and had succeeded in making it sound like a funeral dirge. When she didn’t meet my gaze, I wondered if I was an embarrassment to her.

  “Thettle down, thettle down,” Mr. Hermes, the band director, yelled. He was used to our antics, having been in a real band once. When he was younger, he toured with the Muskrats & Sara Sue for two years. You could sort of tell that he had a life apart from SRHS. Despite his grayish hair, which was worn long and often in a ponytail, Mr. Hermes had an air of perpetual youth. His T-shirts featured bands no one had ever heard of and he was a human catalogue of rock music. I liked Mr. Hermes. Even though I had to miss a lot of jazz band events because of debate, he never marked me down for it. In return, unlike some of the others, I never once made fun of his lisp. I would never joke about a speech impediment. Never.

  Even though most of the kids stopped playing Elvis Costello when Mr. Hermes ordered them to, Zander Findley kept going. He never knew when to stop.

  As Mr. Hermes rehearsed the band for graduation, the seniors sat out since we’d be picking up our diplomas. I looked at my list of suspects. I had narrowed the list down to eleven. There were now eleven total. Eleven people who would have loved to see me fall on my face.

  United States criminal law summarizes that a jury needs the following to be convinced of a person’s guilt …

  1. Means

  2. Motive

  3. Opportunity

  Based on that, I instantly ruled out five names, leaving the following suspects:

  Rosalee Gomez

  Mr. Avis

  Mr. French

  Zander Findley

  Roo and/or Samantha

  And finally,

  Nick

  They’re here!”r />
  Reflections/snoitcelfeR had arrived. That was the name of our yearbook which, as far as I could figure, had nothing to do with our school name, Sally Ride High School. One, two, three … seven, eight … twelve, thirteen. I was on thirteen pages. I scanned the index. There was only one person on more pages than me, Zander Findley; however, that was to be expected since he was co-editor of the yearbook. Rosalee Gomez was on as many pages as I was, but only because she joined every dork club imaginable, like the Junior Philatelic Society and the Oui, French Club. At our school, clubs were encouraged to the point of absurdity. Everyone joined as many as possible to beef up their college applications. There was the I Love Toast Club, and the Quidditch Qlub, and the Ban Bad Words Club. Roo was a founding member of the BBWC.

  As I skimmed through Reflections/snoitcelfeR, I paused at the faculty section. Ms. Gill, my AP Lit teacher, had her arm outstretched and was holding an open book and gazing at it. In Coach Valcorza’s photo, he was in the debate room raising a megaphone to his mouth. Mr. Hermes was standing on a ladder waving his baton.

  The four “Four Fun” pages featured a spread devoted to “Cutest Couples.” Nick and Samantha re-created the famous John Lennon/Yoko Ono Rolling Stone cover shot where Yoko is lying down, and John has his leg wrapped around her — except that Nick was fully clothed. Ironically, the photo of Vanessa and Janey standing side by side and not even touching almost got cut. Mr. Avis protested, saying they were lesbians and it was an inaccurate depiction of SRHS. But when Vanessa’s father threatened a lawsuit, he backed down. Then there was a photo of me with Roo on my shoulders. We looked like we owned the world.

  I glanced up from the yearbook and thought I saw Roo watching me from near the vending machines. But when I looked again, she wasn’t there.

  * * *

  Rosalee made her usual pig noises when I entered the debate room. She was sitting in the back with the rest of the varsity girls. “Rematch!” one of them yelled.

  I ignored her.

  I had won Monday’s pseudo-parliamentary debate, 2−1. My friends voted for me, Rosalee’s friend voted for her. Still, partials of her arguments played over and over in my head.

  Nick Milgram does the majority of the research, writing, and prep, rendering Higgs little more than a talking head.

  Higgs Boson Bing is well known on campus … that does not equate to well liked.

  Higgs Boson Bing … is unethical, unprincipled and equivocates.

  Where was Nick? I wondered. There were a couple of things I needed to clear up with him.

  I took out my phone and began typing.

  Higgs: I know u can’t talk to me, but can u text?

  Nick: Not sure

  Higgs: Do u really think that u did all the work?

  Nick: Somewhat

  Higgs: We were a team.

  Nick: We were a team during the debate. I did all the research

  Higgs: Not all.

  Nick: Most

  Higgs: If it bothered u, why didn’t u say something?

  Nick: I did

  Higgs: I never heard it.

  Nick: Exactly

  Higgs: Can we just talk?

  Nick: Samantha will leave me if I talk to you

  Higgs: One question

  Nick: What?

  Higgs: Did you put up the flyers?

  Nick: Shit

  Higgs: Did you?

  I was startled to find Nick standing next to me. When did he get there? I wondered.

  “You really are a Dinky Dick if you think I’d do that to you,” Nick said. He looked wounded. “Clearly, you don’t think much of me. Maybe you never did. We’re over, Higgs. Have a good life.”

  Nick retreated to the corner of the room and slumped in a chair. His head was bent down and he was texting like mad. He’d taken off his glasses and kept rubbing his eyes. I headed over to him.

  Before I got halfway across the room, Rosalee stopped me. “He’s right, you know. You’re a shit. If anyone would know, it would be Nick, since he researches everything. Everything.” She wasn’t done with me yet. “Shame about SAP. Oh, I mean the Society of Animal Protection. You’d think a group like that would have rescued more than one pampered pet.”

  “Drop it, Rosalee,” I said. Nick still had his head down. “This is because of Howard Johnson’s, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Bing. Not every girl is after you. Your inflated ego makes it hard for anyone to get near you long enough to tell you the facts, so you operate on false assumptions. It would be a shame if the world knew who you really were.”

  “Did you do it?” I asked flatly.

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t act dumb.”

  “I never act dumb,” she spit back, “which is why a girl like me is too good for you. And if you are referring to the flyers, no, it wasn’t me, but I wish I had thought of it. It’s about time someone knocked you off your perch.”

  There was a cackle over the PA system. Everyone was still. Principal Kostantino’s voice came on. “Attention Sally Ride Astronauts, I am pleased to announce that Senior of the Year has been selected.” I took a deep breath. “Three committees met in secret, and after much debate, we have come to a decision.”

  The room went quiet as everyone glanced at me. I pretended not to see them. Okay. Okay, I told myself. This was it. The culmination of my four years at Sally Ride High School. Win this and prove superior to Zander Findley. Win this and be undisputed king of Sally Ride High. Win this and honor my brother, and make Dad happy.

  “The honor of Sally Ride High School’s most coveted award, Senior of the Year, goes to …”

  I was stunned. Lauren Fujiyama? They gave Senior of the Year to Lauren Fujiyama? Really? Lauren Fujiyama? She didn’t even do a sport. Senior of the Year was supposed to be well rounded: academics, activities, sports. I felt like I had the wind knocked out of me. Nick looked as surprised as I was.

  Lauren Fujiyama?

  There was crackling again over the PA system. Maybe Principal Kostantino was going to say there had been a mistake, and that I was the real winner. Or maybe, for the first time, there were Co-Senior(s) of the Year. My brain was having trouble processing what I had just heard.

  Lauren Fujiyama?

  Suddenly, I tuned into the strains of the Wanton Weasels playing their hit song “Gotcha, Gotcha, by Goodness, I Gotcha.” That was odd. The song stopped and a digitized voice came on. “We interrupt our musical interlude to bring you a special announcement…. Extensive studies have revealed that Higgs Boson Bing is a Dinky Dick …”

  What???!!!

  “… and now, back to the Wanton Weasels.”

  As the music blasted, everyone in the debate room howled. Even my so-called friends.

  “Dinky Dick!” someone yelled. “Oh man, Higgs. You really pissed off someone good.”

  I grabbed my backpack and headed to the door. Coach Valcorza stopped me. “Where are you going, Higgs?”

  “I have a headache,” I told him. It was true. Ever since I was little, I’d get migraines when I got really stressed, which meant that I got a lot of migraines. What I didn’t tell Coach Valcorza was that I couldn’t be there right now. Not without the Senior of the Year award. Not with everyone laughing at me.

  “I’ll give you a pass for the nurse’s office,” he said.

  * * *

  I took my time even though my headache was pounding. There were a few other kids roaming around. Everyone was walking slowly, probably because no one wanted to get where they were going.

  Mr. French was setting up some card tables in the quad. He was humming the Wanton Weasels’ “Gotcha, Gotcha, by Goodness, I Gotcha.”

  “It’s four hundred dollars to get the window fixed,” he said as I passed. “Four hundred dollars!!!”

  “Is that my problem?” I asked.

  “It is if you mistake a car for a garbage can,” he said.

  My headache suddenly got worse. Why was I even bothering to talk to Mr. Frenc
h? Everyone knew he was nuts.

  “They have to straighten out the door before they fix the window,” he went on.

  “That’s a shame,” I said, trying to get past him.

  He stepped in front of me and blocked my way. “You rich kids don’t give a damn about anyone or anything but yourselves, do you?”

  I made a mental note to cross off Mr. French’s name. It cost money to make those flyers. Money he clearly didn’t have.

  “I’m late,” I told him.

  Mr. French stepped aside and bowed to me.

  I bypassed the nurse’s office and headed straight to the admin office. “Principal Kostantino,” I shouted over the reception counter.

  She didn’t seem surprised to see me. “Higgs,” she said, letting out a sigh of resignation. “Well, that was unfortunate.”

  I wasn’t sure if she meant me not getting Senior of the Year, or Dinky Dick being broadcast across the school. “Principal Kostantino,” I said. “Who is responsible for the —” I didn’t want to say it out loud.

  “The anatomy announcement?” A bemused smile escaped before she could catch it. “I don’t know. Someone hacked into the PA system.”

  “Well, it’s defamation of character,” I told her, “and I demand to know who’s behind this.”

  Principal Kostantino was busy going through a pile of papers on Mrs. Sanchez’s desk. “I wish I had an answer for you, Higgs,” she said. “But I don’t. Listen, I know you’re upset. But there are only a few more days left of school. Let it go.”

  Right. Like that was possible.

  * * *

  At lunchtime, the seniors crowded around the folding tables to collect their caps and gowns. I went to A–G.

  Rosalee looked up from a sheet of names. “He’s in the right line,” she told the boy in front of me. “Dinky Dick is between A and G.”

  A couple of the guys laughed so hard that they almost keeled over.

  “Nice to know you know your ABCs,” I said gamely.

  I had to get out of there.