by Amber Kizer
“Have you talked to Stephen today?” she asks, pantomiming her way through the question.
“What?” I still can’t make out what she’s asking. I push toward her.
“Stephen. Have you talked to him?”
“Why?” Why is she asking? I can’t remember when I last talked to him. I mean, really talked to him.
She shrugs. “Spens asked me if you’d talked to Stephen today.”
The pep band begins playing the fight song. “Why?” I shake my head. She must know more than this unhelpful tidbit.
She shoves her way closer. “Spenser and he were talking about GAGD and Spenser mentioned it to me.”
“Is he taking you?” I lower my voice and raise my brows.
“Stephen?” she asks.
I roll my eyes. “Spenser.”
“I don’t know.” She bites a hangnail. Very sexy habit.
I nod. “We haven’t really talked about it. It’s a couple of weeks away.”
“Twenty-four days,” Maggie says from behind us, moving forward. “Do we really have to run out there and jump around?”
We’ve been told to look peppy and school spirity.
“I guess.” I peek around Karmel, our goalie, who pretty much blocks the goal with her hips, trying to see what the cheerleaders are doing. It sounds like they are passing out X.
“I’m so not into this.” Clarice rolls her eyes. “I thought we were the kids who despised these rallies—how are we part of one?”
“Someone’s bright idea to try out for the soccer team.”
“How was I supposed to know we’d make it? My mom plays lotto all the time and never wins.”
“The odds were much better we’d make the team,” Maggie says. She’s always right.
“I’d rather have won lotto,” I say.
“Okay, people, look alive!” Mack yells down the line as the cheerleaders hold up a big butcher-paper sign for us to bust out of and run through.
We kinda jog through as the band plays “Wipe Out.” Again. Could they have picked a better-suited song?
I can’t breathe; the entire school is looking at me. I’m naked and no one told me. “Why are they staring at us?” I whisper to Clarice.
“They’re supposed to. We’re going into battle on their behalf.”
There are times I can’t stand Clarice’s militant attitude about everything. “We play soccer.”
“Exactly. It’s not a blood sport, but it’s no different than being a warrior in the Middle Ages.”
I don’t know about that. We have no weapons, a longer life span, good nutrition and … “No plague,” I say.
“You haven’t seen the Westside Cicadas, have you?” Maggie asks from my other side. “They’re locusts. We’re so dead.”
“Comforting. Thanks,” I say as Maggie’s name is called over the microphone.
She steps forward and waves quick at Jesse and then at a random group of freshmen.
“You have a big crush on him,” I say without moving my lips, so really it sounds more like “Woo ’avaigcrotch in ’im.”
Maggie looks at me like I’m having a stroke.
I’m about ready to repeat myself when I hear Mack. “Another surprise talent this season is Gerrrr-trooood Garrrr-ri-ballldiii!” Seriously, the alphabet doesn’t have that many syllables. He loves my name.
I wave at Stephen, who hollers and whoops. Wow. Over-enthused. I telepath that he needs to calm down, but he doesn’t seem to understand my message and waves at me again. Boys.
“Be my partner?” Karmel turns to me and grabs my hand.
“Oh—for what?”
“Haven’t you been listening? We’re doing an egg toss.”
Right. How could I forget the cheerleaders’ insane need to humiliate and terrify us with fun games?
Karmel doesn’t even wait for my answer.
All of a sudden there’s a spoon in my hand and she’s tossing an Eggland’s Best scud missile at me. “Catch it!” she screams.
Right. As if this game is winnable when we have tiny salt spoons to catch the eggs. I manage to cradle the egg against my stomach.
Maggie and Clarice don’t even try. They’re such doody heads. A couple more exchanges and it’s only me and Karmel left standing. I can feel all two thousand eyes boring into my solar plexus.
Sweat drips down my back. These nasty-ass nylon uniforms are too small and too itchy. The lights are strobed into my brain. Then someone starts the foot-stomping and then clapping. With every beat of my heart, another reverberation rocks the gym.
I see Karmel’s mouth move but can’t hear anything she’s saying. One of the cheerleaders makes her back up a step before she can toss the egg to me again.
Karmel lets the egg fly.
Have you ever noticed how much like lightbulbs eggs can appear when sailing through the air? I’m sure there’s a syndrome with acute egg-bulb displacia.
I was not looking at the egg sailing in a perfect arc across the basketball court to land without ceremony on the bridge of my nose; I was staring at the lightbulb.
Egg in the face. I’m that girl.
I hear a smack and blink furiously, trying to keep my focus on the “egg” I’m still watching hang air over center court.
The gym gasps. I look around, trying to figure out who we’re all concerned about. Maggie and Clarice and Mack and the assistant athletic director, who is also a nurse, collapse around me. Or maybe I collapse and they just kinda follow my trajectory. Then I realize that there’s blood on my shirt.
After that I pretty much black out. I come to in the nurse’s office with paramedics shining a flashlight into my eyes.
Killer headache.
“Lie still, miss.”
It feels like an alien crawled out my nostrils and took over the world.
The paramedics are a swarm of flies; they are everywhere and won’t stay still. I blink, trying to keep up with the buzzing.
They all nod in unison. “You have a couple of butterfly bandages and swelling, but we don’t have to do any stitches.”
Mack leans down, a complete freaked-out expression on his face, covered by a film of fake-coachy optimism. “Gertrude, your parents are on the way.”
“Huh?” What? No. Why? They’ve graduated high school, why are they coming back?
“They want to take you to the emergency room. To make sure.”
I mumble and shut my eyes. The world is moving too fast. And here I thought February portended to be a great month. Holy-Mother-of-the-Shortest-Month, please don’t get any worse.
“Fine, thanks!” I yell, waving at the freshmen staring at me. Two humongous black eyes and a glaring white bandage and I’m not allowed to stay home. Even the headache I have doesn’t cut it with Dad.
“Nope, you’re an athlete. You need to get back on the horse.”
Huh, cuz I’ve always been such a jockey. What’s with the stupid cliché? He all but shoves me out of our car. (I can’t drive for a few days, either.)
“Are you okay?” Maggie and Clarice shove a couple of Oscar juniors who decide to reenact the whole scene in the courtyard.
“Wait.” I finish watching the almost-actors in their dramatic roles. “Tell me there wasn’t a stretcher involved.”
Maggie and Clarice shoot each other looks. “They were afraid you’d broken your neck.”
“Neck?”
“They put a brace on you and then put you on the stretcher. It was all very Discovery Health Channel,” Maggie informs me.
“Lovely.”
“You okay?”
“Yes, I will live. No practice today, though. I get to watch you run.” At least there’s an upside.
“See you after sixth period,” says Clarice. They wave.
I nod and head down the art wing. If I’m lucky, today might be self-portrait day and then I can go all Picasso on my features and it’ll be accurate.
Stephen doesn’t even bother with hello. “How are you?”
I try to work up a flutter in my be
lly upon hearing his voice. I can’t. I think the nausea has to do with the head injury and not Stephen. I think. I’m not totally sure. “Fine.”
There’s a silence. A very leaden silence. He’s called for a reason; I can hear it in his voice. It’s not like my nose is still a topic of discussion around school. There’s no embarrassment being associated with Nose Girl anymore. April Collins ripped the seam of her mini and walked around with a rhinestone thong and her butt cheeks showing until one of the teachers noticed a commotion. Rumor has it she was walking around like that for hours, though how she didn’t feel breezy, I’m not at all sure. So I’m not talked about now.
“The face?” he asks. The bandages are off and the bruises are going down, I tell him. Why did he call? Other than I’m his girlfriend and it’s expected.
“Good,” he says.
The silence is killing me. “So?” I can almost hear him trying to get the words out.
“So?” I prompt again.
“Yeah, so. I was wondering.” He trails off like he’s losing cell reception, but not really. More like he’s losing nerve.
Is he breaking up with me? Can he do that? What else could he possibly want to ask me that requires this much lead-up? “What?” Oh, I sound bitchy. Must fix. I lighten my tone. “What’s up?” Better.
“Um … well, when do you think you’ll be ready?” He sounds all sweaty and nervous.
Not exactly what I braced for. “Ready?” For what? Space travel? A movie? Plucking the eyebrows, again?
He huffs out an exasperated, “You know.”
Holy-Mother-of-Penis-People, do not make me play this game. “No. I don’t really know.”
He mumbles. Sounds like he’s actually getting a little ticked off. “Yes, you do. When will you be ready for … ya know.”
Am I a moron? What the hell is he talking about? “Spell it out.” I don’t like to decipher; if I liked it, I’d do those crossword puzzles my father seems newly in love with.
“Sex.” He sounds like he’s bowing down and submitting himself to my level. Like it’s so far down.
“Sex?” Where did this come from?
“Yeah, when are you going to be ready?” He’s gathering momentum like a television evangelist.
When am I going to be ready? I don’t know. It’s not like a switch pops on and then there’s a blinking light that says “open” in red and blue neon. “I don’t know. Sometime?”
“Sometime? That’s kinda vague.” Now he sounds even more discombobulated.
No crap it’s vague. Perhaps if we talked about his kissing technique, I might feel more inclined to have him thrusting other appendages my way. I try reason and rationality. Logic, even. “It’s not like we’ve been dating very long.”
There’s so much that happens between kissing and intercourse. I mean, isn’t there years of stuff to do before you get to penetration? Petting and stroking, oral, dry-humping … I feel like Emily Dickinson counting the ways, or maybe that was Byron, or was it Shakespeare?
What’s with the rush? We haven’t mastered tongues with clothing on—why does he think we can be any good at sex?
“You don’t know.” Now he’s pissed at me and I don’t know what I did wrong. Okay, I have an idea the correct answer to the question is “now, right this second,” but come on, he couldn’t have honestly been expecting that … could he?
I try a different tack. “Are you ready?” This ranks as one of the stupidest questions that has ever come out of my mouth.
“Yep.” He sounds like he’s been a monk for decades and is tortured. Like the dude came out of the womb ready for whoopee.
What can I say to that? I need to get off the phone. Think. What will get me off the phone? I don’t want to have this conversation. Give in. Give in. Live to be a virgin another day. “Soon?” I’m lying. I don’t know. Soon seems like a good answer. It’s not like I’m telling him I want to be married or anything.
Relief floods the line. I can almost feel the blood rush to his ever-ready in anticipation. “Soon? How soon?”
Even I can feel the tension level decrease. Who knew one word holds so much power? “Soon.” The word that rang around the world. “You want a date?”
“That’d be great. Like the fourteenth or twentieth. Or whatever.”
You’re kidding, right? I’m supposed to give a date I’m going to be ready for sex? Does he realize how ridiculous this is? Really, who asks this kind of question? I’m trapped in a reality TV how-stupid-can-you-be episode.
Be honest, or lie? I’m going to shoot for the middle and see what happens. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s cool. Just thought I’d ask.” He chuckles like it was all a joke. It didn’t feel like a joke. It felt serious and weird. “Talk to you later.”
“ ’Kay.” Are we finished talking?
The click of the phone pops in my ear like a firecracker. That’s why he called. All he called about. A date for sex. I feel violated.
I feel dirty. I feel pissed off.
When will I be ready for sex? For nipple action? For going down and playing Popsicle with a penis?
When will I know? I can say I’m not ready to be naked with Stephen. I’m not ready to remove my watch with him, let alone my socks. That boy ain’t getting nowhere soon. So why am I dating him? Should it just be about the sex? If you’ll have it, then date him, and if not—don’t? What if you don’t know? I don’t know.
Lucas? Lucas I’d like to get completely naked and roll around in the sun with. Okay, only if I looked like Scarlett Johansson when naked. Not that I know what she looks like naked, but she fills out clothes better than I do, so she must look better naked.
So am I ready for sex, but it’s completely dependent on the person I’m considering having it with? I thought if you were ready, it meant ready no matter who, what or when? Could readiness actually factor the who into the equation?
Mr. Slater’s butt has a bit of a disco beat going on. Huh. Wonder if he ate too many bran flakes this morning.
“I’ve received several phone calls from concerned parents this week. Seems some of you don’t understand our term project and need guidance on how to proceed. I am going to speak slowly and repetitively, so I don’t have to talk to your parents again this year.” He sighs like there’s actual physical pain in having to repeat himself. “This semester’s main paper will be a focus on the who in comparison to someone on the list I gave you.”
“The Who?” Old-school rock boy in the back gets all excited.
“No.” Slater stamps on him. “There are quintessential questions every writer must answer. You know these, kids. They’ve been hammered into you since third grade. Mr. Speltic, name one of the five essential elements.”
Corey’s face freezes in a comical if pitiful expression. “Who?”
I swear Slater rolls his eyes in response.
“Very good. We’re talking about who, what, where, when and why.”
Oh, those. I knew that.
“You will be writing a twenty-five-page paper answering the who question. Who are you? What will history remember about you? Are you taking full advantage of every opportunity or are you sleepwalking through life? A writer must know himself inside and out, his biases, his fears, his deepest desires—”
“Jessica Biel!” Drake yells from the back of the room.
“Mr. Duscoe, you will stay after class.” Slater’s feeling a little harsh today.
“A writer must understand what drives him. You will have to get into yourself. Dig deep. I am expecting great things, people. Great things. The due date will be no later than May twenty-fourth; however, you can always turn the work in as soon as you’ve completed the assignment.”
Snickers throughout the class. I don’t think anyone has actually ever turned this assignment in early.
“We will take the rest of the period to brainstorm possible topics for inclusion in your paper. I will be walking around and I will count your ideas—you will h
ave thirty-five distinct topics about you before you leave this classroom. And don’t BS me, people. I’ve seen it all and I will not be grading on a curve so you kids can get As on this paper. You know my standard—it’s up to you to reach it.”
He smacks a ruler against the wall. “That’s your guidance. Get busy.”
My GPA is screwed.
“No way,” I say as Mom hands me the already-opened envelope.
“It’s true, dear. I’m so sorry, I know you were hoping for more.”
I got a 163? She’s kidding, right? I so didn’t score a 163 on the PSAT. I’d banked myself at least a 190. I’m stupid. That’s the answer. All these years no one has loved me enough to sit me down and tell me that I’m really plain dumb. I’m not a Brain, I’m a Belch.
“Is that bad?” she asks, hesitating like I’m going to scream in her face. Tempting.
“It’s not good.”
“I’m not sure it’s bad. I read this article about what parents should expect and anything over 165 is a good score.”
“According to Parenting magazine?” And can we subtract, please? I’m pretty sure 163 is not above 165.
“It was Woman’s Day, but still.”
“It’s not even borderline Merit scholar, Mom. I can get into State with this score.”
“Doesn’t everyone get into State, even the druggies?” Leave it to my mother to point out this glaring truth.
“Well, yeah.” So much for spinning it like the White House.
“Okay, you take it again.” She shrugs like landing on the moon was especially easy as well.
“Again?” Chills break out along my spine and goose bumps flap along my arms.
“You’re unhappy with it. Can’t you take it again?”
That’s like making Lincoln free the slaves again. There are some things that should not be attempted more than once.
“Again?” I squeak. Must think. Must think.
“Gert, honey, are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
“I’m not suicidal, Mom.” I don’t think I’m suicidal, but I haven’t really had time to weigh the options.
She shoos the air with her hands. “I wasn’t worried about that. But I have never seen you so upset.”