From Butt to Booty

by Amber Kizer

  “I can order you stuff, but she’ll ask. You know she’ll ask.”

  We are women, we’re genetically programmed to find this type of tedium out.

  He nods. “You’re right.”

  “On one condition, though.”

  “Oh no, what?”

  “Just call me and tell me what she says.”

  “That I can do.” He smiles and hugs me to his side.

  Clarice catches up with me in the hallway and tugs on my arm. “Are you going to the girl-ask-guy dance?”

  The posters are everywhere. I see cute hearts and Photo-shopped girls flirting with boys and I get the stomach pit of dread. I’ve been avoiding the heck out of this conversation. “That means I’m asking someone to go, right?”

  She shakes her head. “Not necessarily.”

  News to me. How’d I miss the meaning of this one? “Oh?”

  “Well, it’s girls’ choice, right?” Clarice’s expression gets all hidden and blank.

  “Right.” I so do not follow.

  “Can’t we choose to go alone?” she hedges.

  “You’re not going with Spenser?” I ask. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. They’ve been hooking up while studying for weeks.

  Her eyes get all swimmy. She whispers, “No, he thinks that’s too much of a relationship.”

  “Really?” Does dancing equate relating? I’ve never known the correlation, but then, guys hate to dance and most don’t really like relationships, either.

  She’s studying the cement floor and poking at a black wad of last year’s gum. “Hmm.”

  I take a deep breath and put on my best empowered-woman-go-get-’em persona. “You should ask someone else. Just to prove to him he’s not the only roach in the kitchen.”

  “Huh?” She’s confused.

  I shrug. “I’ve just never liked the fish-in-the-sea thing, especially now, since there aren’t many fish in the sea anymore. So I’m trying on a few other sayings.”

  She giggles. “Roaches?”

  I tamp down any defensiveness I feel. “They’re fairly indestructible. It’s not the insult it first appears.”

  “Whatever.” She can’t stop laughing. At least I’ve cheered her up.

  “Are you going to ask someone else?”

  She sighs. “Gert, I like Spenser.”

  “I know you do.” I’m not blind, challenged or stoned.

  She rolls her eyes. “No, I mean I like him. I don’t want to go with anyone else.”

  “Oh. That’s a problem.”

  “Is it? I mean, he could have thought that he just wanted to be benefriends and now that we’ve spent time together, maybe he’s just waiting for me to tell him how I feel.” She’s all hopeful and puppy like.

  How to explain that the bronze statue of the school mascot knows how she feels about Spenser? We’re all pretending she’ll get over it. Especially Spenser, who is going to take an Oscar for his portrayal of obliviousness. He’s given it new life.

  “I really hope he does like you as much as you like him,” I answer.

  The bell rings. Holy-Mother-of-Chiming, I’m saved.

  We do not celebrate Valentine’s Day in this school. I wish I could say it’s because all the girls have risen up and demanded we be left alone instead of judged on couples’ day. But no. It’s our school board. The same school board that collectively weighs two hundred pounds more than it should but still thinks it’s a good idea to make us stand on scales and get physique grades. This same group of rejects got together and decided that Valentine’s Day promotes sexual behavior. They passed a board policy outlawing any mention, decoration or celebration of a holiday promoting sexual feelings or behavior. They even went so far as to suggest that the pressure to be in a couple on Valentine’s Day leads to promiscuity among students and staff and therefore leads to an unhealthy workplace.

  A bunch of Giggles and Pops are wearing black armbands in a show of solidarity and grief with the mighty Aphrodite.

  Sex taints learning, basically. According to the school board, Cupid isn’t shooting arrows, he’s shooting his wad. And chocolates? They are aphrodisiacs. Flowers? The sex organs of plants.

  Really. Maybe they have a point, but it’s been lost in the absurdity of their politics and frankly, it doesn’t curb the pressure I feel for not getting aphrodisiacs and floral genitalia. I’m not the biggest fan of the holiday. Mainly because I’ve always wanted the bubble bath with rose petals, candle light, amazing kisses and lots of action.

  I’m not really sure what my fantasy is beyond the kissing part. I know I want more, but I need to figure that out before I start the cameras rolling in my head. Seriously, nine-tenths of the being-ready-for-sex equation is actually having an idea of what to expect. I don’t have a clue. I mean, I’ve seen movies, but I’ve also heard horror stories of girls who rip and bleed and pain and stuff. Which could very well be propaganda to keep my panties on, but I’d like to think the man I’m with would stop if I was bleeding and screaming, and I’m not terribly confident I’ve met him yet.

  But that leaves me home alone without the parentals, knowing there are people all around me getting kissed tonight, and the best I can look forward to is a little CPR (Covert Privatalia Resuscitation) for Maya provided by yours truly.

  Am I as pathetic as I feel? Huh. No good answer to that one.

  So I did my part. Got the candles lit, rose petals strewn, champagne iced. Barry White playing in the background. Mike left a cheesy-ass saxophone CD out for me. Uh, no. Not Kenny G. Nothing says no like Kenny G. So that’s the smallest adjustment I made and it’s February fifteenth and I still haven’t heard a word. He promised to call with details.

  I dial.

  “Jesus, Gert, it’s five a.m.”

  “Good morning, sunshine. What’d she say?”

  “Hang on.” Mike mumbles something and I hear shifting and squeaking. He’s still in bed.

  “Gert, thank you.” Heather’s sleepy voice greets mine—apparently they’re in bed together. This has to be a good sign. Unless it’s pity breakup sex. But doesn’t that usually happen before the no? At least, that’s the order on TV.

  “So?”

  “So, little sister, you will have a new big sister-in-law.”

  “Cool!” I shout.

  “I had no idea the whole class ring conversation was a setup.” Heather’s laughing, clearly enjoying the private joke with me.

  “You had no idea, right,” I say.

  “Mike says you helped him pick out the ring and set up the apartment.”

  “Yep.”

  “Nicely done. Perfect. Here’s Mike.”

  “Hey, no telling Mom and Dad until I call them later, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And Gert?”

  “What?”

  “We really need to talk about when to play a Barry White CD.” Mike chuckles.

  I hang up with a smile on my face. Let’s hope the rest of the month goes this smoothly.

  I walk into the PSAT/SAT study class after school and sit down. I must study if I’m going to take the test again. I mean, I took it early as a sophomore: the real deal that counts I’ll be taking in the fall with the rest of my class. I’d like help. Some support. Some pep-talkiness.

  However, the conversation goes straight down the expected line.

  “So, what’d you get?”

  I turn the question back. “What did you get?”

  “I got a 186.” Crystal has the personality of a Pop Rock—fun for a while, but no substance. I got tired of her by the second week of kindergarten. Really. There were three days of friendship before poof! it all popped away.

  “You should have already received your scores, Miss Garibaldi. Are you sure they haven’t come?” Counselor interrupts to ask.

  “If they’d come, I would be able to tell everyone what a great score I got, like Crystal, right?” I bluff.

  I’m wondering if the school gets copies for our files, in which case Counselor knows exactl
y how badly I did on the test. She opens her mouth but closes it again. Perhaps she’s smarter than I give her credit for.

  “So what are you doing here?” Brian asks.

  I don’t try too hard to feign surprise at this suggestion, as it’s a perfect excuse to get the heck out of there. “You know, you’re right. I should go.”

  “Miss Garibaldi, don’t let them run you off. Wanting to improve your scores isn’t a bad thing and should be applauded, not ridiculed.” Counselor rakes the room with a knock-it-off look.

  “No, really. I mean, I told my friend I’d come to support her and she’s not here—must have forgotten. I’ll go find her.” I gather up my backpack and coat.

  “Stay. It’ll be fun,” Crystal says.

  “Yeah, we can quiz each other on the hard words.” Brian works his falsetto.

  David gives him a high five.

  I shut the door behind me. What was I thinking? Mom must have put moron pills in my oatmeal cement this morning. Huh, I didn’t actually eat any of that glop. Maybe there’s a hallucinogenic that can be inserted into toothpaste. I can see the headline now: “Terrorism Attacks Pearly Whites.”

  I am so doomed to go to State. Everyone gets into State. I lean against the wall. I should have gone out for cheerleading. At least there’d be an obvious reason to go to State.

  I trail along behind Mom and Dad on the way to the awards night for the soccer season. It’s finished. All eight weeks of the school’s shortest sports season on record. I guess there weren’t all that many teams for us to play. But at least I didn’t have to run for half the school year just to get my letter jacket. I don’t have to run again forever and ever. Unless I’m being chased by a pack of rabid dogs. Then maybe I’d think about running. Maybe.

  The parentals are insisting on attending. They even wanted Mike and Heather to come, but thankfully they couldn’t make it.

  I try again. “We really could skip this.”

  “Gertrude, that’s enough.” Dad is totally looking forward to tonight’s banquet. It’s basically a potluck dessert thingy with lots of store-bought pastries. Coach gets to say a few words about what a great team we are and then we get our letters.

  I think Dad is expecting me to get the MVP award. I can tell by the look on his face. He’s full of hope. In an hour, that hope will turn to disappointment, but I don’t have much to do with that. I sink lower in my seat and pick at a brownie.

  “Welcome, welcome.” Mack begins his big speech. I listen to most of it, but I’ll spare you. “Blah blah great team, first season, lots to build on, can’t wait for next year, blah blah.”

  I bite into a cream puff from Costco. Yum. Beats the dinner Mom made of Creole-style carbon and canned corn.

  “Now for the awards,” Mack says. “Can I get the team assistants up here, please?”

  Dad sits taller at the mention of awards. I tried to prepare him for this part, but secretly I’m hoping. What can I say? I’m a competitive person. Of course I want to get the little trophy with my name engraved on it for being the best, or funniest, or most likely to go to the Olympics. Okay, most improved might be more my region of probability, but still. I can’t help it.

  The guys move to the front of the cafeteria and Mack introduces them. He calls Lucas’s name and I swear Lucas smiles into my eyes in a moment of intimacy. We share one of those blurry magic moments. His hair is so perfect. The breadth of his shoulders is perfect. Just the right blend of muscles and bone. He’s built, but not overbuilt. Like his neck is still a neck.

  I sigh. I can’t help it. He’s the ice cream sundae my taste buds are waiting for.

  Finally, Coach works his way through the JV team. Then it’s our turn. “Varsity squad, please come up here.” There are a few girls who played and suited up for both JV and Varsity, so they just stand there.

  My parents clap and beam like I’ve been awarded a Rhodes Scholarship rather than just, you know, done a lot of running around.

  We all get handed our letters with the school’s initials on them and the little soccer ball patches. Mom was probing on the way here whether I want to get a sweater like in Dad’s day or a jacket like in Mike’s. I don’t know. I’m leaning toward the leather jacket. The flashier the better. I wonder if you can get fake diamonds on letter jackets (I don’t want real diamonds cuz that’s just like strapping someone’s hand to my chest and walking around all bloody and gory). Holy-Mother-of-Black-and-White-Orbs, I ran my ass off to earn the letter jacket. Leather. I want some dead cow to wear.

  Why is dead cow more acceptable than maimed child? Hmm. I’ll have to think about that.

  Mack starts in on the awards. MVP: Candace. Spirit Award? “Every team needs a heart. Enthusiasm and grit to keep everyone going. The person who gives pep talks when the coaches are busy. The person who elevates not only the play of her teammates, but brings the quality of their interaction to a new level.”

  Holy-Mother-of-Political-Maneuvering, who is he talking about? We don’t have a person like this on the team. There is no such person. They’re all in New York at the UN trying to broker peace deals. They are not here, playing girls’ soccer.

  “This person surprised not only our coaching staff, but I think she surprised herself.”

  Why does he keep looking at me? He can’t be talking about me? There’s nothing elevated about me on this team except for the elevated medical insurance claims.

  He’s looking at me expecting something. Can he be talking about me? Did I really bring meaning and spirituality to this team? I’m good. I have no idea. I’m all smiley. Waiting to hear my name because you only look at the person you’re giving an award to, right? You don’t look at someone who is not getting the award.

  “I didn’t have a chance to ask before the awards started, but I’m hoping her teammate will come say a few words because she can’t be here tonight to accept this herself.”

  I’m not listening to all the words coming out of his mouth. I’m trying to formulate my acceptance speech. Who should I thank? Who should I snub?

  “Gert Garibaldi, will you come say a few words about our Spirit Award winner, Karmel Lennin?”

  My stomach hits my knees and ricochets back up to my ear-lobes, all jiggly when it stops bouncing around. I start to stand, thinking the rousing applause is all for me, and then some part of my brain kicks on and points out the bit I missed the first time.

  “… baldi, will you come say a few words about our Spirit Award winner, Karmel Lennin?”

  I blink. I didn’t get the award. I have to say something nice about the girl who split my face open with an egg? An egg that is now on the FBI list of WMDs?

  I stumble over my feet on my way to the stage. What can I say? I can’t very well be honest and say Karmel’s contribution to the team should be measured in calories because it was girth and not her skill that saved the goals. I’m not smacking her weight here, but geez, let’s not pretend she’s a rock star because she plugged the holes in the goal with her butt. More power to her, but I never heard an encouraging word come out of her mouth. And she always stopped working out when the coaches weren’t around.

  I find Maggie and Clarice’s shocked faces in the crowd. Clarice gives me a thumbs-up, like “better you than me.”

  I clear my throat as Mack steps away from the microphone and leaves me staring at all the people.

  I open my mouth, close it and lick my lips. “Uh, this is our first year and people had to learn a lot of stuff they didn’t know.”

  Okay, I’m not sparkling with wit and eloquence. “Karmel was our goalie. She made it difficult for other teams to score. And—”

  God, what else can I say? I can’t even make anything up. My imagination is taking a sabbatical in Tahiti. “Her socks always matched and her uniform was spotless. Go, Karmel!”

  I wave my hand in the air and kinda screech like a zoo animal. Clarice and Maggie join in the screeching and clapping, so I’m saved. I rush back to my seat. My parents look astoundingly proud of me.


  “Gert, honey, can I talk to you?”

  Mom pokes her head around my bedroom door without even waiting to hear if now is a good time. “Sure.” Now that you’re here.

  She grips her hands and licks her lips. “I understand how the topic of sex could make you uncomfortable.”

  Let me save us from this horror. “Mom, we don’t have to do the birds and bees thing.”

  Shock, then uncertainty, paints her face. “Oh, well, okay, but that’s kinda what I was hoping you could help me with.”

  Huh? “You’re the one with two kids,” I say.

  “You know so much more than I did at your age, and the ladies were talking at Bunko about this program one of them saw.”

  Oh, this could be good. “And?” I put down the textbook. I can feel a humiliating parental moment coming. I have hum-dar.

  She takes a deep breath and blurts out, “What exactly is anal bleaching?”

  I blink. I’m fairly certain I didn’t stop breathing for long since I’m alive and not dead, but that’s about all I can attest to. Of all the questions I thought might come out of Mom’s mouth, that didn’t make the list.

  “Did you hear me?” She’s peering into my face like there’s nothing shocking about her asking me about anal bleaching.

  “Um. Can I get back to you?” I have no idea what to say.

  “You don’t know?” She’s crestfallen. Her sigh sounds old. “I asked your father, but he didn’t seem to know about it either.”

  “Um, well, no, I think it’s something people do who are interested in having anal sex. Or oral sex.”

  “Oral, there?” she asks, her eyebrows rising to her hairline.

  I nod and pluck at lint on the comforter. “There. It’s called a rim job.” I push the mortification down into my stomach and try to act like we’re discussing drapery patterns.

  She nods as if she understands. “Oh. But bleach?”

  “It’s about the color of the skin, I think.” Either that or there are some weirdly inclined germaphobes in the world.

  “Thank you. I appreciate you telling me. I told the girls you’d know. You’re so smart.”