From Butt to Booty

by Amber Kizer

  Is he the only guy who will ever care when I’m going to be ready for sex? What if he’s the only guy who will ever ask? And I said no.

  I’m going to be wearing spandex, with wrinkles and white hair, talking to a ficus named Stephen and telling him, “I’m ready, I’m ready” while I water him every other day.

  I’m an idiot. I should have named a date. I should have told him I wanted to have sex.

  I should have just shown up at his locker naked and said, “Take me, lover.”

  At least he wanted me. What if no other boyly-man or manly-boy will ever want me again? I’ll have to pay a street person to strip me of my virginity when I’m ancient and dried-up. No, I’ll become a nun.

  “Gert?” Maggie calls.

  “Gert, are you in here?” Clarice obviously doesn’t approve of Maggie’s technique and yells louder.

  “She has to be in this one. We’ve checked all the other ones.”

  “Come on. It’s just us.”

  “Maggie and Clarice,” Maggie says.

  “She has to know our voices,” Clarice says with exasperation.

  “I’m here.” I drop my feet back to the floor and stand up from my throne.

  “Told you,” Maggie says.

  “Come out here,” Clarice demands.

  “I don’t really think that’s a good idea.”

  “Yes, it is.” Maggie never sounds this demanding.

  “Seriously, get out here,” Clarice commands.

  I open the stall door to my two friends leaning against the sinks with their arms crossed, glaring at me.

  “What?” I ask. They look pissed.

  “You’re allowed to wallow, Gert, but you’re not allowed to sit in the bathroom at lunch, over a guy who has a tiny dick.”

  “Clarice!” Maggie looks horrified.

  They weren’t supposed to know that. Only Adam could have spilled those beans.

  “What? It’s true.” Clarice holds out a Sharpie.

  I blot my eyes with recycled cardboard towels that could also be shoe boxes.

  “Adam told us.” Maggie shrugs with a lot of sheepishness.

  “They’re standing guard.” Clarice nods toward the bathroom door.

  “We’ve voted.” Maggie takes the Sharpie from Clarice and pokes me with it.

  “Voted?”

  “He’s a terrible kisser and has astonishingly bad breakup skills. You need revenge.”

  “Revenge?”

  “On the wall.” Clarice points to the white paint behind me.

  “What?”

  “We’ve decided you will be doing the student body a favor if you assert Stephen’s rather numerous flaws in a locale that will be infectious.”

  “It’ll make you feel better.” Clarice gesticulates. “My older sister said so.”

  “Your older sister suggested we vandalize the school bathroom?”

  “In so many words.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s not like you’re going to get caught. Adam and Tim are blocking the door. No one is going to come near here for another two minutes.” Maggie glances down at her watch.

  “Here, I’ll start.” Clarice writes, “Stephen Blasko is the world’s worst kisser—bring your towels.

  “See? Easy.” She hands another pen to Maggie.

  “You’re not,” I gasp as Maggie raises the pen.

  “Oh, I so am. He’s a jerk.” Maggie writes, “Whose d is so small it takes only one letter to spell it? Mr. Dickhead Stephen Blasko.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. My sweet, straight-and-narrow friend actually wrote the word “dickhead” on the bathroom wall.

  “Clever.” Clarice high-fives her.

  “Your turn.” They look at me.

  I consider.

  “When are we ready to have sex with Stephen Blasko? Try never, nope, not gonna happen, nein, nada, zippo, zero, zilcho, niet. Keep the lotion handy, ol’ Stevie, cuz you’re never gonna—”

  Clarice takes the pen out of my hand. “That’s enough, ace.”

  I’ve never considered graffiti liberating, but I feel better. Much better. My stomach isn’t quite so upchuckedness, nor are my eyeballs all swimmy.

  “Guys?” Adam knocks on the bathroom door.

  “Coming!” we yell, grabbing our bags and racing out the door.

  “Okay?” Adam asks me.

  “Better. Definitely better.”

  The feeling of taking back control lasts until I’m home and Adam calls with a question I’m not prepared to answer. “Who are you doing your paper on?”

  What paper? “Paper?”

  “Yeah, the paper due tomorrow?” He’s speaking like I’m foreign or brain-challenged.

  “What?” I don’t remember hearing about any paper.

  “The most influential artist of the twentieth century? Your opinion and all, but—”

  This should ring a bell. It should, but it doesn’t. “Crapping buttocks.”

  “You forgot?” he gasps, aghast.

  I can be honest or I can play it off. “I did.”

  “You don’t forget stuff like that.” He doesn’t sound like he believes me.

  “Thank you.” I never forget schoolwork. I’m always done with it days early. It’s a curse, which apparently I’ve now broken without kissing any frogs. Or maybe Stevie counts as a frog.

  “It’s half our art grade for midterms.” Again with the disbelief.

  “Of course it is.” The other half is whether or not we’ve given ourselves over to the art experience and mastered yoga’s downward dying dog. I sigh.

  “She talked about it the first week.”

  Okay, we’ve established my idiotness. Can we move on? I have a paper to figure out. “Right.” I grope around for the clock and pick it up. 11:03 p.m. I’m so screwed.

  Adam warms to his topic. “I’m doing Picasso. I’d let you copy me, but I think she’d be a little suspicious.”

  “Just a little.” Though I could change a few words.

  What am I thinking? I don’t cheat. I’m not a cheater.

  Panic. Panic. Think. Think.

  “Want me to help you search online? I’m sure you can find stuff on all sorts of artists.”

  “No, go to bed.” It’s eleven, for goodness’ sake. How am I going to write a paper in this amount of time? I’m exhausted. I’m heartbroken.

  “You sure?” He wants to go to sleep. I can hear it in his voice.

  “Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Crapping buttocks. What was that website Jenny used last term to buy a paper?

  I fire up Google. I’m desperate.

  I type “buy term papers.” I can’t fail midterms.

  Theultimatetermpaper.com. I click.

  I can’t fail. Not acceptable.

  It’s written on my face, I know it is. I’m a cheater and it’s written all over my face.

  “Gert, we’d like to talk to you, please,” Mom calls.

  Oh, Holy-Mother-of-Felonies, they know. “ ’Kay,” I yell down the stairs. Take a breath and stroll, Gert. I try to stroll, but it’s more like a limp without focused concentration.

  The parentals look all expectant. “We’ve talked and we think you should retake the PSAT if it’s really going to upset you this much.”

  “I take it again in the fall for real.”

  “What do you mean for real?”

  “I take the actual SAT in the fall. This was just practice. It doesn’t count for anything.” I guess.

  “Then why the hell are you moping around?” Dad shouts.

  Uh. “I got dumped, too.”

  “Oh, dear, I’m sorry.” Mom hugs me.

  I mumble “thanks” into her bathrobe and pull away. Did they just call me down here for this? “That’s it?” I can hear the shock and awe in my voice so I clear my throat.

  “Was there something else, dear?” Mom cocks her head like she’s a poodle and I’m a tasty morsel.

  “Nope.” I slam my mouth shut.

  “Have a good day,
dear.” She shuffles back up the stairs in her robe and Dad turns on ESPN.

  “What’s going on?” I ask as I step over people sitting in the hallway. Is there a weird virus affecting people’s ability to stand?

  “Today’s the weigh-in. We’re protesting,” a perky blonde with dimples in every cheek answers.

  “Hoping to have all the kids sit in and not go to classes.” Her utterly skeletal boyfriend says while holding her hand and gazing into her eyes.

  As the feeling of cheaterness passes, I realize God does love me. Anything to not go to art and turn in someone else’s paper on Georgia O’Keeffe!

  “It’s a total violation of our civil rights.” A dreadlocked Rastafarian scoots over and pats the floor next to him. I think I can get high simply breathing in his vicinity, but he’s kinda cute.

  “Yeah.” A perky freshman plants herself next to the dread-locked Cloud Rider. He looks at me and shrugs in apology. I smile back.

  “I can see that,” I say. Like I’m getting on a scale. You can just write “N/A” on my report card, thank you very much.

  I want a lithe, lean school board before I’m going to worry about my butt size.

  “I’m game.” I plop down, leaning up against a bank of lockers. All along the hallway, more people join in the protest until it takes on a feeling of utter party.

  A guy from my bio class pulls out his iPod and minispeakers and starts jamming with drumsticks on his textbooks. This is a very eclectic protest.

  I’m liking it.

  “What are we doing?” Clarice leans down and tries not to step on me.

  I scoot over. “Protesting the weigh-in.”

  “How long are we sitting here?” she asks as she tries to fold herself into the tiny space.

  I shrug, jamming to someone’s beat box. At least, their attempt at beat box. “I think we’re going for all day.” At least through art class, please.

  “Really? Can that be done?” She looks impressed.

  “What are they going to do? Pull out the dogs and rubber bullets?” I ask.

  “It’s been done.” Maggie finds us.

  “Yes, but over weight?” I ask.

  “Hmm. Good point.” Maggie plops down next to me. “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “Isn’t this the coolest? Jesse, sit with us.” Maggie pulls on the hand of a guy passing by. “You guys know Jesse?” She smiles at us like we should know something.

  “Hi,” he says, like he knows all about me. He has that look—like I’ve been the topic of conversation.

  Pretty soon Adam and Tim are arguing over video games and stretching out their long legs across the hallway.

  Princi-Pal Jenkins starts trying to walk through with a bullhorn. “People. You’ve made your point. First period starts in two minutes. Anyone late for class will be written up.”

  No one moves. I kinda think he made it sound like a dare. Not a good move if you’re in the position of authority and we’re supposed to be all listening.

  Clarice leans over. “We should call Channel Six and see if they’ll come film us.”

  I point to Jerry, one of the Oscar film nuts. “He’s live-casting on the school website.”

  “Can he do that?”

  I can’t say I know how, but he is. I shrug.

  Pal tries again, moving in the opposite direction. Once the seniors decided this was a worthy cause, the entire freshman class sat down as a unit. It’s scary how packy they are. “Students, there are appropriate venues for voicing your opinions,” Pal calls again on the bullhorn.

  “You threw away our petition!” someone shouts.

  “And laughed,” another voice calls.

  “I did not throw it away. I merely suggested that the adult community of this school district might know more than the students who like to be overweight.”

  “Look who’s talking!” a guy yells.

  Jenkins whips around, trying to pinpoint the voice. “That’s rude and against our school code. I demand you all return to classes now.” He’s sounding more and more like a petulant child.

  No one moves.

  I slide my gaze to Adam’s. I am so sitting this one in.

  Maggie snaps her phone shut. “Channel Six already has a crew on the way.”

  I point. “Isn’t that the editor of the city paper?”

  “I think someone must have tipped her off too.” Maggie smiles.

  “I don’t think I’m going to be turning in my paper today,” I say to no one in particular. Whew. Crisis averted.

  Kinda. There’s another soccer game tonight. More running.

  I pick up the phone and put down the book about Georgia O’Keeffe.

  “Hello?”

  “Gert.”

  “Mike?”

  “I need a favor,” he says, then silence.

  Oh, this could be good. Since when has Mike ever asked me for anything? “Reee-aaa-lllyyy?” I draw the word out like it’s its own language.

  “But first you must swear complete and utter silence.”

  I try to be funny. “You’ve sworn allegiance to the Dark Side.”

  “Funny.” He does not sound amused.

  Notice the no denial. I knew it. Liberal on the outside, conservative and evil on the inside—that’s the rotten stink of white man for you.

  “What?” I ask, since he seems to be waiting for me to stop my mental tirade.

  “You know that Heather and I have been dating almost a year.”

  I do the mental math. It doesn’t add up. “Wait, you brought her home four months ago.”

  “Yeah. You should learn something from that.”

  Interesting. Either he’s not as dumb as I thought or I am interminably doomed. “I’ve been dumped, so it’s not like it really matters.”

  Mike sighs. “I heard. You’re not going to ruin this with wallowing and moping, are you?”

  I try not to be offended. “I don’t even know what it is you think I could ruin.” As if I’m wallowing or mopey. Puh-lease. “You’ve confused me with the Disney Channel.”

  “Ah, my mistake.” He breathes heavily into the phone.

  I take pity. “So, what’s our secret mission?”

  “I need to pick out a ring.”

  “You wear jewelry?” I now understand the vow of silence.

  “No.” Disgusted, he barely makes the word understandable.

  “Oh. Oh!” I get it. Heather. Ring! “You’re proposing?” I screech. Very maturely.

  “Dammit, Gert, you think the parents got all that?”

  “Sorry.” No way did they hear me. The game is turned up so loud Dad couldn’t hear God’s voice giving him a directive. “You’re asking her to marry you?” I whisper, to appease the brother.

  “That’s the idea.”

  “What do you need me for?”

  “Obviously not relationship advice.”

  “That’s low.”

  “Sorry. I’m nervous. Will you help me?”

  “What exactly do you need me to do? I only have about a hundred bucks in savings.”

  “I don’t need money. I need a girl’s opinion. I want you to go shopping with me.”

  “Shopping?” Haven’t they discussed getting married in a roundabout abstract-but-clear way so it’s not really a surprise? And hasn’t she pulled him over and gazed longingly at the perfect ring, which is always in the window of the jewelry shop? I need to stop taking my cue from movies. “I thought everyone had the marriage talk these days.”

  “Says who?” he asks.

  “People.”

  “Well, we haven’t.”

  “Do you know her size?” I ask, pulling out a notepad to make a list.

  “I’m not buying her clothes.” He sounds like a dying man.

  “No, doofus, rings come in sizes.”

  “Shit,” Mike mutters. “How do I not know this?”

  Obviously didn’t think that one through.

  I pity him, yet again. “Leave it to m
e.” I’ll come up with something.

  “If you give this away, I will kill you so slowly you’ll be a grandmother before you’re out of agony.”

  Huh. Who knew violent tendencies run in the family?

  “I can be covert. Class rings. She wears one, right?” I think I’ve seen that bit of high school pride on her hand on occasion.

  “I think so.”

  “So I’ll call her and ask about it like I’m curious what my finger size might be in ten years.”

  “Gert.” There’s a warning in Mike’s voice.

  “I can do this. You came to me, remember?”

  “I only wanted you to go with me to the store and pick out an engagement ring.”

  “I can do that too.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “I’ll let you know when I know what size.”

  “Can you make it soon?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m aiming for Valentine’s Day.”

  “Oh.”

  Crapping buttocks. Did he have to remind me? This was the one year I thought I was safe from the whole red-hearts-and-flowers thing as a single woman. “I’ll let you know. Oh, and Mike?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t make me regret it.”

  “Hi, Heather? It’s Gert. Mike’s sister.” Like she knows more than one Gert.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Um, well, I’m curious about the ring I saw you wearing.”

  “My class ring?”

  “Yeah. They’re selling them and I just can’t figure out what size to get. Mom isn’t any help cuz she wants to know when they started giving out rings instead of pins.”

  “Huh.”

  I’m not sure she’s buying this. She sounds skeptical. “Sooo, has your finger changed size since you bought your ring?”

  “Oh, a little. But I’m still pretty much the same size as when I was in high school. I guess if you gained a lot of weight maybe the size would change. Usually you can try them on at the display table.”

  Crap, didn’t know that. “That’s what I was thinking. A four is a little tight and a five is a little loose. What size is yours?”

  “It’s a six, I think. I’d suggest you get the one that’s a little loose.”

  “Thanks so much. I knew you would know.”

  “And Gert?” Heather asks.

  “Yeah?”