“Shut up! Shut UP! It’s NOT FUNNY!!!” Chris roared. “I’m-a tell MY DAD, BITCHES!”
The Hurts nodded helpfully . . . not funny, no. They composed themselves obligingly and stood around, attempting to look subdued and remorseful. Hurts = yes indeed, very sorry. Then, softly, they all heard a tiny sound that made them look around.
When they heard it again, not exactly a grunt, more of an eeeeeeee, like a baby balloon being squeezed, their collective gaze followed the noise, and they found Hunter, squatting and red-faced, toothily grinning his ass off. His eyes were squinched tight, and he was shaking with repressed hysterics, his arms wrapped around himself as he struggled for control. Eeeeeeee, eeeeeeee . . . And as their attention zeroed in, they were electrified to discover a giant horrifying SNOT LANYARD that had projectile/bungeed out his face from the force and now dangled uncertainly, swaying in rhythm to his spasms. It hung suspended like a gooey baby elephant trunk as he clutch/crouched, beaming and moaning and crying and eeeeeeee-ing.
“AAAAHHHHHH!” screamed the Head Lice and the Hurts, unified briefly by Hunter’s Gakky snotfest, before they were again divided when the Hurts began flopping about in an agony of laughter.
In pissy amazement, the Head Lice watched them commence shrieking, all flappy and derisive, and as the Lice faces slowly took in this new reality, it sent the Hurts supernova. Unhinged, they wheezed as the butt-hurt expressions on the Head Lice began to cause them actual pain. Pete could barely speak due to mirth-cramps.
“Whi-whi-whichoneISthefaggyfagyouguys?” he wailed, gasping for air.
“SHUT UP, ASS-wipes!” bawled Chris Louse to the chorus of squalling Hurts, as they sprawled, unheeding, nearly urinating in their Underoos with delight. The Head Lice regarded them in pissed-off mystification. Two reasons:
Rule 1) Hurts aren’t supposed to ROFL.
Rule 2) They are supposed to regret their time at camp, maybe by crying.
Rules are rules for a reason, dammit!
And as the silvery sound of the merriment spread, like fairy bells on the breeze, it summoned the scoutmasters. And after they came running, the feuding patrols were required to explain what’s so funny.
“What’s so funny, ladies?” screeched Scoutmaster Whatshisbutt, the lead louse of the Head Lice. “What’s all this, then?”
Chris Louse was frantic. “They called us Stinky! Like before we were! THEY DID IT!”
This set the Hurts off again. If only the Head Lice had intended to amuse up their campmates, like, say, if this was their first attempt at stand-up, they would have been considered iconic. Like comic geniuses. The pissed-off Scout leader of the troop of Head Lice blew his whistle to shut everyone up, which didn’t particularly help. So he tried going boot-camp on them, as usual.
“SHUDDUP! Shut UP! Now, Ladies, who’s man enough to man up? Did you do it?”
They had no chance to answer because Chris was beside himself. “YES!” he screeched. “That one—him—he did it—and that—that balloon-head douche bag was the one who did the fart song!” He clenched his hands in fists of fury. “And I AM going to TELL MY DAD!” he screech/vowed. It was his worst threat. His helmet-haired dad was on the city council and would have them all sent up river.
The Scouts and leaders alike sighed and stared at him without expression. This was not his first tantrum. They half expected him to fall down and start choking himself by the throat this time, as Chris Louse flapped his fists, accidentally doing the Harlem Shake. They pondered what their own responsibility would be in that case, if he did start to choke himself—and they just let him. By this time Chris’s expression was actively hilarious, as he’d added eye-rolling to the yowling/fist shakes and his usual air of “smell-stank.” Like if there was a thing called Dickheads Do Shakespeare, he’d be King Lear. He wasn’t the only one eye-rolling either; so was everyone else. Even his own patrol was sick of him. It had been a long week with the “tell-my-dad” announcement every two minutes.
By then, Scoutie Jeff had also walked over to see what was up. He watched the dramaturgy unfold for a moment, then raised his eyebrows at the Head Lice’s scoutmaster, who scowled back.
Scoutie Jeff glanced askance at the Hurts. He shrugged in baffled solidarity to them as Chris continued to shadowbox in impotent fury, snarling and frothing. At least his meltdowns were entertaining.
Scoutie Jeff and the Louse boss pondered the predicament during the performance. Then Jeff smiled, deciding to remain unaffected. What was that saying? Not my circus. Not my clowns.
“Are you going to handle this, Jeff?” snapped the very bad scoutmaster. He did not want Chris Louse to tell his dad. “He says it was your guys.”
Jeff sighed, “Well, yeah, but I don’t think my guys would do something so calculated. They’re not like that.”
“Yeah, you guys—how could we have done anything that amazing—that owned you like a Kleenex? We’re pathetic, remember?” Pete added, his eyes flinty on the very bad scoutmaster. Pete did not take kindly to anyone in authority—besides himself—calling the guys names. He squared his shoulders in challenge.
No one threw down, except that the evil Scout leader glared at Scoutie Jeff, even though he answered Pete. “That’s right, you little smart-ass, you are! All of you! You’re all a bunch of comedians now, but you just wait. . . .” He threw dagger/shade at all of them, then snarled at Pete from under his bushy brows, “Stuck-up little shitbirds.”
Kyle, the smartest of them all, only said important stuff. He cleared his throat and addressed Pete.
“Wow, Pete, that sounded vaguely threatening.... Did you witnesses—I mean guys—hear that?”
Then they all nodded gravely, their eyes on the very bad scoutmaster, who eyeballed Scoutie Jeff, who gawked back in some alarm.
“O-kay, then . . .” Scoutie Jeff said, as in, “let’s move on.”
He glanced at the Hurts. They stared back, agog with approval, as the very horrible scoutmaster then started swearing about them though his clenched teeth. He escalated imaginatively, even inspirationally, as he got more irate. Everyone was impressed, and they glanced at each other with delighted eyes. It was a toss-up what was more awesome to watch, Chris Louse losing it, or the smashmouth scoutmaster. They both waxed nearly lyrical.
Then the very bad scoutmaster whirled back to them. “Get your gear packed NOW!” he bellowed. Even the whites of his eyes were red. “Like immediately, wise guys, if not sooner! And I’ll be back to inspect it, and you will receive demerits if it’s substandard.... Jesus, Jeff! Can your idiots even understand what I’m saying, Scoutmaster?!” His voice cracked in outrage as the Hurts started to snort again, but feebly, fatigued. “Oh—My—God—DON’T you little DOUCHE bags start again, don’t you DARE!!”
“Okeydokey, Scoutmaster!” Scoutie Jeff said, scandalized, looking askance at the madman, and apologetically eyeballing the Hurts. The very bad scoutmaster also noticed their collective delight and did dial it down. He took a deep, gasping breath.
“Come on, Chris!” he barked. He started to storm away, then turned back. “The Boy Scouts are not a circus, you snotty little turd-blossoms!” he announced, his gravelly voice shaking with rage, and stomped off. He sounded like that trainer in Rocky—the first one, that they killed off.
It was Beau’s best Camporee ever.
I watch Beau, and after telling the story, he’s bright-eyed and smiling.
“So did you guys ever get caught?” I ask. “Did Hunter?”
“Nope.”
“Way to go, Hurts, right? Way to stick it to the Man! That’s an awesome story, Beau. Maybe not so much for the Boy Scouts, though.”
“I don’t care. They need to rent a clue. Things are different now; it’s not like it was in like 1812, or whenever they were invented.”
I laugh. Pretty sure it wasn’t 1812. But good point. And it seems like they agree now too. They had changed the rules recently. And I bet they’ll keep changing them. They’re evolving, and that is awesome.
Beau goes on, “Anyway, that was my last thing as a Scout.”
“You just dropped out?”
“Yeah, you just go, ‘I’m out!’ and bail. Also everyone got their permits. Nobody still went to Scouts after they could drive. I wasn’t going to drive to meetings.” He rolls his eyes, judgily. “As if.”
“Why not?”
“Please!”
So that totally clears it up. But I’m way more curious about something else. “So what happened with the Scottish girl, the really short one your friend Pete liked?”
“Bonnie? Too funny: ‘the Scottish girl.’ She wasn’t Scottish; she was just regular. But, yeah . . . so when we came back from camp she was going to get that operation, right?”
“Right . . .”
Everyone got home from Camporee, and the moms and dads were glad to see them. Later Pete called to say that Bonnie was going into the hospital the next day, and the morning after that the doctors were going to do the thing. And then she would be “normal.”
Hearing this, Beau grew rehorrified. “Omg! The leg breaking thing?”
“Yeah.”
“I dunno, Pete . . .” Beau rubbed his forehead. “Could this be something she got talked into by her mom and dad, who just want a regular-looking kid?”
“Whatever. She’s already regular! In fact, she’s hot!” Pete was huffy. “Besides, it is her idea.”
“Why? Who wants to get their legs broken just for stupid ‘normalness’?!”
“Well, who wants to be a freak? That’s what she says. If you can do something about it, do it!”
“Who says she’s a freak? Maybe she’s fine. Maybe everyone else needs to grow the hell up.”
“Nah, dude, can’t you see? People treat you different. Like you’re lesser-than.”
Beau sighed heavily. “I guess.” He felt dispirited and tired.
“It’s going to be awesome. Wait and see.”
Bonnie went to the hospital early the next morning, and Pete was by her side. All day, he was there, sitting silently or on his phone texting, occasionally reading stuff and laughing. He was there waiting for Bonnie as she went from the operating room to recovery. When the doctors called his name, he ran.
And all that week, and the next and the next, Pete never failed. He came as soon as he got up and stayed till they said he had to go, bringing Bonnie stuff from the outside world every single day.
Beau was impressed. He admired that kind of devotion. He was also maybe a little envious. He wished that he had someone shower him with that much affection. But that was just too much to think about, so he didn’t.
Instead, he fixed his attention on Jewels.
Jewels was really pretty. Like really, really pretty. Like she could be a model. When they held hands, other guys said stuff to Beau like “nice” and “good work” or loser-speak like, “I’d hit that” when Beau and she would walk by. It made Beau want to punch them in their collective noses.
Jewels just shrugged. “Don’t bother; they’re feeble,” was her concise opinion. She peeked at him, her green eyes twinkling. “Besides—we have bigger fish to fry!” Beau had told her all about the Hurts and the fish-capade, so now it was their joke too.
“Right? As long as the fishies are fresh!” Beau laughed. He squeezed Jewels’s hand in gratitude. Laughter was the best medicine. Disturbance disarmed.
“Yeah!” She smiled at him as they walked through the halls of their school. He smiled back and started to say something, but then someone yelled “Beau!” and he turned his head to answer—at the same time as Jewels leaned her head against his shoulder for a second, her laughing eyes seeking his, her aspect suddenly serious. But Beau had turned, laughing and searching for whoever was shouting his name, and didn’t see her intense expression.
About two weeks after the operation, Pete decided they could finally visit Bonnie. She had been on a lot of painkillers, because she was in a lot of pain, but she was feeling better now and getting a little restless and bored. She couldn’t walk around yet, because she was growing her bones, so she needed to have stuff to take her mind off being stuck in the hospital all summer vacation . . . a lot of it, anyway.
Jewels and Beau were happy to oblige. They showed up with coloring books and the big box of sixty-four crayons and a bag of Popsicles. Plus Jewels had several jewel tones of sparkly nail polish and a couple pieces of hair chalk in bright purple and teal. So as far as distractions, they were all set.
They were shocked by how Bonnie looked, though. She was green from drugs. She was skinny. She was exhausted looking, with dark half-moon shadows under-staining her eyes. But she was so glad to see them!
“I am so sick of this damn place! The food here tastes like ass, and I want out!”
Beau and Jewels grinned at each other. They were relieved to see Bonnie was going to be fine.
“We brought you some Popsicles.” Jewels smiled at Bonnie and her hissing meta-machines.
“Seriously? Yeeeeeeee! Awesome! Are there any pineapple—or mangos?” Beau started to toss the bag to Bonnie, but Pete fielded it, much to her indignation. “Pete, give it here! Omg, I’m the damn gimp!”
Jewels and Beau exchanged amused snuffles. Bonnie was totally high from her pain meds. They listened as she showed them what the deal was. “I have these knobs I turn every so often and they pull my bones apart and then the bone tissue grows till they connect again, and then I click them again, and pretty soon my legs will be longer and eventually they will be just regular legs.” She demonstrated the knob. It made a ratcheting-type sound. Jewels shuddered.
Beau was surprised to realize that he actually found it kind of fascinating. He gestured to the metal rod on the bottom of her foot. “So every time you turn that knob, it pulls that rod which pulls the bones that are regrowing apart?”
Bonnie nodded. “Yup. Then my bones grow more bone cells, which set into bones. We’ve already added nearly an inch.”
“Cool. So, like, how much will you grow?”
“Good chance I could be five feet tall! That’s what they said. That’s if it goes well, but I’ll probably be like a little less.” But so what? Bonnie beamed. Her dark eyes glinted. Five feet was huge to her—André the Giant.
“Wow.” Jewels looked a little green now too. It was the clicking. “That’s really . . . cool, Bonnie.”
“Yeah. But better than being broken . . . I gotta be meeee!”
Beau looked at her quickly. “Did you feel like you were broken?”
“Uh, yeah. Now I can fit in the world without everyone acting like I’m a freak, or a baby. And I can wear big-ass high heels—finally!”
“I guess . . .”
“Oh, Beau, you don’t understand! You’re just normal! Soon I can reach stuff! And my mom is so proud of me. Plus my dad said he could hardly wait to walk his ‘big’ girl down the aisle. He, like, cried when he said it.” Bonnie nodded, her eyes wide to show Beau that it was awesome.
“Yeah, but is it worth it? Just so you feel like you fit in?” Beau thought all the elaborate beeping colorful equipment was unexpectedly cool, but all the pain and suffering? “You’re great already.”
Both Pete and Bonnie looked at him quizzically. “Yeah! If you can! God, Beau, if you get born wrong, you want to get it fixed.”
Beau looked at Jewels. She looked back brightly and shrugged. Whatevs . . . they’re Bonnie’s legs.
As they were leaving the hospital grounds, they puzzled over it. They walked slowly.
“What do you think?” Beau wanted to see if he was the only one with doubts. It seemed awful.
“I think that people should do whatever makes them like themselves, Beau. Like, if you hate your body, then fix it if it makes you feel better. We’re lucky. Till just like a few years ago nobody could do anything about themselves, and now they have tons of options, like nose jobs. Not to mention you said you think people should get sex changes if they want!”
“That doesn’t seem like the same thing at all.”
> “Why?”
“That doesn’t seem as radical.”
“Beau, too funny—seriously?” Jewels chortled, her eyes laughing.
“Yeah . . . I guess that does sound weird. But I have a suggestion for Bonnie’s family.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. She could just be the way she is, and everyone could get a grip.”
“Maybe if Bonnie was more laid-back or something, she wouldn’t have been so obsessed, and it would have been fine, but I don’t think she would ever just have let it go. You know her pretty well, Beau, and I’ve known her all my life. She’s not like that. And in my opinion, if it’s going to wreck your world, you should deal. You’re the only one who has to live with it. Why sit around stressing because something bugs you, if it’s something you could change?”
“Yeah.” Beau was unconvinced.
They walked in silence for a while. It just seemed so unnatural . . . not to mention agonizing.
“I want to throw a pool party.” Jewels changed the subject abruptly. She did that sometimes, just switched up with no warning.
“Okay.” Beau shrugged. That would be about the millionth for the year.
“I’m stoked. I’ll get a new bathing suit too. I need one.... I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”
Beau grinned at her. Oh, that’s what this was about. “Yes. I actually have noticed.”
“Good! I’m glad.” Jewels looked down at her chest. “34Bs already, dude.”
“Really good . . . Yep!” Beau had no clue . . . except it gave him a distant sensation of disquiet.
“Yep. And they’re only going to get bigger! I can tell.”
“Cool.”
“Plus, I’m getting the growth spurt. I can feel my legs growing.”
That Beau could relate to. “I know! Same here!” He, too, had been growing taller by the week. He’d be six one easy, he figured, maybe taller. He smiled at himself. He sounded just like Bonnie.
“What?” Jewels smiled, like she liked the self-deprecating look on his face.
The Hurt Patrol Page 8
