by Laura Steven
I don’t have Physics today, so I don’t have to see Haruki up close, but every second I hike between classes is spent on a knife edge, praying I don’t bump into him or the evil teammates who played that prank. I’m not sure my pride – or what’s left of it – could take their mockery. The smirks and elbow jostles as I shuffle meekly past, burning with embarrassment that I fell for something so obviously fake.
Keiko’s reply haunts me. Salty or sweet? That’s the ultimate question. :)
The peppy optimism makes me queasy. I delete the conversation from my account, but it still burns behind my eyes like I’m wearing sci-fi contact lenses.
Luckily, I have an excellent coping strategy for when my emotions are going haywire. I think about black holes.
Black holes are almost impossible to comprehend. You think you understand the theory, but when you start to ask questions, and start to dive a little deeper into the science and math that explains them, it completely melts your brain. At least it does for me.
Black holes were predicted by Einstein’s general theory of relativity, which posited that when a massive star dies, it leaves behind a small, dense remnant core. The math of black holes is fascinating, because it takes us deeper than we could possibly go in real life, all the way down to the center of the black hole, the singularity, a point of infinite density.
A black hole is anything but empty space. It has a gravitational attraction so strong that nothing, not even light, can escape. We don’t know whether black holes form other universes, but it’s possible.
People who say science is boring just aren’t paying attention.
But to put my problems into perspective, I don’t even have to go that deep into black holes. All I need to do is think about the sheer size of them, and my brain immediately has a meltdown.
Take the first ever picture of a black hole, captured in early 2019 – the one from a galaxy called Messier 87. That black hole is at least 6.5 billion times larger than our sun.
Six. Point. Five. Billion.
6,500,000,000.
That is incomprehensibly enormous. It dwarfs our entire solar system.
Then I imagine myself standing next to the black hole. Not, like, literally in the event horizon. Just figuratively, in order to compare mass.
We are all so impossibly tiny.
I think of the text again. Salty or sweet? That’s the ultimate question. :)
Doesn’t it seem so irrelevant now?
Physics is like a superpower, I swear.
There’s a football game after school against our local rivals, and it’s Gabriela’s first ever appearance on the varsity cheerleading squad, so Keiko and I promise to come along and watch. As she reminds us approximately once a day, Keiko is super not into balls – ‘It works because I don’t like football and also I’m a lesbian’ – but give her her due, she knows this is a big deal for Gabriela, who’s been trying to make varsity for years. So she swallows any feelings she may have regarding balls, and agrees to tag along with me.
We stroll down to the field after final period. The air is still hot and sticky, although there’s a cool breeze that blows through every now and again. Keiko, being Keiko, is wearing tight leather-look pants, a gingham pussy bow blouse, and orange-coral lipstick. There’s no way she’s not six thousand degrees Fahrenheit, but she’s so committed to The Lewk that she perseveres. As usual, I feel a little dowdy in my jean shorts and tank top, but at least I have the distinct advantage of not having my insides par-boiled and roasted like Dad’s famous potatoes.
We find a spot near the back of the bleachers, partially shaded by the giant elm trees surrounding the field. Keiko whips out a fan from her snakeskin purse and starts urgently trying to cool herself down.
She sees me pursing my lips, trying not to laugh. A bead of sweat rolls down her forehead. Haughtily, she retorts, ‘If you even consider mocking my fan right now, you’re racist and I’m cancelling you.’
My phone buzzes with a text from Gabriela.
gahhh i forgot my lucky hair-tie!! do you still have it from lunch? if yes can you bring it down to the side of the field for me?
I look down at my wrist. Sure enough, the skinny lilac hair-tie with the butterfly beads sits next to my watch.
‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ I tell Keiko. ‘Gotta give this to Gabriela.’
‘Rude! You know I don’t like when you guys hang out without me!’ Keiko yells after me.
As I push my way down the bleachers, the kids on the ends of the rows look up at me and frown, and a bubble of anxiety pops in my stomach. For someone who craves attention so badly, I really hate inconveniencing people with my existence.
I make it to the side of the field right as the cheer squad dance out of the locker room, high-kicking and waving royal blue pompoms as though they’ve never been more excited for anything in their entire lives. The players arrive, and the crowd goes wild, and I realize I’ve missed my window to give Gabriela her hair-tie.
Instead of traipsing back up to the bleachers, I hover near the side of the field in case there’s a brief second of calm in which I can dart over to Gabriela. I know how much she loves this hair-tie. It’s her little sister’s, and she wore it the day she first nailed her cheer audition, and now she never performs without it.
‘Hey, cute shorts!’ Marnie Flanders calls over, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me.
My first reaction is to blush furiously and assume she’s being sarcastic. I’ve worn the same pair of faded denim shorts for like, two years, and Marnie Flanders has never spoken to me in her entire life. But I look up, and she’s smiling warmly at me through intense hazel eyes, and I manage to stumble out, ‘Thanks!’
There’s a blow of a whistle and a thudding kick, and cheers burst through the stands. The game starts. I let out my breath. I survived a successful interaction with the most popular girl in school, and I didn’t have verbal diarrhea. Will the wonders never cease?
But then something even weirder happens.
One by one, the players stop playing and start staring at me.
The opposition’s quarterback stops mid-sprint and sniffs the air, like a dog tracking a scent. It leads him to my nook between the bleachers, and he peers at me as though I’m an alien from a far-away galaxy. Jen Johnson, a player on the home team, grabs the ball from his hands and tears away down the field, but then gradually slows to a halt as though all her childhood fears have come true and she’s waded into quicksand and/or the Bermuda Triangle.
Panicking and flicking her gaze between me and the rest of the team, Jen tosses the ball to Craig, our wide receiver, but he doesn’t even attempt to catch it. Because he’s staring dead at me. Like almost every other player on the field. And the look in their eyes is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. As though I’m all of their sexual fantasies come true at once: Leia in her gold bikini, Emily Ratajkowski as a concept, the smell of a freshly leathered football (or whatever does it for sports fans).
Craig suddenly clutches at his crotch as though he’s been shot in the dick and falls to his knees. Two others follow suit.
The opposition’s quarterback isn’t even attempting to disguise his raging boner. He’s just gazing lovingly at me, mouth agog.
‘What the fuck!’ Jen yells.
I look to one side. The opposition’s coach now has his full body pressed against the water cooler, trying to disguise his wood.
Nearly every male player on the pitch is completely incapacitated by their boners, hobbling around and lying flat against the ground in a futile effort to hide their tent poles. Even the ref is out of commission, rendered useless by his furious hard-on.
The crowd whispers in a tense hush, the odd crack of confused laughter echoing through the bleachers. I stand rooted to the ground, frozen in shock.
For a few beats, I wonder what the hell is happening. Has someone played a hilarious Viagra-based prank? Is this a very strange flash mob situation?
Then I remember
. I took a double dose of pheromone pills.
Shit. Is this me?
Frantically recalling the information in the article, I remember they said each pill was found to quadruple the participants’ ability to attract a sexual partner.
Are these dudes eight times more attracted to me than usual??
Maybe I shouldn’t have taken two pills. That was, uh, a lot.
Laughter bubbles up in my throat, erupting through my open mouth in a strangled kind of way.
This is a mistake. Craig starts towards me on his hands and knees, as though following the intoxicating scent. A handful of others do the same, one palm clutched around their dongs and the other outstretched as though I’m a mirage in a desert. The trees and bleachers melt away, dissolving into a nuclear wasteland. It’s like a scene from The Walking Dead, if the zombies’ actions were driven not by an insatiable desire for human flesh, but instead by their throbbing whistles.
They start to pick up speed, and I stay frozen to the spot. The opposition’s quarterback breaks into a jog, a look of dogged determination in his eyes. It’s at this point I start to feel a little scared.
There’s a banshee scream as someone sprints down the bleacher steps, yodeling into the wind. Keiko. Running faster than she ever has in her life, she tackles the quarterback to the ground with an oooft – and a whimper.
‘Keiko!’ Gabriela shouts, racing over to check she’s okay.
‘Run!’ Keiko yells over at me, severely winded. ‘But also, please text me to explain, because what the fuck!’
I disappear around the corner just in time to hear Keiko say to Gabriela, ‘And this is why I don’t date men.’
8
I only intend to run back into the school building, but as soon as my long legs start pumping, I find the burn too delicious to stop. Instead I sprint off campus and down the street in the direction of home, backpack bouncing erratically on my shoulders, lungs throbbing from the exertion. It’s tough, and painful, but also extremely invigorating. It clears my mind of the chaos that just unfolded and renews a single-minded focus: getting home.
I’ll be able to unpack everything that just happened once I’m back in the refuge of my bedroom.
Miraculously, I make it the two miles home without having to stop once. I mean, my jean shorts have chafed my inner thighs into ground beef steak, but still. I feel proud. And also very, very sweaty. So sweaty I could technically be classed as an amphibian.
The front door is locked, and there’s no sign of Vati in the garden – he’s probably massacred all living things by this point – and no sign of Dad in the kitchen. They must’ve popped out for an impromptu date, thinking I’d be out at the game until way later.
Panting heavily, I dump my backpack by the antique umbrella stand in the hallway. There’s a frantic scuttle of paws on hardwood flooring, and Sirius appears around the corner with an intense look in his one remaining eye.
Before I can even process what’s about to happen, Sirius sprints towards me faster than he has in a good three years, launches himself into the air and slams me into the door back-first. And then he proceeds to dry-hump my thigh, with what can only be described as superhuman levels of gumption. (Humption?)
‘Bad dog! Bad dog! No!’ I yell, words interspersed with gulps of suppressed laughter.
This only causes Sirius to hump harder.
I summon all my worldly strength and wrench him off me. He falls backwards almost in slow-motion, but the look of extreme arousal in his eye does not fade as he plummets to the ground. He lands the fall with the grace of a jungle cat, turns around and begins humping me all over again.
I decide the only course of action is to run. Fast. Sirius has never mastered the stairs, so if I can just make it halfway up . . .
Side-stepping with karate-master agility, I wrong-foot the horny old hound and leap up the stairs two at a time until I’m safely out of reach. Panting now more intensely than ever, I yank my phone from my back pocket and type a text to my group chat with Keiko and Gabriela:
Back home. Come find me after the game. (If there is still a game? Has anyone been hospitalized?)
Then, glancing down at my wrist, I fire off another text:
Shit. I still have your hair-tie, Gabs. Fail.
I sit there for a while, catching my breath and watching Sirius fuck the bannister until he can fuck no more. He collapses in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, and I briefly worry I might have killed him. How would I explain that one to the ASPCA?
Forget that. How am I going to explain it to Keiko and Gabriela? Or any of the other hundreds of people who just witnessed the Bonepocalypse?
I don’t have time to come up with a decent answer.
Just outside the front door, several voices chat inaudibly. Keiko’s hearty laugh and Vati’s German guffaw. Gabriela and Dad bringing some sense to proceedings. Despite the situation, hearing them all together warms my heart.
My heart pounds in my throat like a whack-a-mole. Are my dads about to look at me in a new light?
‘Bärchen !’ Vati says. To my enormous relief, there’s no trace of anything new in his voice, or in the way he looks at me in a proud fatherly manner. And if he’s surprised to see me red-faced and panting halfway up the stairs, he doesn’t show it.
‘I ran home,’ I say quickly, hoping the enormity of that statement will nullify the fact that Sirius is completely KO’d. He gives one half-hearted tail wag at the sound of Vati’s voice and goes right back to sleep.
‘Are you adequately hydrated?’ Dad asks sternly, completely unattracted to me, which is not something I ever thought I’d have to be grateful for. ‘With the combination of the above-average temperature, your unsuitable running attire, your lack of cardiovascular training and your alcohol addiction, I estimate your current level of dehydration to be moderate to severe.’
‘Alcohol addiction?’ Gabriela asks, glitter-painted eyes widening.
‘Ignore him,’ I mutter. ‘Let’s go up to my room.’
The three of us pile cross-legged on to my bed. Annoyingly, I am actually incredibly thirsty, but I don’t want to give credence to Dad’s alcoholism tale.
Keiko and Gabriela look at me expectantly.
‘Yes?’ I ask, drawing out the inevitable for as long as possible.
Quick. Think.
The only answer that keeps presenting itself is telling them the truth. It’s certainly the simplest option. But the truth is so humiliating, so desperately tragic. There are so many layers of shame attached to it. Keiko is constantly broke, constantly scraping together cents to record new songs, and here I am burning serious cash on ridiculous internet pills. Not to mention the danger I put myself in by taking them – the pain I could’ve caused my dads and my friends alike, should anything have happened.
Plus there’s something darker and more selfish simmering below the surface.
I . . . want them to think this was all me. I want them to stop seeing me as the unattractive friend, the one they want to make over. I want them to believe that I’m someone worth loving – not just for my brain, but for everything else too.
Footsteps thud upstairs, and I’m saved for another few minutes.
Vati prances in, carrying a jug of iced tea and three tumblers. He’s also wearing a pastel pink apron, which has an even pinker cupcake on the front, its open mouth saying, ‘You Bake Me Crazy!’ Vati bought it for Dad on Valentine’s Day, because Dad is a talented pastry chef and also despises wordplay in all forms. (‘Language is not a joke, Felix. It is a science. Would you mix aniline and nitric acid for a joke? No, because you would be dead.’)
Vati lays down the tea on my dressing table and starts pouring, ice clinking in the glasses. In his very best Amy Poehler voice, Vati says, ‘You see, Caro, I’m not like regular dads. I’m a cool dad.’
‘Caro, your dad quotes Mean Girls,’ Keiko says with a laugh. ‘Could he be any more awesome?’
I fold my arms. ‘So I’m not allowed to watch brain-rotti
ng rom-coms, but you can enjoy all the Tina Fey you want?’
Vati clutches a hand to his chest as though I’ve mortally offended him. ‘Mean Girls is not a simply a rom-com. It is a work of art.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Does Dad know you’re wearing his apron?’
‘Do you know, I do not think he likes this apron very much. I retrieved it from the trash compactor this morning, like I do every day. It is a fun little ritual. So you guys, what is the 411?’
‘Vati. Bitte.’
‘Okay, okay.’ He bends down and yanks a white cotton sock off his foot, then starts waving it in the air like a white flag. Just. Why. ‘I surrender. Instead I shall go and prank your father. If you hear screams, do not panic. He’s a squealer.’
And then, with a horrifying wink, Vati departs.
A squealer. I ask you.
‘Tschüß, Herr Kerber-Murphy!’ Gabriela chirps after him.
‘Kiss ass,’ Keiko mutters at her, but in a loving way.
‘Soooo . . .’ Gabriela says, handing me and Keiko our iced tea. ‘What was that?’
‘What was what?’ I ask innocently, taking a ravenous drink and fighting the urge not to drain the entire glass in one pop.
Keiko raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘Armawooden.’
‘I’ve actually been using the term Bonepocalypse,’ I reply.
Keiko rolls her eyes. ‘Stop stalling.’
Wracking my brain for any possible explanation, I say, ‘I’m . . . wearing a new perfume.’
‘No you’re not,’ Keiko says impatiently. ‘Miss Dior, every day since you were fourteen, including today.’
I slump back against my headboard, heart rate finally returning to normal after my mad dash home. ‘You have the nose of a bloodhound.’
‘I do. Now tell us the truth.’
I desperately look to Gabriela for backup, but she’s staring at me just as hard. Not in an omg-I-want-to-jump-your-bones way, I don’t think, but it’s getting hard to distinguish. She isn’t clutching her crotch, at any rate, so that must be a victory. ‘Sorry, Caro. I want to know too. Ryan was like . . . looking at you funny.’