by Quan Barry
Growing up, we used to use the word “gay” interchangeably for “stupid.” “Don’t be such a fag,” we’d say when trying to get some scaredy-cat to jump off the top of the jungle gym. Kids had been picking on Sebastian since well before we even knew what the words meant. It wasn’t until six grade that Mrs. Nichols told us a fag was a man who loved another man. She prophesized that someday we’d say it to the wrong person and end up in a world of hurt. But by senior year, Sebastian had weathered it all. There was nothing the Brian Robinsons of the world could say to him that hadn’t already been said. It might have been Everyone Else 99, Sebastian 1, but Sebastian scored his one point in the last few seconds of the game and in spectacular Ziggy Stardust fashion, which in some ways was really all that mattered. He was now bestest friends with Karen Burroughs, the head cheerleader. It made him untouchable. He was at the top of his game.
It was senior year. Life was good. We were on our way to the playoffs as the Northeastern Conference champions. The night before, Boy Cory had thrown back a fourth thimble of Irresistible Potion #1. He could feel things starting to click. Today the idea of eating lunch with Sebastian Abrams didn’t send him scrambling for the nearest heart defibrillator. Strangely enough, ever since he’d lost his piece of the tube sock, Boy Cory was coming into his own. More and more it was looking like he just might yet score his one point against the world. He dipped his tater tots in their watery ketchup and sat back to enjoy the fruits of everything coming up Boy Cory.
Suddenly there was a microphone jammed in his face, a flurry of credentials, a chin shaped like an anvil looking to work him over. “Nicky Higgins, Falcon Fire,” a voice barked. “You going to the prom?” It was a classic Nicky and the Chin ambush. Get ’em mid-bite and then ask ’em something big and personal. Nicky hit PLAY on her tape recorder. She explained that she and the Chin were doing a human interest story on the prom by talking with folks on the street (or, in this case, the cafeteria), asking them all the big prom questions, like who they were going with and what they were wearing and, most important, what they were looking forward to on what was supposed to be the most memorable night of their life second only to their wedding.
On the TVs, Log was now modeling an actual dress, the thing tiered like a wedding cake, all white bows and lace. Boy Cory was still chewing, trying to buy himself some time. “Of course this beautiful hunk of a human is going to the prom,” interjected Sebastian, grabbing the microphone, then adding in a lower, more confidential voice, “but not with me, honey.” He gestured between himself and Boy Cory. “No world exclusive here. Caruso’s Diplomat COULD. NOT. HANDLE this much manwich, if you know what I mean.” He winked.
Boy Cory began to wonder if there was still space on the floor by Jen Fiorenza’s feet. “I dunno,” he told Nicky once he’d swallowed. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Don’t lie, son,” said Sebastian. “It’s bad for your complexion.”
“Do you know who had the six-dozen black helium balloons delivered to Cory Gillis this morning in homeroom?” Nicky asked. “Allegedly the card had a picture of a pig on it and said, ‘You said no, but strap these on and see who’s flying now!’ ”
It took Boy Cory a second to realize Cory Gillis was Girl Cory. “It’s common knowledge she has a secret admirer,” he said, hoping he wasn’t giving too much away.
“And would this secret admirer maybe also be a former employee of this school?” said Nicky excitedly, holding her pen under her nose as if to signify copious facial hair.
“Ah, no,” said Boy Cory.
“But if this secret admirer were a former employee of this school…” She repositioned her pen as if that might help jog his memory of Coach Mullins. “You’d tell me, right?”
“Yeah, probably not,” said Boy Cory.
“Get along, little doggie,” interrupted Sebastian, shooing her away. “If you’re looking for a scoop, I hear tell something purple and magical is materializing in the Home Ec sewing room even as we speak.”
“Someone’s sewing a dress?” said Nicky. “Big whoop.”
“My lips are sealed,” said Sebastian. “But remember, child. A good story doesn’t make the reporter. A good reporter makes the story. Now scram!”
Nicky hit PAUSE on her tape recorder and began gathering her things. “Off the record,” she said to Boy Cory. “But what’s up with the blue strings?”
Boy Cory had just opened his milk carton and begun drinking from it. He could feel the 2% almost shoot out his nose, but somehow he kept it in. Nicky and the Chin were close, but obviously there were still a few things they didn’t know. “What string?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” said Nicky.
“Not really,” he answered.
“C’mon,” she said. “Halloween night a bunch of cars got smashed up over in Salem.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Then the weekend after that, four of your teammates bought new sticks at Coleman’s. Coincidence?”
“Maybe you should go write a nice little story about that purple dress in the Home Ec room,” said Boy Cory. He rolled up both his sleeves. “Look, Papa,” he said. “I’m a real boy. No strings.”
Sebastian did a 180° neck roll. “Oh, snap!” It was a thing people were starting to say. Maybe they were getting it from that Biz Markie song “Just a Friend” that came out earlier in the year. Or maybe “oh, snap!” originated right then and there with Sebastian Abrams in the Danvers High cafeteria. Yeah, let’s go with that. Either way, the two of them watched as Nicky Higgins trundled off, dragging the Chin with her in search of someone with their mouth full. Once she was gone, Sebastian did another 180° turn, dropping the façade, the “hey, girlfriend!” fabulousness suddenly falling off him like feathers from a boa. In the coming days Boy Cory would realize what the unexpected shift meant. It meant Sebastian trusted him. He trusted him enough to drop the whole act, the dazzling mask, and just be himself.
“Smooth move, Ex-Lax. You just outed yourself,” Sebastian said. His normal speaking voice was pretty deep and almost midwestern sounding, like Dr. Seaver, the dad on Growing Pains. “Relax,” he said. “Girl Reporter didn’t notice and I won’t tell.”
“Come again?” said Boy Cory.
“Who said anything about the blue thing being on your arm?” Boy Cory thought for a minute. Where else would it be? Still, he saw Sebastian’s point. He decided not to say anything else until he knew what was up. Sebastian nodded and continued. “Look. AJ Johnson just got elected student council president without putting up a single poster. Your goalie’s got some kind of alien hickey on her neck. That dang spike on Fiorenza’s head is positively medieval. The new and improved Julie Kaling is running around showing everyone her rack. Coach Mullins’s out on paid leave cuz he’s coo-coo for jailbait. And y’all are undefeated after going 2-8.” From somewhere in his hot-pink fanny pack he produced a metal toothpick. “Look,” he repeated. His voice remained everyday flat, unadorned and unoriginal, utterly unfabulous. “I’m just here to tell you, mon frère, sister to sister.” He put one hand on Boy Cory’s shoulder, the other one working at something in his teeth. “Take it from me. Don’t play with the dark. The dark always wins.” With that, he got up and deprived the cafeteria of his presence, one hand swinging freely in the air as if he were fanning away a bad smell as he walked.
On the twin TVs, Log Winters was now wearing a cardboard box hanging from a pair of suspenders, the box painted with big pink polka dots. In his hand he was holding a papier-mâché scepter, which he waved at the crowd, a red sash that read PROM QUEEN strewn across his broad chest. Just before the screen went black, he looked directly into the camera and blew the viewer a kiss. Boy Cory reached up and caught it in his hand. He could feel the wetness of it, the heat of Log’s breath, but instead of raising it deliciously to his lips, he just squeezed the holy hell out of it.
* * *
—
The next day we were scheduled to play Peabody at home. Coach Butler reminded us that the Tanners were a respectable 8-4. We shouldn’t make any assumptions, she said, adding we shouldn’t expect it to be a walk in the park while eating a piece of cake. Oh yeah. And focus focus focus, ladies, and keep your sticks on the et cetera.
We were getting dressed in the locker room, Visigoths about to go out and sack yet another insignificant outpost on our way to the big time in Rome. Heather Houston pulled out Emilio. The way she babied that notebook it wouldn’t have surprised us if Heather and her hot-pink glasses already had a gig lined up as an archivist in special collections at the Library of Congress. Like the Six Million Dollar Man, Emilio had been ripped apart only to be rebuilt but better. For starters, Heather had taken off the cover and had it laminated. Now Emilio smirked at us safely ensconced behind plastic. She’d also cut out Mel Boucher’s original pledge along with our signatures and glued it on a black piece of construction paper, which was also laminated, because why not? The Houston household owned its own desktop laminator. She then crafted eleven plastic pouches for each of us where she stored our weekly write-ups. Finally the whole affair was carefully three-hole punched and kept in a big black binder. Who knew, but even darkness needs a bureaucrat to make sure everything gets stamped and filed in triplicate. From the looks of it, Hell must be some kind of bureaucratic heaven.
That day Heather opened Emilio up to a section of miscellany she had created at the back, a kind of appendix. “I wanna try this one,” she said. “It’s called ‘Wiccan Winning.’ It uses balloons. Everyone grab some.” The six dozen “Philip” had sent to Girl Cory had somehow ended up in our locker room. There was hardly any space left to move. Heather pulled out the blue candle Mel Boucher had bought at Spencer Gifts and wrote one of our majickal names on it down the side in black Sharpie. SCAN VEAL FRONDS. Our other majickal names were CONFERS VANDALS and FLAVORS SCANNED, all of which were anagrams of “Danvers Falcons.” “Who’s got the star oil?” she called out.
Jen Fiorenza stepped up to the plate with a small vial pinched between her fingers. It was basically a mixture of a whole bunch of different oils, all the smelly good ones like almond, jasmine, rosemary, chamomile, sandalwood, and lemon. Jen’s grandmother was an oil freak. Nana Fiorenza’s house smelled as if she were trying to hide a dead body in the basement. Sometimes it gave Jen a headache.
“Great,” said Heather. She pulled out the extra kilt we kept in the locker room just in case anyone ever forgot theirs and spread it out on the bench, then propped Emilio on it so that he was facing us. For a final touch, Becca Bjelica reached into her bottomless stash and ceremoniously laid a Tampax Super Plus next to Emilio and voilà! Our altar was complete.
We turned out the lights. When the candle got going strong, Jen poured three drops of oil into the flame. “Who’s high priestess today?” said Heather. Abby Putnam shuddered. All season long she always shuddered anytime Emilio made an appearance. In her eyes what was the fun of doing anything if you didn’t have to give it 110%, i.e., if you only had to rely on a little fire and oil and a member of the Brat Pack to pull you through?
“I am,” said Little Smitty. She picked up the blue candle and gripped it in her fist. The rest of us joined hands, our fingers interlaced with balloons. If we relaxed and let it happen, our arms were slowly lifted toward the ceiling. Little Smitty cleared her throat.
Candle candle burning bright,
In the dark all hearts are eyes.
Let our dreams please come to pass.
This afternoon let’s kick some—
“Really?” said Heather.
“It works for me,” said Mel Boucher.
“Yeah, me too,” said Sue Yoon, her Incrediberry hair scarlet in the candlelight. The rest of us nodded.
“What are the balloons for anyway?” Girl Cory asked. She wanted to make sure we weren’t infusing “Philip” with any kind of mystical powers.
“ ‘Wiccan Winning’ says if you incorporate balloons into your ritual, they should imbue your spell with the air element, taking it to the next level.”
“Ass,” concluded Little Smitty. Right as she said the word, a bunch of balloons suddenly popped, our hands crashing back to earth. None of us screamed. By that point we were used to weird inexplicable crap happening.
“Where’s Boy Cory?” AJ Johnson asked. Some of her braids were stuck to the balloons via static electricity.
“Right where he should be,” said Jen, but none of us knew what that meant. “Don’t worry,” she said. “He’ll be here.”
We ended up beating Peabody 5-0. Julie Minh’s mom, Mrs. Kaling, came to the game and brought the Prophet with her. Somehow Mrs. Kaling looked better than we remembered, as if autumn agreed with her. She was still wearing a long calico dress under her winter coat. We couldn’t put our fingers on it, but maybe she’d spruced herself up somehow, or maybe it was as simple as her getting enough sleep now that the Prophet’s head lice were history. The Prophet appeared to be hiding something in his coat, which he openly addressed from time to time, apparently not realizing that if you’re hiding something but you keep talking to it people will eventually figure out you’re hiding something. Having said all this, maybe his strategy was more brilliant than we knew. Mrs. Kaling, for one, seemed to assume there was no there there, just some ordinary run-of-the-mill imaginary friend. Yeah, come to think of it, the Prophet’s system of subterfuge was probably as good as any.
“Who’s he talking to?” asked AJ Johnson during halftime.
“Brainy Smurf,” said Julie Minh. We all nodded like it made perfect sense. “Does anyone know where I can find a Hefty Smurf?” she asked, but nobody did.
As predicted, Boy Cory did indeed appear just as we were taking the field. In the second half, he scored the last goal of the game. Marge had already tapped her heart three times with her index finger after our second goal, only ten minutes into the first half. She tapped herself early and often, as she knew we couldn’t help ourselves. Goal #5 should’ve been Jen Fiorenza’s, as she was wide open right in front of the net, but when the time came, Boy Cory didn’t pass it off to her, opting instead to take it home all by himself. We were shocked when the Claw didn’t order a nuclear strike on his head for the transgression. Instead, the Claw was doing Its best to fake looking thrilled for Boy Cory’s success. It sat atop Jen’s head like an empty bird’s nest.
“Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark,” said Heather Houston.
“It doesn’t smell too great here either,” said Abby Putnam.
Yeah, something was going down between the two of them, but what did we care? We were only one game away from going 13-0-1. For the moment, we were content just to sit back and wait for all to be revealed in its own good time.
“Better a Smurf you know than a Smurf you don’t know,” said the Prophet to his coat. Out of the mouths of babes! Can we get an amen? If only we’d listened.
Greetings and salutations!
Well, as YOU know, I said I would, and if I say I will, then I will! I just need an extra shot of courage. Today before the game, I hung around the art room where I just happened to cross paths again with Sebastian Abrams. Long story short, I managed to get him to vicariously invite me to the biggest party of the year his best friend forever Karen Burroughs is throwing at her crib Saturday night. Now all I have to do is show up and do what the Claw wants done. As a great lady once said when asked, “And if we fail? We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking place, and we’ll not fail.” To the sticking place!
BON COURAGE POTION #2
1 cup bourbon
⅓ cup sweet vermouth
Many shakes from the bottle of bitters
The pewter bear knickknack from the living room end table
Mix everything in a mason jar, then chill overnight outside on the windowsill in the waxing l
ight of the moon. Steep a small bear figurine in the potion to infuse it with the courage of the bear; as we learned in World History, the word “berserk” probably derives from “bear shirt,” a garment made from the skin of a bear that Viking warriors donned in order to give them inhuman strength in battle. Tomorrow, Saturday, drink half of BON COURAGE POTION #2 before getting on my bike and pedaling over to Karen’s, drink the other half once I arrive. Intone the following both times as I down the BON COURAGE:
Bear of Night, walk the earth,
Fill my lungs with your breath.
Give me courage, give me strength,
Live in me, Bear of Night.
Oh. And don’t forget to refill Dad’s Jim Beam with water!
* * *
—
“Going out?” Mrs. Young was strapping on her ankle weights. She was about to pop another Jane Fonda in the VCR, the one with Jane forming a V on the cover, her toned legs spread suggestively in the air.
“Yeah, Mom, don’t wait up,” said Boy Cory.
“I never do,” she chirped. Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Young were so lenient, letting Boy Cory come and go as he pleased, because secretly they were hoping their son might get into some good ole-fashioned trouble, the kind of good ole-fashioned trouble good ole red-blooded American boys often found themselves in. But alas. They were still waiting.
In the meantime, Mrs. Young did three workouts a day and looked freaking fantastic. She had the whole Jane Fonda library at her fingertips. Her favorites included Jane Fonda’s Original Workout, Start Up with Jane Fonda, Easy Going the Jane Fonda Way, the Jane Fonda Collection, and Jane Fonda’s Healthy Fitness Flow Support, along with a handful of Kathy Smith tapes.
Nobody hated Jane Fonda more than Boy Cory’s older sister, Colleen. Thankfully for the whole family the storm cloud that was Colleen was off at UMass Amherst, where she wore overalls every day and sometimes went a whole week without washing her hair. In August, the last time Boy Cory had seen his sister, she was probably tipping the scales at around two hundred, which really wasn’t all that egregious if you thought about it. To her credit, Mrs. Young never mentioned a thing about Colleen’s, er, condition. Instead, she flitted about the house wearing wrist weights as she cleaned, a veritable Mr. Belvedere and Lou Ferrigno all in one. While she never openly chastised her daughter, over the past summer Mrs. Young had added a third ab workout to her daily routine during her lunch break working as a hygienist at Dr. Stanley’s Dental. Heather Houston thought there was something compulsive about it all, but she never brought it up the few times Mrs. Young came to our games sporting a headband and a purple elastic athletic band stretched around her ankles because why just stand there and spectate when you could be torching some calories, alternately raising one leg, then the other, until you felt the burn?